A roughly 2,000-year-old woman with a potentially violent streak has emerged from skeletal rubble found on an island off southwestern England’s coast.

A jumble of tooth and bone fragments in a Late Iron Age grave belonged to a young woman who was interred with items that include a sword, shield and bronze mirror, researchers report in the December Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports. The team used a sex-linked protein extracted from tooth enamel to classify the remains as female.

The island grave dates to roughly 100 B.C. to 50 B.C., based on radiocarbon dating of a partial bone and the types of metal objects found in the burial. Given tooth wear, the woman died between the ages of 20 and 25.

Since the burial’s accidental discovery in 1999 by a farmer plowing a field on England’s Bryher Island, researchers have wondered whether the stone-lined grave contained a man or woman. No other Western European Iron Age grave includes a sword, typically found in male burials from that region, and a mirror, often associated with female burials.

Human skeletal biologist Simon Mays of Historic England, a public organization that protects and studies historical places, in Portsmouth and colleagues speculate that the woman may have fought in raids and helped to fend off enemy attacks. Violence between communities may often have occurred in Iron Age Europe (SN: 10/6/20). And growing evidence suggests that ancient women, not just men, could be warriors too (SN: 9/13/17).

One possible use of the mirror was to flash beams of reflected sunlight as a way of communicating with people on nearby islands and with seacraft, the researchers speculate. If so, and given the sword’s presence, it’s possible the Bryher woman helped to plan raids and defensive actions.

Still, the remains bear no signs of violent conflict. So it’s also possible that mourners placed the sword and mirror in the grave as tokens of allegiance to the woman’s kin group or as heirlooms, the researchers say.

The world is in a climate crisis — and in the waning days of what’s likely to be the world’s hottest year on record, a new United Nations report is weighing the ethics of using technological interventions to try to rein in rising global temperatures.

“The current speed at which the effects of global warming are increasingly being manifested is giving new life to the discussion on the kinds of climate action best suited to tackle the catastrophic consequences of environmental changes,” the report states.

A broad variety of climate engineering interventions are already in development, from strategies that could directly remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere to efforts to modify incoming radiation from the sun (SN: 10/6/19; SN: 7/9/21; SN: 8/8/18).

But “we don’t know the unintended consequences” of many of these technologies, said UNESCO Assistant Director-General Gabriela Ramos at a news conference on November 20 ahead of the report’s release. “There are several areas of great concern. These are very interesting and promising technological developments, but we need an ethical framework to decide how and when to use them.”

Such a framework should be globally agreed upon, Ramos said — and that’s why UNESCO decided to step in. The new report proposes ethical frameworks for both the study and the later deployment of climate engineering strategies.

In addition to explicitly addressing concerns over how tinkering with the climate might affect global food security and the environment, ethical considerations must also include accounting for conflicting interests between regions and countries, the report states. Furthermore, it must include assessing at what point the risks of taking action are or are not morally defensible.   

“It’s not [for] a single country to decide,” Ramos said. “Even those countries that have nothing to do with those technological developments need to be at the table … to agree on a path going forward. Climate is global and needs to be a global conversation.”

The ethics-focused report was prepared by a UNESCO advisory body known as the World Commission on the Ethics of Scientific Knowledge and Technology. Its release coincided with the start of the U.N.’s international climate action summit, the 28th Conference of the Parties, or COP, in Dubai. COP28 runs from November 30 through December 12.

To delve more into the goals of the study and what climate engineering strategies the report considers, Science News talked with report coauthor Inés Camilloni, a climate scientist at the University of Buenos Aires and a resident in the solar geoengineering research program at Harvard University. The conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

SN: There have been a lot of reports recently about climate engineering. What makes this one important?

Camilloni: One thing is that this report includes the views from the Global South as well as the Global North. This is something really important, there are not many reports with the voices of scientists from the Global South. The U.N. Environment Programme’s report this year [on solar radiation modification] was another one. [This new report] has a bigger picture, because it also includes carbon dioxide removal.

I’m a climate scientist; ethics is something new to me. I got involved because I was a lead author of a chapter in the [Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change] 1.5-degrees-Celsius special report in 2018, and there was a box discussion about climate engineering (SN: 10/7/18). I realized I was not an expert on that. The discussion was among scientists in the Global North, who had a clear position in some ways about the idea, but not Global South scientists. We were just witnessing this discussion.

SN: The report raises a concern about the “moral hazard” of relying too much on climate engineering, which might give countries or companies an excuse to slow carbon emission reductions. Should we even be considering climate engineering in that context?

Camilloni: What we are saying in the report is that the priority must be the mitigation of greenhouse gas emissions. But the discussion on climate engineering is growing because we are not on track to keep temperatures [below] 1.5 degrees C. We are not [at] the right level of ambition really needed to keep temperatures below that target. There are so many uncertainties that it’s relevant to consider the ethical dimensions in these conversations, to make a decision of potential deployment. And in most IPCC scenarios that can limit warming to below 1.5 degrees, carbon dioxide removal is already there.

SN: What are some of the carbon dioxide removal strategies under consideration?

Camilloni: Carbon dioxide removal combines two different methods: Restoring natural carbon sinks, like forests and soils, and investing in technologies that are maybe not yet proven to work at the scale that’s needed. That includes direct air capture [of carbon dioxide] and storage; bioenergy with carbon capture and storage; increasing uptake by the oceans of carbon dioxide, for example by iron fertilization; and enhancing natural weathering processes that remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere.

But there are potential consequences that need to be considered. Those include negative impacts of terrestrial biodiversity, and effects on marine biodiversity from ocean fertilization. As for sequestering carbon dioxide — how do you store it for hundreds of years or longer, and what are the consequences of rapid release from underground reservoirs? Also there’s potential competition for land [between bioenergy crops or planting trees] and food production, especially in the Global South.

SN: Solar radiation modification is considered even more controversial, but some scientists are saying it should now be on the table (SN: 5/21/10). What type of solar radiation modification is the most viable, technologically?

Camilloni: That’s an umbrella term for a variety of approaches that reduce the amount of incoming sunlight reflected by the atmosphere back to space.

There’s increasing surface reflectivity, for example with reflective paints on structures, or planting more reflective crops (SN: 9/28/18). That reflects more solar radiation into space. It’s already being used in some cities, but it has a very local effect. Similarly, increasing the reflectivity of marine clouds — there were some experiments in Australia to try to protect the Great Barrier Reef, but it seems that also the scale is not global.

Another proposed strategy is to thin infrared-absorbing cirrus clouds — I don’t really know much about that or if it’s really possible. And there’s placing reflectors or shields in space to deflect incoming solar radiation; I also don’t really know if it’s possible to do that.

Injecting aerosols into the stratosphere, to mimic the cooling effect of a volcanic eruption, is the most promising for a global impact. It’s not so challenging in terms of the technology. It’s the only way that we have identified that can cool the planet in a few years.

SN: How soon could aerosol injection be used?

Camilloni: We need at least 10 to 20 years before we can think of deployment. The limitation is that we need the aircraft that can fly at around 20 kilometers altitude. Those are already being designed, but we need about 10 years for those designs, and another 10 to build a fleet of them.

SN: What are some of the ethical concerns around aerosol injection or other solar radiation modification technologies?

Camilloni: These new technologies may be risky in the potential for exacerbating climate problems or introducing new challenges. There are potential risks to changing precipitation patterns, even overcooling in some regions. A key consideration in deciding whether to pursue them is the need for a full characterization of the positive and negative effects of the different technologies around the globe, and a comparison against the risk of not intervening.

SN: In 2021, a research group at Harvard was barred from launching a balloon into the stratosphere to test equipment for possible future aerosol release. How might this report address similar studies?

Camilloni: In our report, we want to make a distinction among the different types of research. You can have indoor research — simulations, social analysis — and this is not so controversial. When you consider outdoor research — releasing particles into the atmosphere — that is more controversial. We are calling for more indoor research. We need to understand the potential impacts.

[For example,] I studied the impact of solar radiation modification on the hydrology of the La Plata Basin [which includes parts of southeastern Brazil, Bolivia, Paraguay, Uruguay and northeastern Argentina]. It’s the most populated region on the continent, and very relevant for hydropower production. And it’s already a very impacted region by climate change.

However, that research was based on just one climate model. We need more — more resources, more capacity building in the Global South. My research group was the first to explore those impacts in Latin and South America. There are others doing research on this over the next few months, but I can count those groups on one hand.

We need more resources to be part of any discussion. Those resources include the Loss and Damage Fund to provide support to nations most vulnerable to the climate crisis [agreed to at the end of COP27 in 2022]. But nobody really knows now how that will be implemented.

SN: The report’s release was timed to the start of COP28. What are you hoping that policymakers will take away from it over the next two weeks?

Camilloni: These recommendations are really important to have in mind, of course. We need more research to make a decision about whether this is a good idea or a bad idea. And maybe people will cut admissions faster if they’re afraid of climate engineering.

To snap up fish, bottlenosed dolphins may rely on more than just sharp sight and sonar detection. The creatures might also pick up on the weak electric pulses prey produce each time their hearts beat or air filters through their gills.

In a new experiment, two bottlenosed dolphins named Dolly and Donna reliably sensed faint electric fields on the scale of microvolts, says Tim Hüttner, a sensory biologist formerly affiliated with the University of Rostock in Germany. That puts the marine mammals’ Spidey sense on par with egg-laying mammals like platypuses and the Guiana dolphin (Sotalia guianensis).

The ability to detect the electrical signals living things give off is called electroreception. It has been previously documented in fish, amphibians and sharks (SN: 6/27/16). But it was only in 2011 that the Guiana dolphin made the list, as researchers discovered telltale sensory receptors hidden in an organ on the animals’ snouts (SN: 7/27/11).

In 2022, Hüttner and his colleagues  identified the same structure in bottlenosed dolphins and confirmed that the creatures could detect electric fields on the scale of 0.5 millivolts per centimeter (or 500 microvolts), similar to those that some large fish and crustaceans emit. The new finding suggests that common bottlenosed dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) can likely make out the much subtler signals emanating off the majority of fish, the team reports November 30 in the Journal of Experimental Biology.

For the new study, the researchers trained Dolly and Donna to position their snouts in a metal apparatus and to swim away if they could sense an electrical impulse delivered to their sensory organs. The dolphins proved sensitive to both direct current and alternating current, two forms of electricity that living things generate. The dolphins excelled, however, at detecting direct current, which produces a steady signal. Donna picked up on fields as low as 5.5 microvolts and Dolly on those of 2.4 microvolts.

The study provides solid evidence for an intriguing theory, says Paul Nachtigall, a marine biologist at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. Scientists have long regarded dolphins’ sensory organs, pits on their snouts, which prior to birth carried whiskers, as vestigial structures. It’s plausible that the organs may have evolved to fit another purpose, he says.

Electroreception may come in handy in situations where sight and echolocation are impaired. For instance, Guiana dolphins are benthic feeders, primarily hunting for food on the seafloor, where the sediment can muck up their senses.

Bottlenosed dolphins don’t hunt the same way but do often reside in murky waters and occasionally stick their heads into the sand to look for fish, in a hunting method called crater fishing. Echolocation stops working close up, but electroreception allows dolphins to spot prey a few centimeters away. The ability may just give the creatures the last push they need to nail a target, Hüttner says.

To test this idea, the team would like to study the dolphins’ electroreception while they are moving, Hüttner says.  

Other species of dolphins have pits on their snouts as well, raising the possibility that electroreception is more widespread, he notes. Given that these creatures adopt different hunting strategies, the ability may serve an additional function: helping dolphins to orient themselves along Earth’s magnetic field lines as they migrate.

“There’s just so much to find out,” Nachtigall says. “This study is just the first page of a book.”

Nesting chinstrap penguins take nodding off to the extreme. The birds briefly dip into a slumber many thousands of times per day, sleeping for only seconds at a time. 

The penguins’ breeding colonies are noisy and stressful places, and threats from predatory birds and aggressive neighbor penguins are unrelenting. The extremely disjointed sleep schedule may help the penguins to protect their young while still getting enough shut-eye, researchers report in the Dec. 1 Science. 

The findings add to evidence “that avian sleep can be very different from the sleep of land mammals,” says UCLA neuroscientist Jerome Siegel. 

Nearly a decade ago, behavioral ecologist Won Young Lee of the Korea Polar Research Institute in Incheon noticed something peculiar about how chinstrap penguins (Pygoscelis antarcticus) nesting on Antarctica’s King George Island were sleeping. They would seemingly doze off for very short periods of time in their cacophonous colonies. Then in 2018, Lee learned about frigate birds’ ability to steal sleep while airborne on days-long flights. 

Lee teamed up with sleep ecophysiologist Paul-Antoine Libourel of the Lyon Neuroscience Research Center in France and other researchers to investigate the penguins’ sleep. In 2019, the team studied the daily sleep patterns of 14 nesting chinstrap penguins using data loggers mounted on the birds’ backs. The devices had electrodes surgically implanted into the penguins’ brains for measuring brain activity. Other instruments on the data loggers recorded the animals’ movements and location.

Nesting penguins had incredibly fragmented sleep patterns, taking over 600 “microsleeps” an hour, each averaging only four seconds, the researchers found. At times, the penguins slept with only half of their brain; the other half stayed awake. All together, the oodles of snoozes added up, providing over 11 hours of sleep for each brain hemisphere across more than 10,000 brief sleeps each day. 

Some marine mammals and other types of birds have strange or restricted sleep patterns too, often when staying alert is important. Dolphins can sleep with half their brain at a time, letting them remain vigilant for over two weeks straight. To stay wary of predators, mallard ducks can sleep with one half of their brain at a time too (SN: 2/6/99). And elephant seals dramatically reduce their sleeping hours while out at sea (SN: 4/20/23). But the sheer number of microsleeps seen in chinstrap penguins is unprecedented among animals, Lee says.

“It seems that the penguins do not have any time where they decrease their vigilance,” Libourel says. “Just a slight increase of microsleep-bout length around noon.”

The sleep pattern may help the penguins balance the brain’s need for rest with the demands of nesting. Predatory birds like brown skuas (Stercorarius antarcticus) patrol penguin colonies looking to plunder undefended eggs and chicks. “Penguin parents should be vigilant all the time during breeding to keep their offspring safe,” Lee says. There’s also constant commotion and noise in the colony disrupting sleep. Such extremely interrupted sleep may reflect the penguins’ flexibility in handling the stressors of raising chicks.

The many micronaps did appear to be at least partially restorative to their brains, since the studied penguins were able to function well enough to both survive and successfully raise their chicks. It’s unclear if the penguins’ sleep pattern changes after the breeding season.

“Sleep seems to be very diverse and flexible among species,” Lee says. “I believe that there are still many things unrevealed about animal sleep. By studying their sleep behavior, we can understand how animals have evolved to achieve brain restoration.”

How do we adapt to climate change? Can we fight back against Alzheimer’s disease? What will it take to build a more equitable society? The researchers on this year’s SN 10: Scientists to Watch list are tackling slices of these and other grand challenges.

For the eighth year, Science News is recognizing 10 early- and mid-career scientists who have innovative ideas and unique skill sets — and are applying their talents to shape our future and our understanding of ourselves. But they aren’t doing it alone. Each credits parents, mentors and colleagues with inspiring their success. Many emphasize the power of collaboration, the value of other perspectives and the importance of mentoring the next generation of scientists. Speaking of the future, if you know someone who belongs on the next SN 10 list, send their name, affiliation and a few sentences about their work to sn10@sciencenews.org. — Elizabeth Quill, Executive Editor

Daniel Blanco-Melo

Daniel Blanco-Melo puzzles out how ancient pathogens have shaped human history and evolution.

Read more

Róisín Commane

Róisín Commane sleuths out greenhouse gas leaks to fight climate change.

Read more

Daphne Martschenko

Daphne Martschenko is a champion for ethical, inclusive genomics research.

Read more

Julian Muñoz

Julian Muñoz has a ‘ruler’ that could size up the early universe.

Read more

Deblina Sarkar

Deblina Sarkar is building microscopic machines to enter our brains.

Read more

Lauren Schroeder

Lauren Schroeder looks beyond natural selection to rethink human evolution.

Read more

Quinton Smith

Quinton Smith builds lab-made organs with tools from Silicon Valley.

Read more

Clara Sousa-Silva

Clara Sousa-Silva seeks out signatures of life in alien atmospheres.

Read more

Berkley Walker

Berkley Walker wants to revamp photosynthesis for a changing climate.

Read more

Marjorie Weber

Marjorie Weber explores plant-protecting ants and other wonders of evolution.

Read more

The Great Sphinx of Giza might have been sculpted by desert winds long before it was ever touched by human hands.

Mysterious desert landforms called yardangs can bear an uncanny resemblance to seated lions — so much so that some researchers think one lionlike yardang might have had the honor of later being carved into the Sphinx by ancient Egyptians. The basic ingredients for these unusual rock formations might be rather simple, researchers report in the November Physical Review Fluids. Scientists were able to reliably sculpt hand-sized, sphinx-shaped yardangs from clay globs in a water tunnel so long as two basic conditions were met: consistent prevailing winds and a starting blob containing a mix of easily eroded and more resistant bits.

“This just came completely out of left field,” says geomorphologist Elena Favaro of the Open University in Milton Keynes, England, who was not involved in the study. Scientists aren’t sure exactly how yardangs start to form, but they appear in desert regions where winds wear exposed rock down into long, streamlined ridges facing into the prevailing winds. The study, Favaro says, is “a very inspired way to approach the problem” of how yardangs form.

Curious about how nature produces sphinxlike yardangs, New York University applied mathematician Leif Ristroph decided to take the question into his lab. He and his team study how natural shapes grow and change by compacting ages of erosion into experiments that last a few hours. They do this in a water tunnel, which is typically used to study fluid flow around stiff objects like wings.

“What we do, which is kind of abusive of the device,” Ristroph says, is “put things like a piece of ice in there and look how it changes shape” — or, “in this case, a chunk of mud.”

The team subjected their water tunnel to hundreds of muddy trials. Each time, they started with a stiff clay paste, sculpted it into a starting glob, embedded the glob with bits of hard plastic to represent harder parts of natural rock, and plopped the globs into the water tunnel to erode under a steady water “wind.”

Their setup reliably produced sphinxlike mini-yardangs. The initial shape of the glob and placement of the hard plastic bits didn’t matter much, so long as the plastic bits were in the windward half.

A fluid ‘mane’

To visualize the current flow around sphinxlike shapes carved out of clay by water, researchers made 3D-printed replicas of the ensuing shapes and coated them in clay laced with fluorescent dye. One of those replicas is shown here from both the side and the top. The currents around the mini-sphinx are made more visible by upstream injections of fluorescein dye, which create glowing filaments that swirl around the object.

But because the sphinxes dissolved quickly, the team had to get creative to take pictures of the fluid flows that sculpted them. The researchers scanned their mini-yardangs and 3D-printed reusable plastic models of the forms. Before each experiment, they coated the plastic models with a thin veneer of clay laced with fluorescent dye.

In the water tunnel, the glowing clay allowed the researchers to trace the whorling currents around the blob. This revealed a few patterns that the team is now working to model mathematically, including a turbulent “mane” of eddies cast from behind the sphinx’s head that carves out a sloping, feline spine. Whether centimeter-scale blobs in water say anything about landscape-sized rocks eroded by wind is a question Ristroph hopes the new study can tempt geomorphologists into answering.

How do you look for an animal you don’t even know exists anymore?

The last sighting of the purple-winged ground dove (Paraclaravis geoffroyi) — a small, bamboo-loving dove native to the South American Atlantic Forest in Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay — was in 1985. But, researchers wondered, was it possible to capture the elusive bird’s sound in the wild to find out if any individuals are left?

It’s not an unheard-of idea. Scientists have used bioacoustics — a subfield of ecology that relies on sound to make environmental analyses — for everything from recording dolphins’ communication patterns to studying bats from afar to avoid virus spillover from humans (SN: 12/7/17; SN: 10/23/22). With artificial intelligence, it is now possible to use large audio datasets to train algorithms to spot different animal sounds within the cacophony of a natural background.

But the problem is that recordings of the purple-winged ground dove singing are as rare as the bird itself.

“I came across [the bird’s song] watching a 1985 interview with Carlos Keller, a former bird breeder in São Paulo state, who had a few individuals of the dove,” says Carlos Araújo, an ecologist at the Instituto de Biología Subtropical at the Universidad Nacional de Misiones in Argentina. “And they sang while he spoke.”

With Keller’s help, Araujo and colleagues accessed the decades-old recording and isolated the bird’s song.

The next challenge was to see if it was even possible to identify individual bird songs amidst the sounds of other birds chirping, leaves rustling, rain falling, insects whirring and gnawing and larger animals moving through the forest.

“We took a step back and did some analyses with other birds that are critically endangered but there are known individuals,” Araújo says. The team focused on three species found in Foz do Iguaçu, a national park that straddles the border of Brazil and Argentina: the cherry-throated tanager (Nemosia rourei), the Alagoas antwren (Myrmotherula snowi) and the blue-eyed ground-dove (Columbina cyanopis). These birds live in the same environments as the purple-winged ground dove. And the blue-eyed ground dove’s story inspires hope: The species went missing in 1941 and was rediscovered in 2016.

The researchers installed 30 recorders in strategic spots along green areas in the Brazilian part of Foz do Iguaçu and recorded from July 2021 to April 2022. They also used data from another 100 recorders on the Argentinian side of Foz.

“We went looking for the Guadua trinii bamboo to place the recorders,” says Benjamin Phalan, Head of Conservation at Parque das Aves, a private institution in Foz do Iguaçu focused on the conservation of Atlantic Forest birds. Like the purple-winged ground dove, the three bird species follow the flowering season of the G. trinii bamboo, which happens about once every 30 years.

The team pushed through thickets of bamboo, braved ticks and biting flies, and watched out for venomous snakes such as jacaracas pit vipers. Bumping into these snakes is “rare but can happen. So we use galoshes or gaiters to protect us in case anyone steps on a snake or near it,” Phalan says.

The recorders captured one minute of landscape sound every 10 minutes and generated about 3,000 days’ worth of recordings. “A lot of data to sift through,” says Araújo.

Readily available analysis software wouldn’t work. These software, Araújo says, “need a lot of data input. With such rare species, we just don’t have that much data to train the identification algorithm.”

So the team started from scratch, working with the little data they had for the three endangered birds. First, Araújo created a signal template — exactly like the birds’ singing — based on just a few recordings. The algorithm then compares that template with the soundscape recordings, separating signal from noise. If it spots a sound that is similar to the template, chances are that it is the bird that the researchers are looking for.

The method relies on a statistical model “that is not new, but was used in a very clever and unusual way,” says David Donoso, an ecosystem ecology researcher at the Technische Universität Darmstadt in Germany. Donoso and colleagues recently used bioacoustics to investigate the recovery of Choco, a biodiversity hot spot in Ecuador that had been transformed in an agricultural area.

There are different approaches to bioacoustics depending on what you’re looking for, Donoso says. “You can either use fewer recordings to map a whole animal soundscape to tell what species are there, like we did, or you can use lots of recordings to look for a single sound pattern,” he says. The study at Foz do Iguaçu “shows that you can use a relatively simple model to answer a complex question — and it works.”

The tool worked reasonably well to identify the cherry-throated tanager and blue-eyed ground-dove singing, but not so much for the Alagoas antwren, Araújo’s team reports October 23 in Bioacoustics. “We’re trying to understand what happened, but we know that the algorithm works,” he says.

The next step, Araújo says, is to refine the algorithm’s precision to find the Alagoas antwren and train it to look for the purple-winged ground dove. And they will do so at the same time. “We’re aiming at both goals at once because we’re running against the clock to find these birds,” Araújo says. “In the end, we are looking for a ghost.” But not a silent one, he hopes. 

This summer was the hottest ever recorded on Earth, and 2023 is on track to be the hottest year. Heat waves threatened people’s health across North America, Europe and Asia. Canada had its worst wildfire season ever, and flames devastated the city of Lahaina in Maui. Los Angeles was pounded by an unheard-of summer tropical storm while rains in Libya caused devastating floods that left thousands dead and missing. This extreme weather is a warning sign that we are living in a climate crisis, and a call to action.

Carbon dioxide emissions from burning fossil fuels are the main culprit behind climate change, and scientists say they must be reined in. But there’s another greenhouse gas to deal with: methane. Tackling methane may be the best bet for putting the brakes on rising temperatures in the short term, says Rob Jackson, an Earth systems scientist at Stanford University and chair of the Global Carbon Project, which tracks greenhouse gas emissions. “Methane is the strongest lever we have to slow global warming over the next few decades.”

That’s because it’s relatively short-lived in the atmosphere — methane lasts about 12 years, while CO₂ can stick around for hundreds of years. And on a molecule-per-molecule basis, methane is more potent. Over the 20-year period after it’s emitted, methane can warm the atmosphere more than 80 times as much as an equivalent amount of CO₂.

We already have strategies for cutting methane emissions — fixing natural gas leaks (methane is the main component of natural gas), phasing out coal (mining operations release methane), eating less meat and dairy (cows burp up lots of methane) and electrifying transportation and appliances. Implementing all existing methane-mitigation strategies could slow global warming by 30 percent over the next decade, research has shown.

But some climate scientists, including Jackson, say we need to go further. Several methane sources will be difficult, if not impossible, to eliminate. That includes some human-caused emissions, such as those produced by rice paddies and cattle farming — though practices do exist to reduce these emissions (SN: 11/28/15, p. 22). Some natural sources are poised to release more methane as the world warms. There are signs that tropical wetlands are already releasing more of the gas into the atmosphere, and rapid warming in the Arctic could turn permafrost into a hot spot for methane-making microbes and release a bomb of methane stored in the currently frozen soil.

So scientists want to develop ways to remove methane directly from the air.

Three billion metric tons more methane exist in the atmosphere today than in preindustrial times. Removing that excess methane would cool the planet by 0.5 degrees Celsius, Jackson says.

On the rise

Over the last 40 years, the concentration of methane in the atmosphere has steadily risen, with a lull in the late 1990s and 2000s. Overall, the amount of methane in the atmosphere has more than doubled over the last 200 years.

Global average methane concentrations, 1983–2023

Similar “negative emissions” strategies are already in limited use for CO₂. That gas is captured where it’s emitted, or directly from the air, and then stored somewhere. Methane, however, is a tricky molecule to capture, meaning scientists need different approaches.

Most ideas are still in early research stages. The National Academies of Sciences, Engineering and Medicine is currently studying these potential technologies, their state of readiness and possible risks, and what further research and funding are needed. Some of the approaches include re-engineering bacteria that are already pros at eating methane and developing catalytic reactors to place in coal-mine vents and other methane-rich places to chemically transform the gas.

“Methane is a sprint and CO₂ is a marathon,” says Desirée Plata, a civil and environmental engineer at MIT. For scientists focused on removing greenhouse gases, it’s off to the races.

Microbes already remove methane from the air

Methane, CH₄, is readily broken down in the atmosphere, where sunshine and highly reactive hydroxyl radicals are abundant. But it’s a different story when chemists try to work with the molecule. Methane’s four carbon-hydrogen bonds are strong and stable. Currently, chemists must expose the gas to extremely high temperatures and pressures to break it down.

Even getting hold of the gas is difficult. Despite its potent warming power, it’s present in low concentrations in the atmosphere. Only 2 out of every 1 million air molecules are methane (by comparison, about 400 of every 1 million air molecules are CO₂). So it’s challenging to grab enough methane to store it or efficiently convert it into something else.

Nature’s chemists, however, can take up and transform methane even in these challenging conditions. These microbes, called methanotrophs, use enzymes to eat methane. The natural global uptake of methane by methanotrophs living in soil is about 30 million metric tons per year. Compare that with the roughly 350 million tons of methane that human activities pumped into the atmosphere in 2022, according to the International Energy Agency.

Methane culprits  

Experts estimate that in 2022, about 590 million metric tons of methane were released into the atmosphere. About 60 percent of those emissions came from human activities.

Methane emissions in 2022, by source

Source: Global Methane Tracker/IEA 2023

Microbiologists want to know whether it’s possible to get these bacteria to take up more methane more quickly.

Lisa Stein, a microbiologist at the University of Alberta in Edmonton, Canada, studies the genetics and physiology of these microbes. “We do basic research to understand how they thrive in different environments,” she says.

Methanotrophs work especially slowly in low-oxygen environments, Stein says, like wetland muck and landfills, the kinds of places where methane is plentiful. In these environments, microbes that make methane, called methanogens, generate the gas faster than methanotrophs can gobble it up.

But it might be possible to develop soil amendments and other ecosystem modifications to speed microbial methane uptake, Stein says. She’s also talking with materials scientists about engineering a surface to encourage methanotrophs to grow faster and thus speed up their methane consumption.

Scientists hope to get around this speed bump with a more detailed understanding of the enzyme that helps many methanotrophs feast on methane. Methane monooxygenase, or MMO, grabs the molecule and, with the help of copper embedded in the enzyme, uses oxygen to break methane’s carbon-hydrogen bonds. The enzyme ultimately produces methanol that the microbes then metabolize.

Boosting MMO’s speed could not only help with methane removal but also allow engineers to put methanotrophs to work in industrial systems. Turning methane into methanol would be the first step, followed by several faster reactions, to make an end product like plastic or fuel.

“Methane monooxygenases are not superfast enzymes,” says Amy Rosenzweig, a chemist at Northwestern University in Evanston, Ill. Any reaction involving MMO will impose a speed limit on the proceedings. “That is the key step, and unless you understand it, it’s going to be very difficult to make an engineered organism do what you want,” Rosenzweig says.

Enzymes are often shaped to fit their reactants — in this case, methane — like a glove. So having a clear view of MMO’s physical structure could help researchers tweak the enzyme’s actions. MMO is embedded in a lipid membrane in the cell. To image it, structural biologists have typically started by using detergents to remove the lipids, which inactivates the enzyme and results in an incomplete picture of it and its activity. But Rosenzweig and colleagues recently managed to image the enzyme in this lipid context. This unprecedented view of MMO in its native state, published in 2022 in Science, revealed a previously unseen site where copper binds.

But that’s still not the entire picture. Rosenzweig says she hopes her structural studies, along with other work, will lead to a breakthrough soon enough to help forestall further consequences of global warming. “Maybe people get lucky and engineer a strain quickly,” Rosenzweig says. “You don’t know until you try.”

Chemists make progress on catalysts

Other scientists seek to put methane-destroying chemical reactors close to methane sources. These reactors typically use a catalyst to speed up the chemical reactions that convert methane into a less planet-warming molecule. These catalysts often require high temperatures or other stringent conditions to operate, contain expensive metals like platinum, and don’t work well at the concentrations of methane found in ambient air.

One promising place to start, though, is coal mines. Coal mining is associated with tens of millions of tons of methane emissions worldwide every year. Although coal-fired power plants are being phased out in many countries, coal will be difficult to eliminate entirely due to its key role in steel production, says Plata, of MIT.

To develop a catalyst that might work in a coal mine, Plata found inspiration in MMO. Her team developed a catalyst material based on a silicate material embedded with copper — the same metal found in MMO and much less expensive than those usually required to oxidize methane. The material is also porous, which improves the catalyst’s efficiency because it has a larger surface area, and thus more places for reactions to occur, than a nonporous material would. The catalyst turns methane into CO₂, a reaction that releases heat, which is needed to further fuel the reaction. If methane concentrations are high enough, the reaction will be self-sustaining, Plata says.

Turning methane into CO₂ may sound counterproductive, but it reduces warming overall because methane traps much more heat than CO₂ and is far less abundant in the atmosphere. If all the excess methane in the atmosphere were turned into CO₂, according to a 2019 study led by Jackson, it would result in only 8.2 billion additional tons of CO₂ — equivalent to just a few months of CO₂ emissions at today’s rates. And the net effect would be to lessen the heating of the atmosphere by a sixth.

Cattle feedlots are another place where Plata’s catalytic reactor might work. Barns outfitted with fans to keep cattle comfortable move air around, so reactors could be fitted to these ventilation systems. The next step is determining whether methane concentrations at industrial dairy farms are high enough for the catalyst to work.

Another researcher making progress is energy scientist and engineer Arun Majumdar, one of Jackson’s collaborators at Stanford. In January, Majumdar published initial results describing a catalyst that converts methane into methanol, with an added boost from high-energy ultraviolet light. This UV blast adds the energy needed to overcome CH₄’s stubborn bonds — and the carefully designed catalyst stays on target. Previous catalyst designs tended to produce a mix of CO₂ and methanol, but this catalyst mostly sticks to making methanol.

Is geoengineering a path to methane removal?

A more extreme approach to speed up methane’s natural breakdown is to change the chemistry of the atmosphere itself. A few companies, such as the U.S.-based Blue Dot Change, have proposed releasing chemicals into the sky to enhance methane oxidation.

Natalie Mahowald, an atmospheric chemist at Cornell University, decided to evaluate this type of geoengineering.

“I’m not super excited about throwing more things into the atmosphere,” Mahowald says. To meet the goals of the Paris Agreement, limiting global warming to 1.5 to 2 degrees Celsius above the preindustrial average, though, it’s worth exploring all possibilities, she says. “If we’re going to meet these targets,” she says “we’re going to need some of these crazy ideas to work. So I’m willing to look at it. But I’m looking with a scientist’s critical eye.”

The main strategy proposed by advocates would inject iron aerosols into the air over the ocean on a sunny day. These aerosols would react with salty sea spray aerosols to form chlorine, which would then attack methane in the atmosphere and initiate further chemical reactions that turn it into CO₂. Mahowald wondered how much chlorine would be needed — and if there might be any unintended consequences.

Detailed modeling revealed something alarming. The iron injections could have the opposite of the intended effect, Mahowald and colleagues reported in July in Nature Communications. Chlorine won’t attack methane if ozone is around. Instead, chlorine will first break down all the ozone it can find. But ozone plays a key role in generating the hydroxyl radicals that naturally break down atmospheric methane. So when ozone levels fall, Mahowald says, the concentration and lifetime of methane molecules in the atmosphere actually increases. To use this strategy to break down methane, geo­engineers would need to add a tremendous amount of chlorine to the atmosphere — enough to first break down the ozone, then attack methane.

Removing 20 percent of the atmosphere’s methane, thus reducing the planet’s surface temperature by 0.2 degrees Celsius by 2050, for example, would require creating about 630 million tons of atmospheric chlorine every year. That would in turn require injecting perhaps tens of millions of tons of iron. A form of particulate matter, these iron aerosols could worsen air quality; inhaling particulate matter is associated with a range of health problems, particularly cardiovascular and lung disease. This atmospheric tinkering could also create hydrochloric acid that could reach the ocean and acidify it.

And there’s no guarantee that some of the chlorine wouldn’t make it all the way up to the ozone layer, depleting the planetary shield that protects us from the sun’s harmful UV rays. Mahowald is still studying this possibility.

Mahowald is ambivalent about doing research on geoengineering. “We’re just throwing out ideas here because we’re in a terrible, terrible position,” she says. She’s worried about what could happen if all the methane locked up in the world’s permafrost escapes. If scientists can figure out how to use iron aerosols effectively, without adverse effects — and if such geoengineering is accepted by society — we might need it.

“We’re just trying to see, is there any hope this could work and would we ever want to do it? Would it have enough benefits to outweigh the disadvantages?”

The committee organized by the National Academies to investigate methane removal is taking these kinds of ethical questions into account, as well as considering the potential cost and scale of technologies. Stein, a committee member, says a framework proposed by Spark Climate Solutions provides some guidance. The organization, a nonprofit based in San Francisco that evaluates methane-removal technologies, proposes investing in tech that can remove tens of millions of tons of methane per year in the coming decades, at a cost of less than $2,000 per ton. Spark cofounder David Mann says the numbers are designed to focus attention and investment on technologies that can make a real difference in curbing climate change in the near term.

The National Academies group aims to make recommendations about research priorities on methane-removal technologies by next summer. It’s likely that a portfolio of different technologies will be necessary. What works in a cattle feedlot may not work at a wastewater treatment plant, for instance.

Scientists focused on methane removal are eager for more researchers, research funding and companies to enter the fray — and quickly. “It’s been a crazy year,” Jackson says of 2023’s extreme weather. We’re already feeling the effects of global warming, but we can seize the moment, he says. “This problem is not something for our grandchildren. It’s here.”

The tropics are teeming with life, tending to hold far more species than milder environments closer to the poles. But one group of insects, the Darwin wasps, were thought to buck that trend.

Researchers who compared wasp diversity in the United Kingdom and the United States with tropical areas in the 1970s and ’80s concluded that these wasps were most diverse at mid-latitudes — say, Kentucky or England. But others thought that people just weren’t looking hard enough in the tropics.

It’s easy to look for wasps in a British garden, says Peter Mayhew, but “it’s very hard to do long-term work” in a tropical rainforest. Mayhew, a biologist at the University of York in England, was up to the challenge.

Now, after years of sifting through wasps collected from a single mountain in the Brazilian Atlantic rainforest a decade ago, Mayhew and colleagues have identified nearly 100 Darwin wasp species. The result, published November 7 in the journal Insects, suggests that the tropics are home to far more types of the wasp than was previously recognized.

Darwin wasps are one family of parasitic wasps, the Ichneumonidae, which lay their eggs on or inside other creepy-crawlies so that the hatched larvae have a ready-made meal (SN: 7/28/56; SN: 8/5/15). In this way, the Alien-esque wasps help control the populations of their prey, serving a vital ecological role similar to that of apex predators like wolves and sharks. With 25,000 described species, there are more kinds of Darwin wasp than there are known mammal and bird species combined.

To understand where the wasps might live in the tropics, Mayhew and his Brazilian colleagues took a hike, several in fact. The team trekked up a mountain in Brazil’s Serra dos Órgãos National Park, placing pairs of traps known as Malaise traps at 15 sites along the way. The path started along a road, which made carting the traps — each consisting of a tent and a jar of alcohol weighing about a kilogram — relatively simple.

After that, though, the team had to carry them by hand up through the jungle. “The first hour is pure hell,” Mayhew recalls. “Very steep, very hot and very humid.” After laying the traps, members of the team returned every month for one year to swap the jars for fresh ones.

The rainforest is, unsurprisingly, full of critters, which led to each alcohol jar becoming what Mayhew calls “insect soup.” To simplify things for now, the researchers chose to focus on only half of the sample jars and look specifically for one subfamily of Darwin wasps called the pimplines.

With the help of an “army of undergraduates” and taxonomist Ilari Sääksjärvi of the University of Turku in Finland, the team identified 98 pimpline species, only 24 of which have been previously described and named. What’s more, there tended to be fewer pimpline species as researchers scaled the mountain — but the higher-elevation species weren’t found lower down. For comparison, the British Isles have 109 known pimpline species, and wasp diversity there has been sampled much more than in Brazil.

Based on this study, Mayhew says, middle to low elevations in the tropics could be targeted for protection in order to conserve the most Darwin wasp diversity there and preserve the insects’ key ecological role. “[At] 1,500 meters and below is where you get quite a lot,” he says.

The new research is “more evidence that, yes, this wonderful group of really interesting wasps has this amazing unexplored diversity in the tropics, and we need more people working on them,” says Laura Timms, a conservation biologist at Canada’s Credit Valley Conservation in Mississauga who was not involved with the research.

Mayhew next hopes to examine other types of Darwin wasp that were collected in the insect soup to see if they are as diverse as the pimplines.

The wealth of creatures collected in the traps could also be useful to researchers interested in other insects too, Mayhew says, such as leaf beetles and fireflies. “Quite a lot of what’s in those bottles is going to be new to science.”

An Australian mosquito species knows the best spot to drink its bloody meals: a frog’s nostril.

The bloodsuckers are surprisingly selective when dining on frogs, seemingly picking no other place on the body to feast, researchers report November 21 in Ethology. Frogs’ sniffers may be an easy and productive place for the mosquitoes to pierce the thin skin and drink up. The new finding could one day help scientists better understand the transmission of some frog diseases.

Behavioral biologist John Gould discovered the nostril-nibbling insects while studying frogs in ponds on Australia’s Kooragang Island. From 2020 through 2022, Gould occasionally noticed mosquitoes on the faces of the frogs he was surveying and would take photos.

“It was only once I laid out all the photos together that I realized something very particular and surprising was happening,” says Gould, of the University of Newcastle in Callaghan, Australia.  In the 12 photos that Gould took of mosquitoes on frogs, every single bloodsucker was feeding on the skin of the frog’s nostril. 

Some mosquitoes feed only on frogs and toads but bite various parts of the body. The mosquito that caught Gould’s eye, Mimomyia elegans, has a generalized diet of amphibians, mammals and birds. “Yet its feeding strategy when using frogs appears to be highly specialized,” Gould says.

The nostril skin may be especially soft and thin, making it easier for the mosquito’s biting mouthparts to pierce, Gould says. Alternatively, he notes, there could be a high density of blood vessels near the surface of the nostril skin. 

Dining at this venue on a renowned insect eater is risky, considering the nostrils rest just above a powerful, sticky tongue (SN:10/5/22). But the mosquitoes might have a stealthy work-around. Gould observed some of the mosquitoes landing on the frogs’ backs first before carefully walking up toward the head. This, he says, might keep them from being detected and eaten. 

Gould and colleagues have shown in previous work that mosquitoes may be vectors for amphibian chytrid fungus, a grave threat to amphibians globally. “Determining where exactly mosquitoes land and subsequently feed on frogs may allow scientists to better understand the spread of the infection across the skin surfaces of frogs,” he says.

Some of the photographed mosquitoes were feeding on green and golden bell frogs (Litoria aurea). Those frogs are considered vulnerable to extinction, in part due to habitat loss, by the International Union for Conservation of Nature.

A laboratory experiment to carefully watch frogs and mosquitoes to confirm the insects’ nasal predilections would be helpful, says Manuela Carnaghi, an insect behavioral ecologist at the University of Greenwich in Chatham, England, who was not involved with the study.

Determining precisely how mosquitoes target and bite multiple kinds of hosts is key for understanding disease transmission in animals, Carnaghi says. It’s particularly important, she says, when considering the ability of a mosquito-borne pathogen or parasite to jump between different species. 

The spring 2014 annual reindeer festival in Yar-Sale, a rural town on the Yamal Peninsula in Western Siberia, was a grim affair. A rainstorm followed by a deep freeze the previous November had turned the normally snow-covered tundra into an ice shield. Reindeer could not paw through the thick ice to access lichen, their primary food source. In a region where winter temperatures can plunge below –50° Celsius, that ground remained frozen months later. Tens of thousands of reindeer had already died of starvation. Thousands more were on the brink of death.

A prominent reindeer herder named Vasily Serotetto approached a group of scientists. Could they predict when such an event — known as seradt in the Indigenous Nenets language — might occur, he asked. Even a few days advance notice would have enabled mobile slaughterhouse operators to come in and humanely kill the animals. And the animal meat and fur would not have gone to waste.

To the scientists in attendance, the request felt like a call to action. Serotetto was basically saying: “You scientists, what’s causing this?” says Bruce Forbes, a biogeographer at the University of Lapland in Rovaniemi, Finland.

The scientists possessed a trove of satellite images of the Russian Arctic to start tackling that question, Forbes knew. But without more detailed, on-the-ground information from local inhabitants, such as the timing of the event and where it occurred, they did not know where to begin looking in that massive amount of data.

Now the two groups have joined forces to try to understand a phenomenon that has crucial implications for a people’s way of life, as well as a world at large grappling with climate change. Besides preventing herbivores from accessing foliage underneath the ice, rain on snow has been shown to trigger slush avalanches, create surface conditions that warm permafrost, change soil and vegetation conditions and disrupt transportation and communications.

While that paired knowledge helped unravel the many factors that caused the deadly icing in 2013, finding a way to predict such events remains a puzzle.

Power of partnership

The idea that Indigenous and scientific communities can help each other has been gaining prominence in recent years. Forbes is part of a group of interdisciplinary scientists involved in the Arctic Rain on Snow Study, or AROSS, which is funded by the National Science Foundation. The team is studying what causes rain on snow in the Arctic and how such events affect local wildlife, ecology and communities.

And in September, NSF launched a research hub, the Center for Braiding Indigenous Knowledges and Science. That $30-million, five-year effort to bridge Western and Indigenous ways of knowing is based at the University of Massachusetts Amherst.

Indigenous people, such as the Siberian reindeer herders, have a deep understanding of their local environs, says linguistic anthropologist Roza Laptander, an AROSS team member originally from the Yamal Peninsula. Laptander, of both the University of Lapland and the University of Hamburg in Germany, has periodically embedded with herding communities since 2006.

Laptander’s research shows how ecological knowledge is encoded in the Nenets language. For instance, the first snow of the season is often soft and deep, or idebya syra, Laptander reported in September in Ecology and Society. That snow is difficult for the reindeer to walk in. Snow with ice granules, or inggyem’ syra, indicates high-quality lichen. Seradt, caused by rain falling on snow or unfrozen ground and then freezing solid, is to be feared. The word stems from serad’’, which translates to both rain and misfortune.

Historically, the herders could rely on their in-depth knowledge of varying types of snow and ice, along with an ability to read weather patterns and animal behavior, to gauge the likelihood of a difficult winter, Laptander says. But a rapidly warming Arctic is scrambling those signals. “Their traditional ways of predicting weather do not work anymore,” she says.

Scientists, meanwhile, often look to understand how warming-fueled changes to the Arctic climate, such as thinning sea ice and melting permafrost, are affecting climate change and weather patterns on a global scale (SN: 8/31/23). Knowing where to zoom in and what to zoom in on to help local communities requires those communities’ input.

“[Scientists] probably wouldn’t even know one type of snow is different than another. We might just look and say, ‘There’s snow here,’” says Dylan Davis, a remote sensing archaeologist at Columbia University who is not involved with this project. “Local communities and Indigenous communities that live with this every day, they’re going to be able to see things that we don’t.”

Prediction challenges

That’s what happened at Yar-Sale. Forbes told Serotetto that scientists might be able to sort out what caused the 2013–14 seradt, but they needed an idea of where to begin. Serotetto pointed to a map. In a typical winter, herders migrate from north to south. When the rain-on-snow event hit, many herders were already too far south to turn back or doubted the severity of the disaster. Serotetto, a herder with decades of experience, was able to push north. He discovered that the northern peninsula was relatively unscathed.

Serotetto drew a line on the map demarcating where he had come across the edge of the ice shield. When scientists pulled up satellite images from that November day, Forbes says, “the line was exactly where he drew it.” 

That information enabled Laptander, Forbes and others on the team to begin investigating the unique confluence of sea ice levels, snow versus ice cover on land, air temperatures and precipitation that contributed to the November 2013 icing event in southern Yamal.

Melting sea ice in the Barents and Kara seas releases humid air into the atmosphere, the team found (SN: 11/15/16). That humid air can blow onto the land as rain when temperatures rise above freezing.

The answer to Serotetto’s question, though, is far from resolved. Predicting such events remains extremely challenging, Forbes says. For instance, in 2018, the North Atlantic was open water all the way to the North Pole, and rain-on-snow seemed almost inevitable. But such an event did not occur. How did conditions differ between 2013 and 2018?

Efforts to answer that question are currently on hold. First, the pandemic thwarted travel and then, in February 2022, Russia invaded Ukraine. Climate research in the Russian Arctic has come to a virtual standstill, Forbes says. “Suddenly, half the Arctic is a no-go.”  

But the work in Yamal has snowballed to other Arctic regions, Forbes says. For instance, on a trip to Greenland last year, sheep farmers and reindeer herders told Forbes that they had just dealt with their first serious rain-on-snow event the previous winter. Forbes and his colleagues are hoping to apply what they learned in Yamal to better understand that event. “Now we have a data-sharing network with Indigenous informants across Arctic North America,” Forbes says.

The “Oh-My-God” particle has a new companion.

In 1991, physicists spotted a particle from space that crashed into Earth with so much energy that it warranted an “OMG!” With 320 quintillion electron volts, or exaelectron volts, it had the kinetic energy of a baseball zipping along at about 100 kilometers per hour.

Now, a new particle of comparable energy has been found, researchers report in the Nov. 24 Science. Detected in 2021 by the Telescope Array experiment near Delta, Utah, the particle had an energy of about 240 exaelectron volts. And mysteriously, scientists are unable to pinpoint any cosmic source for the particle.

“It’s a huge, huge amount of energy but in a tiny, tiny, tiny object,” says astroparticle physicist John Matthews of the University of Utah in Salt Lake City, co-spokesperson of the Telescope Array collaboration.

Cosmic rays consist of protons and atomic nuclei that zip through space at wide range of energies. Particles with energies over 100 exaelectron volts are exceedingly rare: On average, scientists estimate, one such particle falls on a square kilometer of Earth’s surface each century. And particles over 200 exaelectron volts are even rarer — only a few such particles have previously been detected.

When a cosmic ray hits Earth, it collides with a nucleus of an atom in the atmosphere, creating a cascade of other particles that can be detected on Earth’s surface.

To catch the rarest, highest-energy particles, scientists build giant arrays of detectors. The Telescope Array monitors an area of 700 square kilometers using more than 500 detectors made of plastic scintillator, material that emits light when hit by a charged particle. Additional detectors measure ultraviolet light produced in the sky by the shower of particles (although those detectors weren’t operating during the newly reported particle’s arrival). Based on the times that individual scintillator detectors were hit by the cascade of particles, scientists can determine the direction of the incoming cosmic ray and use that information to trace it back to its origins.

Extremely high-energy cosmic rays come from outside the Milky Way, but their exact sources are unknown (SN: 9/21/17). Most scientists think they are accelerated in violent cosmic environments, such as the jets of radiation that blast out of the areas around certain supermassive black holes, or starburst galaxies that form stars at a frenetic pace. 

Whatever their origins, the particles must come from the relatively nearby cosmic neighborhood. That’s because the highest-energy cosmic rays lose energy as they travel, by interacting with the cosmic microwave background, the afterglow of the Big Bang (SN: 7/24/18).

Tracing back the particle’s location is complicated. “The issue is that when you detect a high-energy cosmic ray at Earth, the arrival direction that you get will not point to the source because it will be deflected by … any magnetic field that would be in the way,” says Telescope Array collaborator Noémie Globus, an astroparticle physicist at the University of California, Santa Cruz and the RIKEN research institute in Japan.  

The magnetic fields present in the Milky Way and its environs scatter the cosmic rays like fog scatters light. To trace the particle to its home, scientists must take that scattering into account. But that backtracking pinpointed a cosmic void, a region of space with few galaxies at all, much less ones with violent processes going on. 

That makes this particle particularly interesting, says astrophysicist Vasiliki Pavlidou of the University of Crete in Heraklion, Greece. “It’s actually pointing towards nothing at all, absolutely in the middle of nowhere.”

That might hint that scientist are missing something. For example, researchers may need to better understand the magnetic fields of the galaxy, says Pavlidou, who was not involved with the research. 

“Every time you have one of these very high-energy events, just because they are so rare, it’s a big deal.”

As the only mammals that can fly, bats are the oddballs of the mammalian world. But serotine bats stand out for another, glaringly obvious reason — when erect, a male’s penis can swell to almost a quarter of its body length. How these bats use their humongous genitals to mate — without penetration — is a method never seen in a mammal before, researchers report in the Nov. 20 Current Biology.

At more than 16 millimeters when erect, the penis of male serotine bats (Eptesicus serotinus) has no chance of fitting inside the female’s approximately 2-millimeter-long vagina, a discrepancy that prompted biologist Nicolas Fasel to wonder how these bats go about getting it on. Videos collected at the Ukrainian Bat Rehabilitation Center in Kharkiv from 2018 to 2021 and the attic of St. Matthias Church in Castenray, Netherlands, from 2016 to 2022 revealed the answer. With footage, taken from underneath the bats, “we could see actually what was happening,” says Fasel of the University of Lausanne in Switzerland.

Instead of inserting its penis into the vagina, a male uses it to move aside a membrane covering the female’s genitals and then presses the penis against the female’s vulva and holds it there, often for just under an hour. In one observation, the behavior lasted more than 12 hours.

Once the deed was done, the fur around the female’s vulva appeared wet, which Fasel and colleagues suspect is due to semen. Other scientists told Fasel the wet spots look similar to those in which they’ve found semen after mating in other bat species, he says. These observations suggest the serotine bats are mating without penetration, a common practice in birds but one never observed in a mammal before (SN: 1/16/09).

“I think it’s super interesting because it sort of brings up a different function for a penis” aside from penetration, says Patricia Brennan, an evolutionary biologist at Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Mass. “It doesn’t surprise me that this is a bat because bats have some of the craziest reproductive strategies in mammals,” such as females being able to store sperm for six months or males having spines on their penises.

Fasel agrees. Among mammals, bats “just have to be the weirdos of the group.”

A new brain-monitoring device aims to be the Goldilocks of anesthesia delivery, dispensing drugs in just the right dose.   

No physician wants a patient to wake up during surgery — nor do patients. So anesthesiologists often give more drug than necessary to keep patients sedated during medical procedures or while on lifesaving machines like ventilators.

But anesthetics can sometimes be harmful when given in excess, says David Mintz, an anesthesiologist at Johns Hopkins University. For instance, elderly people with cognitive conditions like dementia or age-related cognitive decline may be at higher risk of post-surgical confusion. Studies also hint that long periods of use in young children might cause behavioral problems. “The less we give of them, the better,” Mintz says.

An automated anesthesia delivery system could help doctors find the right drug dose. The new device monitored rhesus macaques’ brain activity and supplied a common anesthetic called propofol in doses that were automatically adjusted every 20 seconds. Fluctuating doses ensured the animals received just enough drug — not too much or too little — to stay sedated for 125 minutes, researchers reported October 31 in PNAS Nexus. The study is a step toward devising and testing a system that would work for people.

Normally, an anesthetic dose is based on body measurements like weight and age. But that calculation is not a perfect science. There is no clear relationship between dose and likelihood that patients will be fully anesthetized with propofol and similar drugs, says Mintz, who was not involved with the new study. So anesthesiologists give amounts on the higher end of the spectrum to ensure their patients remain unconscious.

It’s not acceptable for doctors to work with doses that aren’t necessarily going to work for everyone, Mintz says. “You’re shooting for the 99th percentile… like 99.999” percent of patients should not wake up.

While patients are under anesthesia, physicians keep a close eye on indirect markers of consciousness such as breathing rate and heart rate. Anesthetics like propofol also alter brain waves, so tracking brain activity can help anesthesiologists keep tabs on patient awareness, says neuroscientist and anesthesiologist Emery Brown (SN: 5/6/11). In practice, however, few physicians are trained to do so.

Brown and colleagues developed a device to do that work for anesthesiologists. The system requires limited human input, combining brain-monitoring medical equipment with a computer that uses algorithms to determine how the body processes propofol. Every 20 seconds, the machine calculates how much drug is needed to maintain a preset level of brain activity that previous work has shown is indicative of unconsciousness in macaques.

After computer simulations suggested the model would work, the team completed nine trials with two macaques. The researchers first manually administered the anesthetic for half an hour. Then they let the automated delivery system take over for 125 minutes. In all nine experiments, the system accurately shifted the macaques between a lighter sedation and a deeper sleep, each lasting 40 or 45 minutes.

The system isn’t the first of its kind to be developed. Some existing devices — which are not approved for use in the United States — can distribute a single, predetermined amount of drug. But because the new Goldilocks version relies on feedback from the brain, it’s a bit like flying a plane on autopilot, says Brown, of MIT, Massachusetts General Hospital and Harvard Medical School. Just as autopilot is key for helping pilots navigate long flights, using a brain-monitoring machine to automatically adjust anesthesia doses would help during long surgeries and most likely reduce patients’ post-surgery delirium.

“Doesn’t mean the pilot can decide to take the day off,” Mintz says. But because machines don’t get sleepy or need a bathroom break, the new device “is a very helpful tool … because it complements human weakness.”  

Next steps include repeating the experiments with more animals to refine the system and make the brain monitoring steps less invasive. The device from the study measured brain activity from electrodes that had been directly implanted in the monkeys’ brains, Brown says, but the goal is to switch to using EEG electrodes that attach to the scalp.

Consciousness is difficult to define, and even EEGs aren’t a perfect tool, Mintz says. People with brain diseases, for instance, may have EEGs that look slightly different than people with healthy brains. Still, blending technology with anesthesiologists’ watchful eyes can take the guesswork out of hitting the sweet spot that slips people into oblivion.

Mouse embryos can make it to an early stage of development in space.

In an experiment conducted in 2021, a few hundred frozen two-cell embryos from mice thawed and grew over four days on the International Space Station. Of the several dozen embryos that made it back to Earth, nearly a quarter formed healthy clusters of cells known as blastocysts.

The finding suggests that the radiation and weightlessness of space might not pose immediate obstacles to mammalian reproduction, researchers report October 27 in iScience.

The new study isolates only one part of the complicated process of reproduction and development. A blastocyst typically forms after fertilization and implants in the uterus before developing into the placenta and fetus.

But the result provides a starting point for biologists, says Christiane Hahn, a space biologist at the European Space Research and Technology Centre in Noordwijk, Netherlands, who wasn’t involved in the research. Mouse embryos are the first mammal embryos that researchers have grown in space, an important step in understanding how space affects human reproduction. Other experiments have involved animals such as salamanders, rice fish and quail. 

Previous research suggested that the conditions in space are particularly harmful to the early stages of reproduction in mice. When in space, the animals have been too stressed to mate, and studies of the rodents’ eggs showed that they accumulated several mutations due to the heavy radiation. Freeze-dried mouse sperm, however, did remain viable after one six-year stint on the space station (SN: 6/11/21).

To overcome these challenges, biologist Teruhiko Wakayama and colleagues launched two-cell embryos to the ISS. A device specially made for the experiment held the fragile, developing cells. After the experiment ended, the cells were then sent back to Earth for analysis. Out of 360 samples, 72 survived the trip, and 17 of those developed into normal blastocysts. The undamaged cells successfully multiplied and took on new identities as either precursors of fetal tissue or the placenta.

Future alterations to the procedure could potentially increase the success rate, says Wakayama, of the University of Yamanashi in Kofu, Japan. The absence of perfectly sterile conditions in the space experiment probably exacerbated cell death, he says.

Blastocysts cannot survive for long outside of uteruses, so the experiment was designed to last only a few days. It’s unclear how the cells would fare as development unfolds. In future experiments, the team would like to implant any viable embryonic cells from space experiments in mice to find out.

The researchers are especially interested in further testing the impact of microgravity on the positioning of different cells in a blastocyst. The cells that give rise to the fetus usually all sink to the bottom of the cluster, encased by cells that will become placenta. Were the fetal cells to split into two spots instead, they’d create identical twin mice. Were they to split into more, the blastocysts would probably become unviable.

In the new study, three-quarters of the fetal precursors appeared to settle in the right location. But more research is needed to fully understand the effect of microgravity on the developing cells.

Ask someone in the United States to name five events important to the country’s foundation and there’s a good chance they’ll mention the Pilgrims.

That’s what researchers found a few years ago when they put that question to some 2,000 people. The Revolutionary War, Declaration of Independence, Christopher Columbus’ “discovery” of the Americas and the Civil War topped the list. But coming in seventh place were the Pilgrims, the team reported in 2022 in Memory Studies.

Their inclusion in the list is bizarre, says coauthor Abram Van Engen, an English professor at Washington University in St. Louis interested in national origin stories. “There’s no great reason why we start America with the Pilgrims…. They’re kind of late to the game.”

Before them, after all, came the Native Americans, Spanish settlers in St. Augustine, Fla., and European settlers — and the slaves they brought with them — in Jamestown, Va. But the Pilgrims’ tale of religious persecution, perseverance and self-governance provides people with a tidy, if aggrandized, national origin story, says Van Engen.

The “Thanksgiving myth” is part of that tale, says coauthor and cognitive psychologist Henry Roediger, also at Washington University. The shorthand for that story, he says, goes like this: In 1621, the Pilgrims and Native Americans “had this peaceful meal and powwow [while] singing kumbaya.”

The two groups did engage in a peaceful harvest celebration in the fall of 1621, history suggests. But historians are quick to point out that the tidy tale ignores context, particularly the deadly diseases and bloody wars that devastated Indigenous populations both before and after the occasion.

Despite persistent efforts to flesh out the historical record, the kumbaya vision persists. That’s because history and memory, far from being interchangeable as commonly assumed, often exist in opposition. History is rooted in fact, while memory is rooted in story. When shared across individuals, those stories — with their half-truths, exaggerations and elisions — foster unity.

Origin stories like the Thanksgiving one are particularly sticky as they underpin a group’s raison d’être. Fixing or changing the story risks muddying the plot and tearing apart the group, says Van Engen. “The Pilgrims just become right for telling [the] stories … that we want to tell about ourselves.”

Mythological origin stories are not unique to the United States. “Each nation has its heroic story. That is the tradition of collective memory,” says Chana Teeger, a sociologist at the London School of Economics and Political Science who studies how South Africans teach about apartheid.

But scholars are starting to grapple with how nations should contend with difficult pasts. “How do you keep a strong national identity and patriotism while at the same time acknowledging the more negative aspects of your history?” Roediger asks. The answer, as evidenced by increasing calls for racial reckonings in the United States and elsewhere, is very much a work in progress.

Thanksgiving has become a “mental habit”

Stories, Aristotle observed some 2,400 years ago, contain a distinct beginning, middle and end strung together via a causal chain, or plot.

Our brains are wired for such stories, psychologists discovered much later. People rely on clear narratives to avoid information overload, anthropologist James Wertsch and psychologist Olivia Jäggi, both of Washington University, reported in 2022. Our story-minded brains turn us into “cognitive misers,” they wrote in Progress in Brain Research. The pared-down nature of stories, in other words, is much easier for us to remember than the complex, often ugly, arcs of history.

For that 1621 Thanksgiving, the complex historic arc goes like this. Up to 90 percent of the Wampanoag population had died from an epidemic brought by a previous wave of European explorers by the time the Pilgrims arrived in December 1620 in what’s now Massachusetts. The weakened community faced threats from an encroaching neighboring tribe. Meanwhile, the Pilgrims, unaccustomed to the new environment and climate, were dying of starvation and disease.

In March 1621, those struggling groups formed an alliance. The Wampanoag people could teach the Pilgrims how to harvest crops and the Pilgrims could protect the Wampanoag people from invaders. The peace did not last. Over the next several decades, the settlers’ population exploded and European leaders displaced the Wampanoag community, often through dishonest or violent means. War broke out in 1675, killing hundreds of colonists and thousands of Native Americans. Settlers killed the Wampanoag leader and displayed his head on a spike for two decades. 

“The common narrative makes the settlers look like the good guys. Once you start chipping away at it, then everything falls apart,” says social studies educator John Bickford of Eastern Illinois University in Charleston.

History and memory have different relationships to the past, Wertsch explains. Historians will sacrifice narrative to preserve the facts. Agents of collective memory, such as political leaders, museum curators, teachers and family members, will sacrifice the facts to preserve the narrative — and group solidarity.

Consequently, memory and history are often at loggerheads, wrote French historian Pierre Nora in the 1989 Representations. “Memory and history, far from being synonymous, appear now to be in fundamental opposition.”

Moreover, the narrative habits offered up by memorable, though potentially fictitious, stories are just as hard to break as other habits, such as stopping nail-biting or forgoing that daily cup of coffee. For instance, we hear the word “bread” and we think “butter.” We hear “Thanksgiving” and we think Pilgrims and Native Americans singing kumbaya.  

The Thanksgiving myth came together slowly

But in fact, adding Pilgrims to the Thanksgiving narrative is a surprisingly recent affair, beginning some 200 years after their arrival in New England.

Thanksgiving was initially an altogether more informal affair. European settlers celebrated thanksgivings, or harvest festivals, even before the Pilgrims’ arrival. And the Pilgrims themselves were somewhat sporadic with their feasts, celebrating the day when new friends or supplies arrived from Europe or when they defeated the Native Americans in various wars. In 1789, Thanksgiving wasn’t a national holiday but George Washington issued a proclamation celebrating the day in the name of an “Almighty God.”

In the 1820s, when the United States was roughly 50 years old, things started to formalize. Research into nation building shows that the half-century point is about when official histories, such as those in textbooks, begin to appear, Van Engen says. Such histories typically double as memory projects (SN: 4/12/22).

In the United States, those projects began at a time when the young nation was shifting from an agrarian to an industrial society. As people moved away from their birthplaces for work, kinship ties were weakening. Starting in 1827, Sarah Josepha Hale, author and editor of a prominent women’s magazine, began calling for an official and family-oriented Thanksgiving holiday to bring families back together. Nearly four decades later in 1863, with the country in the midst of the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln took heed and turned Thanksgiving into a national holiday to promote unity.

From that point, presidents — powerful players in building a nation’s collective memory, and the accompanying feelings of national pride — began issuing annual Thanksgiving proclamations, says political scientist Judd Birdsall. Birdsall, of Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., has read every one of those speeches to see how those memories evolve and coalesce over time to eventually capture the modern-day Thanksgiving spirit. “It’s a very niche specialty,” Birdsall admits.

Theodore Roosevelt made the earliest vague reference to “the first settlers” in his 1905 proclamation, by noting their many hardships, Birdsall reported in 2021 in the Review of Faith & International Affairs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt identified the Pilgrims by name in 1939. But only after World War II do Pilgrims come to regularly feature in these proclamations, morphing into “archetypical Americans,” Birdsall says.

Those speeches also show how America’s founders and political leaders have typically either ignored Native Americans or treated them as supporting actors to the main story. Their first appearance in the Thanksgiving story is in 1908, with Teddy Roosevelt’s pejorative mention of an “Indian haunted wilderness.” In 1980, President Jimmy Carter obliquely referenced the Native Americans by calling Thanksgiving “a commemoration of the day America’s earliest inhabitants sat down to a table with European colonists.” Ronald Reagan made Native Americans more central to the story, noting in 1986: “Indeed, the Native American Thanksgivings antedated those of the new Americans.”  

America’s origin story is still in its messy middle

Breaking up with the Thanksgiving narrative is no easy feat. But some people in the United States are starting to question Thanksgiving and other stories pointing to the country’s rosy beginnings, Wertsch says. “How do you [begin to] break a bad habit? You have somebody point it out to you.”

That’s what happened, say Wertsch and others, when a group of journalists at the New York Times launched the 1619 Project a few years ago. Led by journalist Nikole Hannah-Jones, that long-term endeavor began the U.S. story with slaves’ arrival in Virginia in August 1619. The nation’s story, they argued, spirals outward from that ugly point.

“If there’s anything that debunks our national origins, it’s the 1619 Project,” Bickford says.

Today, that project has come to frame many of the country’s ongoing culture wars, especially fights over how to teach history. Institutions, such as schools and museums, become places where history and national identity collide, says Teeger. “History education [is] a site where collective memories are negotiated.”

Social scientists refer to conflicts over how events ought to be remembered as “mnemonic standoffs.” In the case of Thanksgiving, the standoff is over whether Thanksgiving ought to be remembered as a day of celebration or, as a growing chorus of Indigenous people and their allies call for, a day of mourning. Such standoffs illuminate the central tension between history and collective memory, researchers say. How do people maintain unity while acknowledging their difficult pasts?

Historians and social scientists used to assume that collective memories need to be positive, even mythological, to succeed. “Forgetting, I would go even as far as to say historical error, is a crucial factor in the creation of a nation,” French philosopher and historian Ernest Renan argued in 1882.

Contemporary researchers question that view. Georgian people’s collective memories, for instance, include ideas of the Eastern European country as a perpetual underdog, says anthropologist Nutsa Batiashvili of the Free University of Tbilisi in Georgia. “The skeleton narrative, which repeats itself, is that a big enemy comes, and Georgians fight heroically, but they have traitors inside. And they lose the war but still manage to save the culture and integrity and identity.”  

Can people in the United States rewrite their national story to reflect this sort of complexity? That remains an open research question, Wertsch says. Stories work best when they have a neat beginning, middle and end. But Thanksgiving, and the broader American origin story, remain caught in the messy narrative middle. “We don’t have an ending of racism in America. It’s still here,” he says.

The more optimistic framing, Batiashvili says, is that the American story is still being written. “It’s a narrative in the making.”

Most terrestrial plants and animals left the ocean a single time in their evolutionary history to live ashore. But crabs have seemingly scuttled out of the sea more than a dozen times, with at least two groups later reverting back to a marine lifestyle, a study finds.

The research, published November 6 in Systematic Biology, sheds new light on the evolutionary history of the group Brachyura, which includes roughly 7,600 species of “true crabs,” and includes the most comprehensive evolutionary tree yet created for the group. And the study offers clues about how other early invertebrates may have evolved a terrestrial lifestyle, researchers say.

Unlike for well-studied animals such as birds and mammals, a unified crab tree of life has been lacking, says Kristin Hultgren, an invertebrate zoologist at Seattle University. “While the authors have developed a useful framework for understanding the complexity of transitioning to terrestrial life, one of the most important contributions is the extensive, well-dated evolutionary tree.”

Crabs are an extremely diverse group and have colonized nearly every type of habitat on Earth. It’s been a challenge to study when crabs first shifted from one habitat to another during evolution because, like some other invertebrates, crabs don’t have the extensive fossil trail that early vertebrates do, says Joanna Wolfe, an evolutionary biologist at Harvard University.

Past research has also often treated marine, freshwater and land crabs as discrete subgroups when they’re more like a continuum, Wolfe says. “They’re not distinct and actually have a lot in common, and looking at them together helps trace their evolution.”

Wolfe and her colleagues collected genetic data from 333 species of crabs in the group Brachyura. These crustaceans are evolutionarily distinct from, although closely related to, another group of crustaceans that independently evolved crablike bodies and are often erroneously referred to as crabs, including animals like the hermit and king crabs.

The team then combined that genetic data with dozens of fossils to generate a crab evolutionary tree, layering on details about each species’ life history and adaptations for living on land to reconstruct a possible timeline of when crabs colonized drier ground.

True crabs diverged from other crustacean lineages roughly 230 million years ago during the Triassic Period, the researchers found, refining previous estimates. Over the next hundred or so million years, brachyurans diversified widely during a period previously dubbed the “Cretaceous crab revolution.”

The study also showed that during their evolution, crabs appear to have adapted to a more terrestrial lifestyle as many as 17 times, either by shifting from the ocean to the intertidal zone or similarly salty habitats like mangroves, or by colonizing freshwater estuaries and rivers on route to land. In at least two cases, crabs reverted to a marine lifestyle long after they’d left.

The amount of times that crabs independently left the ocean is “astonishing,” says Katie Davis, an evolutionary paleobiologist at the University of York in England who was not involved in the research. “And it’s really fantastic that molecular biology, fossils and modern numerical techniques can be combined to provide insight into previously unanswerable questions.”

The study also hints at what other early arthropods that ventured onto the land may have been like, Wolfe says. Past studies have shown that crabs and insects share a common, if unknown, aquatic ancestor. By looking at the types of crabs that successfully left the ocean, it’s possible to guess at what adaptations early insects might have needed to do the same. Modern crabs living out of the water today, for example, excel at keeping themselves from drying out and have limited their dependence on water for reproduction.

“If you’re going to be the first proto-insect to come out of the ocean … you’re probably going to need those kinds of adaptations,” Wolfe says.

Most Delicious Poison
Noah Whiteman
Little, Brown Spark, $30

After his father’s unexpected death from alcohol use disorder in 2017, evolutionary biologist Noah Whiteman undertook a journey to understand how nature’s toxins affect the world. The result is his debut book, Most Delicious Poison: The Story of Nature’s Toxins — From Spices to Vices.

The book weeds through chemistry, evolution and world history to explore the origins of toxins and how humans have co-opted them for everything from medicines to spices to pesticides. “The chemicals in these products of nature are not a sideshow — they are the main event,” Whiteman writes, “and we’ve unwittingly stolen them from a war raging all around us.”

That tussle, part of what Charles Darwin called the “war of nature,” is the innovative ways plants and animals continuously evolve traits that one-up their predators or competitors. Many of the chemicals that we stock in our cabinets and pharmacies, for instance, originated in plants as deterrents against insects snacking on them, Whiteman points out. These chemicals act on our brains and bodies thanks to the surprising neurological similarities between insects and humans.

Whiteman, who studies how insects adapt to plant toxins, is a knowledgeable tour guide through this greenhouse of poisons and cures. And it is a greenhouse. Though people put some animal-made toxins to use, the plant derivatives steal the show.

Chrysanthemums with their insecticidal compound, pyrethrin, make an appearance in the book, as do terpenoid-wafting pines, calming chamomile and morphine-like water lilies. To tame the tangle of chemicals and their interactions, Whiteman dedicates each chapter to a couple of toxin classes and lays out their source in the natural world, their chemical mechanisms and historical context for their use by people.

Take tannins. They show up in a wide array of plants, including oaks, tea plants and grapes. Whiteman muses that these chemical compounds may protect plants by inhibiting the ability of microbes and herbivores to absorb nutrients. Tannins also bind to salivary proteins, resulting in the “rough, dry puckering sensation” that many people enjoy while sipping a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Humans have also long put the protein-binding properties of tannins to use in tanning animal hides for leather. For nearly 1,500 years, Europe and then its colonies relied on ink manufactured from tannin-rich oak galls for drafting important documents, including the Magna Carta and the Declaration of Independence.

Perhaps the most important role of toxins in the human world can be found in our pantries and medicine cabinets. Whiteman focuses on pharmacological heavyweights such as the antimalarial drug quinine, derived from the bark of the cinchona tree, and salicylates, such as aspirin and oil of wintergreen. Curare, cocaine and scopolamine demonstrate how we’ve wrangled these alkaloids into anesthetics. It’s one of many instances where Whiteman nods to Indigenous communities around the world that have been repeatedly exploited or gone uncompensated for their medicinal discoveries.

“It is no wonder that many countries in Latin America and elsewhere in the global tropics now have biopiracy laws that strictly regulate the export of natural products,” Whiteman notes.

Whiteman closes by examining how medieval Europe’s lust for spices catapulted the world into five centuries of geopolitical upheaval. The Columbian exchange, the Opium Wars and the founding of the East India Company are all pit stops along Whiteman’s exploration of how the pursuit of all things psychoactive and medicinal fueled European colonialism. The lasting consequences, Whiteman argues, include infringement on Indigenous rights, global biodiversity loss and the climate crisis.

The opioid epidemic and alcohol use disorder also loom large in the book. Here, Whiteman’s assertion that our use of toxins “walk[s] a knife’s edge between healing and harm” is loudest. His father haunts many of the personal anecdotes sprinkled throughout the 304-page read. Whether he’s recalling the toxicology report from his father’s autopsy or noting his family’s fondness for black pepper, Whiteman explores grief as much as he does science: “My attempt to grasp why [my father] died allowed me to identify and then draw together the many ways that nature’s toxins affect the world.”

Personal and well-researched, Most Delicious Poison has wide appeal, in part, as Whiteman points out, because indulging in nature’s toxins “is an essential part of what it means to be human.” So go ahead. Pour a cup of herbal tea, add some drops of lavender oil to the diffuser and enjoy this mind-bending read.

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Putting smell back in the whiffer – Science News, November 17, 1973

P.P.C. Graziadei and J.F. Metcalf of Florida State University have been producing … ever more detailed, evidence for olfactory nerve regeneration in mammals…. Might olfactory nerves be regenerated in people who have trouble smelling, thereby restoring or improving their sense of smell? “The phenomena of regeneration are applicable to all vertebrates and most likely to humans,” says Graziadei.

Update

The scientists’ hunch was right on the nose: The human cells that detect scent information and send it to the brain can replenish themselves, though exactly how is unclear. Experimental therapies to help people who have lost their sense of smell due to COVID-19 could help researchers figure it out (SN: 9/24/22, p. 14). Smell training, which involves regularly and deeply smelling various scents, might rewire cells’ connections to the brain or stimulate new cell growth. Treating damaged cells with steroids and blood plasma might aid healing. More invasive treatments such as nasal lining transplants aim to boost regenerative stem cells.

WASHINGTON — A genetic variant commonly found in some Africans may stymie the effects of a popular breast cancer drug.

The variant produces a sluggish version of the enzyme known to activate tamoxifen. People who inherit two copies of the variant show five times less active drug in their bloodstreams compared with people who don’t have that variant, researchers reported November 2 at the American Society of Human Genetics’ annual meeting. As a result, many of these patients may receive a dose that’s insufficient to treat their cancer.

The gene, called CYP2D6, that produces the crucial enzyme differs dramatically among people. On average, a fifth of Africans carry at least one copy of the variant that the researchers studied. Across the continent, however, that figure ranges from a slim 5 percent to over 34 percent.

Preemptive genetic screening that identifies patients with the genetic variant would probably cost too much for local clinics and hospitals, says molecular geneticist Comfort Kanji, who is based at the African Institute of Biomedical Science and Technology in Harare, Zimbabwe. But he imagines that his team’s findings could inspire clinical trials that test larger starting doses of tamoxifen in heavily affected groups.

Kanji and his colleagues collected daily blood samples from 42 Zimbabweans taking tamoxifen. Some of the participants had one copy of the variant, while others had two. A third group had a different version of the gene with no known effect on the enzyme. The differences in how they metabolized the medication emerged right away and remained for the duration of the monthlong experiment.

Doubling the prescribed amount of the drug for participants with two copies of the variant, the researchers found, brought levels of active drug in the blood back to normal — and with few short-term consequences.

The study provides powerful results despite a small sample size, says David Twesigomwe, a pharmacogeneticist at the Sydney Brenner Institute for Molecular Bioscience in Johannesburg who was not involved in the research.

It offers a clear-cut case for metabolic screening, he says. Even as comprehensive genetic testing remains out of reach for many Africans, he believes simpler, narrower tests could do the trick, potentially laying the foundation for clinicians to incorporate screening more widely in treatment.

Each year, around 200,000 people in sub-Saharan Africa receive diagnoses of breast cancer. Fewer than 40 percent survive for longer than five years past their diagnosis, unlike 86 percent in the United States. The main reason is that many patients in Africa struggle to access or afford treatment, and as a result show up to clinics with late-stage cancers. This new finding is unlikely to turn those cases around, but it could help make timely care more effective, Kanji says.

Worldwide, about 30 percent of patients with estrogen receptor-positive breast cancer — the most common type — show little improvement on tamoxifen. That proportion is even higher among African women, Kanji says. The prevalence of the studied gene variant, or others with a similar effect, could offer a partial explanation.

A separate study would be required to see if the findings extend to African Americans, Kanji and Twesigomwe both say. In the United States, Black women are 40 percent more likely to die of breast cancer— with about 28 deaths per 100,000 for Black women compared with 20 per 100,000 for white women — despite a similar rate of diagnosis.

Experts caution that the reasons why are multifaceted, including biological, sociological and historical. The role that a variant of CYP2D6 plays may constitute a sliver of a sliver.

The enzyme that the gene generates metabolizes more than just tamoxifen. It’s responsible for breaking down many other drugs, including opioids, beta-blockers and a common class of antidepressant drugs called selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. That means that people with different variants of the gene may respond better or worse to those medications too.