Humpback whales, those innovative foodies, have discovered their own pop-up restaurants.
Migrant humpbacks returning to southeastern Alaska in spring are the first of their kind known to make routine visits to fish hatcheries releasing young salmon into the sea, says marine ecologist Ellen Chenoweth.
The whales are “40 feet long and they’re feeding on fish that are the size of my finger,” says Chenoweth, of the Juneau fisheries center of University of Alaska Fairbanks. For tiny prey to be worthwhile to humpbacks, it’s good to find crowds — such as young salmon streaming out of hatchery nets.
Six years of systematic observations of whales at five hatcheries at Baranof Island reveal a pattern of humpbacks visiting during springtime releases, Chenoweth and her colleagues report June 12 in Royal Society Open Science.
Whale visits to the salmon buffet enhance humpbacks’ reputation for innovation in feeding, Chenoweth says. And since the water is relatively shallow, visits also make it easier to film humpback lunge feeding. More often, studying whale food dives means watching animals surface from the depths to catch their breath before the next exciting plunge. “It’s like going to a basketball game but you can only really watch players on the bench,” Chenoweth says.
Underwater, a humpback opens its jaws and rushes into the mass of prey as its throat balloons out “like a parachute opening,” she says. The toothless whale then filters the mouthful, swooshing it out through dangling fringes of baleen, which snag what’s worth swallowing. In one lunge, a humpback can take in about 27,600 liters of seawater — about 28 metric tons — roughly doubling the whale’s weight.
An unlikely hero has emerged in the quest to fight HIV: the cow. In a first for any animal, including humans, four cows injected with a type of HIV protein rapidly produced powerful antibodies against the virus, researchers report. Learning how to induce similar antibodies in humans may be key to a successful HIV vaccine.
The antibodies, called broadly neutralizing antibodies, can stop infection from a variety of HIV types. The cows generated these antibodies as soon as 42 days after immunization, the researchers report online July 20 in Nature. For the small percentage of people estimated to develop these antibodies after a natural infection, it can take several years. The work identifies “a new and much more efficient method to generate broadly active antibodies against HIV,” says immunologist Justin Bailey of Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, who was not involved in the study.
Making an HIV vaccine has proved difficult because the virus changes all the time. Different strains exist throughout the world, and the virus even mutates within an infected person’s body. Most often, people develop antibodies that are specific to one strain but ineffective against others. HIV vaccines tested so far have not led to the production of broadly neutralizing antibodies.
About 1 percent of HIV-infected people eventually generate broadly neutralizing antibodies that are especially potent and effective against many types of HIV. The development of these antibodies doesn’t seem to help infected people. But when given to monkeys before exposure to a virus similar to HIV, the antibodies prevent infection.
Broadly neutralizing antibodies specific to HIV have a few quirky features, one of which is the presence of a long stretch of amino acids that sticks out from the antibody surface. This protruding part of the antibody binds to a viral site that remains the same between strains, because the virus needs it to gain entry to a cell. HIV’s thick coat of surface sugars makes the viral binding site difficult to access. A longer stretch of amino acids seems to be able to pierce through “and reach in, almost like the long arm of the law,” says Vaughn Smider, a molecular immunologist at the Scripps Research Institute in La Jolla, Calif.
In people infected with HIV who develop broadly neutralizing antibodies, this antibody region — called HCDR3 — has about 30 amino acids, about twice as long as what is usual for human antibodies. Although on the long side for a human, “that’s actually kind of short for a cow,” Smider says. And so the idea to immunize cows was born. Since cows naturally make longer HCDR3s, Smider explains, perhaps they’d have this sought-after response to HIV.
Smider and colleagues took serum — blood with the cells removed, leaving antibodies behind — from four immunized cows and tested it against different types of HIV virus in a test tube. All of the cows developed broadly neutralizing antibodies. The researchers then tested one cow’s antibodies on an even larger number of virus types. After 381 days, this cow’s antibodies prevented 96 percent of the 117 HIV types from infecting cells in a lab dish. The researchers also isolated an antibody from this cow that had a long HCDR3 of 60 amino acids and stopped infection by 72 percent of the HIV types.
If researchers could induce antibodies with long HCDR3s in humans, “then that could be the basis of getting a vaccine to work,” Smider says. “You need a step before the immunization that helps expand the rare antibodies.” Since cows are so good at making broadly neutralizing antibodies, it also might be possible to turn the cow’s handiwork into drugs for HIV treatment, if bovine antibodies are effective at stopping the virus in other animals, he says.
Galaxies may grow by swiping gas from their neighbors.
New simulations suggest that nearly half the matter in the Milky Way may have been siphoned from the gas of other galaxies. That gas provides the raw material that galaxies use to build their bulk. The finding, scheduled to appear in the Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society, reveals a new, unexpected way for galaxies to acquire matter and could give clues to how they evolve. “These simulations show a huge amount of interaction among galaxies, a huge dance that’s going on,” says astronomer Romeel Davé of the University of Edinburgh. That dance, and the subsequent exchange of atoms, could be what establishes a galaxy’s character — whether it’s small or big, elliptical or spiral, quiet or bursting with star formation. If the simulation results are confirmed with observations, it could be a major advancement in understanding galaxy formation, Davé says.
It makes sense that much of the material in one galaxy actually came from other galaxies, says study coauthor Claude-André Faucher-Giguère, a theoretical astrophysicist at Northwestern University in Evanston, Ill. “Still, the result was really unexpected,” he says.
Astronomers thought galaxies got their matter in two main ways. First, atoms clumped together to form stars and then galaxies, not long after the Big Bang about 13.8 billion years ago. Then some of those atoms were eventually ejected by supernovas but rained back onto the same galaxy, recycling the gas again and again.
The new simulations showed a third way galaxies could score gas. Powerful supernova explosions would eject atoms, in the form of gas, far from their home galaxies into intergalactic space. Those atoms would then travel through space, pushed toward other galaxies by galactic winds that move at several hundred kilometers per second. When the particles neared a galaxy’s gravitational pull, they would get sucked in, where they would serve as the basis for stars, planets, dust and other material in their new galactic home. Still, this exchange of atoms is extremely difficult to spot in space because the gas atoms, don’t give off light like stars do. Faucher-Giguère and colleagues spotted the exchange in computer simulations that show how galaxies formed just after the Big Bang and how they have evolved over time. The team tracked gas atoms as they moved through the model universe, formed stars and then were ejected from galaxies as those stars exploded.
In the simulations, up to half of the atoms in large galaxies were pulled in from other galaxies. Because more massive galaxies have more gravity, they tended to pull atoms from the ejected material of small galaxies. The exchange appears to take billions of years as atoms travel the vast space between galaxies, the team notes.
“It’s that not surprising to see a galaxy kick out matter, which is then pulled in by other galaxies,” Davé says. What is surprising, he says, is the amount of material that’s transferred. Before seeing the simulations, he would have guessed that about 5 percent of gas was transferred among galaxies this way. “To see that it is up to 50 percent is pretty remarkable,” he says.
Already, astronomers are searching for evidence of this material-swapping behavior among galaxies. Faucher-Giguère and colleagues, working with researchers using the Hubble Space Telescope, hope to observe intergalactic transfer of gas among galaxies soon.
Single-celled microbes may have taught plants and animals how to pack their genetic baggage.
Archaea, a type of single-celled life-form similar to bacteria, keep their DNA wrapped around proteins much in the same way as more complex organisms, researchers report in the Aug. 11 Science. This finding provides new insight into the evolutionary origins of the DNA-packing process and the secret to archaea’s hardiness, which enables some to live in acid, boiling water or other extreme environments. All eukaryotes, including plants and animals, store their genetic material in cell compartments called nuclei. Such organisms cram meters of genetic material into the tiny nuclei by wrapping strands of DNA around clusters of proteins called histones (SN: 1/10/15, p. 32). “It doesn’t really matter which eukaryote you look at, whether it’s amoebas or plants or humans or fish or insects or anything,” says coauthor John Reeve, a microbiologist at Ohio State University. “They all have exactly the same structure.”
Unlike bacteria, some archaea also contain histones, but researchers weren’t sure whether these microbes spool DNA around the protein bobbins the way eukaryotes do. So Reeve and colleagues used a method called X-ray crystallography to discern, for the first time, the precise shape of archaea DNA bound to histones.
The researchers saw that archaea DNA coils around the histones, similar to the way it does in eukaryotes. “It’s a big deal actually seeing this,” says Steven Henikoff, a molecular biologist at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle who was not involved in the work. The resemblance between archaea and eukaryote DNA wrapping means that the first organism that used this storage scheme was an ancestor of both modern eukaryotes and archaea, the researchers conclude.
But the way archaea DNA twists around histones isn’t identical to the coils of DNA seen in eukaryotes. In eukaryotes, a strand of DNA loops twice around a cluster of eight histones to create what’s called a nucleosome, and connects many of these nucleosomes like beads on a string. Archaea DNA string together bundles of proteins, too. But while eukaryotes always tether eight-protein clumps, archaea DNA can spiral around stacks of many more histones to create rod-shaped structures of various lengths. “So it’s not as uniform as in eukaryotes,” says coauthor Karolin Luger, a biophysicist and Howard Hughes Medical Institute investigator at the University of Colorado Boulder.
Researchers tested the importance of that rodlike architecture by tampering with the histone-DNA structures of some archaea and then observing how these mutant archaea fared in different conditions. “We tried to mimic some real-life situations that some of these organisms could get into,” Luger says. For instance, some archaea that live in volcanic vents that emit sulfurous gases sometimes get spewed out and have to survive sans sulfur. Archaea with normal histone-DNA shapes can handle that kind of midlife crisis. But when researchers cut their mutant microbes off sulfur, the microorganisms’ growth was stunted. These microbes may not have been able to adapt to sulfur deprivation as well as their wild counterparts “because they can’t unpackage their DNA as readily if the structure has been changed,” Reeve says.
Henikoff calls it “a pretty cool experiment.” It showed that the archaea’s particular DNA-histone architecture was “biologically relevant, not just a novelty,” he says.
A total solar eclipse shines a light on the sun’s elusive atmosphere. When the moon blocks the sun, it’s finally possible to see how this diffuse cloud of plasma, called the corona, is magnetically sculpted into beautiful loops. The material there is about a trillionth the density of the solar surface. From its delicate and diaphanous appearance, you might expect the corona to be where the sun goes to cool off.
That couldn’t be more wrong. The corona is a mysteriously sizzling inferno where the temperature jumps from a mere few thousand degrees to several million degrees. Why? “It’s one of the longest unanswered questions in all of solar physics,” says Paul Bryans of the High Altitude Observatory at the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colo. “There are a bunch of different ideas about what’s going on there, but it’s still highly debated.” Data collected during the Aug. 21 solar eclipse may bring scientists closer to settling that debate.
The sun simmers at about 5,500° Celsius at its visible surface, the photosphere. But the gas just above the photosphere is heated to about 10,000° C. Then in the corona, the temperature makes an abrupt jump to several million degrees.
“It’s counterintuitive that as you move away from a heat source, it gets warmer,” Bryans says. The corona’s diffuseness makes its heat even stranger — the most basic ways to heat a material rely on particles crashing into each other, but the corona is too tenuous for that to work.
An eclipse first brought this abnormal arrangement to light. German astronomer Walter Grotrian observed spectral lines — the fingerprints of elements that show up when light is split into its component wavelengths — emitted by the corona during a total solar eclipse in 1869.
Astronomers at first assumed those lines were due to a new element they dubbed coronium. But Grotrian realized that iron atoms stripped of several of their electrons by the heat were responsible. These iron lines in the corona are still used to measure its temperature: The more electrons lost, the hotter the material in the corona (SN Online: 6/16/17). Such extreme temperatures have something to do with the corona’s magnetic field, which is probably where all that energy is stored. Once the energy is there, the corona has a hard time radiating it away, so it builds up. Most of the ways that materials release energy — stripping electrons from atoms, accelerating those electrons so they release X-rays and ultraviolet particles of light — are already maxed out in the corona. “We know there’s energy coming in, and it’s hard to get it out unless you get very hot,” says Amir Caspi of the Southwest Research Institute in Boulder, Colo. “What we don’t understand is how that energy gets into the corona in the first place.”
Physicists have several ideas. Maybe loops of magnetic field lines in the corona vibrate like guitar strings, heating things up, sort of like how a microwave oven heats food. Maybe the magnetic anchors of those loops on the sun’s surface braid and twist the magnetic field above them, dumping in energy that is then continually radiated away like the heating element in a toaster.
Or maybe tiny explosions called nanoflares or jets called spicules carry energy away from the photosphere and into the corona. The formation of new coronal loops that connect to existing ones could dump in enough extra energy to heat the plasma up.
During the solar eclipse, dozens of groups of scientists across the country will deploy telescopes equipped with filters to pick out polarized light, infrared light or those electron-deprived iron atoms in search of answers. Bryans and his colleagues will be on a mountaintop near Casper, Wyo., in the path of totality. There, the team will take images at a fast clip in both visual and infrared wavelengths to map how the corona changes as the moon moves across the sun. (I will be in Wyoming with this team on the day of the eclipse and will be sharing more about how the experiments went.)
“We can look at how things change as we move from the surface up into the atmosphere,” Bryans says. “How that changes is tied to understanding how the corona is heated.”
Probably all of those mechanisms scientists have thought up contribute to the corona’s extreme heat. It’s difficult to declare just one the most important. But ultimately, the solar eclipse is the best chance scientists have to test them. It’s the only time the corona is the star of the solar show.
Horses can leap over high hurdles, gallop at speeds of up to 70 kilometers per hour and haul around up to nearly 1,000 kilograms of body weight — and all with just one big toe on each foot. Now, a new study published August 23 in Proceedings of the Royal Society B helps explain why: Streamlined digits improved horses’ strength and speed.
Along with zebras and donkeys, horses are among the few single-toed creatures in the animal kingdom. Scientists have long suspected that horses’ single, hoofed toes helped them run farther and faster over grasslands, letting them flee predators and find fresh forage. But the hypothesis that having one big toe is better than having several, biomechanically speaking, has never been directly tested. “This study takes an important step” toward resolving why horses shed digits during their early evolution, says Karen Sears, an evolutionary biologist at UCLA.
Ancient horses had a lot of toes to lose. The dog-sized Hyracotherium, which lived about 55 million years ago, had four toes on its front feet, and three on its back feet. Merychippus, which lived about 10 million years ago, resembled a modern horse but had three toes, including one long middle digit with a protective, toenail-like hoof at the end. The only surviving horse genus, single-toed Equus, emerged about 5 million years ago.
“If you look closely, you can still see the vestigial remnants” of a bone that would have led to a side toe on a modern horse’s foot, says Brianna McHorse, a paleontologist at Harvard University.
To retrace the evolution of horse toes, McHorse and colleagues used CT scans to capture the internal structure of fossilized foot bones from 12 kinds of extinct horses. They also analyzed the feet of the closely related Central American tapir, which are oddly toed like Hyracotherium. A computer simulation then let researchers estimate how the bones would respond to the stresses of locomotion for each species, such as jumping over a hurdle or accelerating into a gallop. Then the scientists compared what happened when they applied the animal’s full body weight to just to the central toe, or spread it among multiple toes.
Side toes significantly increased the early horses’ ability to bear their own weight, the team found — the central toe of early horses would have fractured without help from other toes. As the era of modern horses approached and side toes dropped away, however, the middle toe bone grew thicker and hollower. These changes made the single-toed foot nearly as sturdy — resistant to bending and compression — as multiple toes. As horses’ legs grew longer, the extra toes at the end of the limb would have been “like wearing weights around your ankles,” McHorse says. Shedding those toes could have helped early horses save energy, allowing them to travel farther and faster, she says. The study can’t determine what changes came first — whether bulking up the middle toe drove the loss of side toes, or the loss of side toes caused changes in the middle toe.
Horses aren’t the only animals to have lost toes or fingers to the evolutionary chopping block. “Digits have been lost many times in animals that walk, run, hop and fly,” says Kim Cooper, a biologist at the University of California, San Diego. Modeling how forces of locomotion act on an animal’s bones — living or extinct — could help scientists understand why.
The brain chemical missing in Parkinson’s disease may have a hand in its own death. Dopamine, the neurotransmitter that helps keep body movements fluid, can kick off a toxic chain reaction that ultimately kills the nerve cells that make it, a new study suggests.
By studying lab dishes of human nerve cells, or neurons, derived from Parkinson’s patients, researchers found that a harmful form of dopamine can inflict damage on cells in multiple ways. The result, published online September 7 in Science, “brings multiple pieces of the puzzle together,” says neuroscientist Teresa Hastings of the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine. The finding also hints at a potential treatment for the estimated 10 million people worldwide with Parkinson’s: Less cellular damage occurred when some of the neurons were treated early on with antioxidants, molecules that can scoop up harmful chemicals inside cells.
Study coauthor Dimitri Krainc, a neurologist and neuroscientist at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine in Chicago, and colleagues took skin biopsies from healthy people and people with one of two types of Parkinson’s disease, inherited or spontaneously arising. The researchers then coaxed these skin cells into becoming dopamine-producing neurons. These cells were similar to those found in the substantia nigra, the movement-related region of the brain that degenerates in Parkinson’s. After neurons carrying a mutation that causes the inherited form of Parkinson’s had grown in a dish for 70 days, the researchers noticed some worrisome changes in the cells’ mitochondria. Levels of a harmful form of dopamine known as oxidized dopamine began rising in these energy-producing organelles, reaching high levels by day 150. Neurons derived from people with the more common, sporadic form of Parkinson’s showed a similar increase but later, beginning at day 150. Cells derived from healthy people didn’t accumulate oxidized dopamine. This dangerous form of dopamine seemed to kick off other types of cellular trouble. Defects in the cells’ lysosomes, cellular cleanup machines, soon followed. So did the accumulation of a protein called alpha-synuclein, which is known to play a big role in Parkinson’s disease. Those findings are “direct experimental evidence from human cells that the very chemical lost in Parkinson’s disease contributes to its own demise,” says analytical neurochemist Dominic Hare, of the Florey Institute of Neuroscience and Mental Health in Melbourne, Australia. Because these cells churn out dopamine, they are more susceptible to dopamine’s potential destructive forces, he says.
When researchers treated neurons carrying a mutation that causes inherited Parkinson’s with several different types of antioxidants, the damage was lessened. To work in people, antioxidants would need to cross the blood-brain barrier, a difficult task, and reach the mitochondria in the brain. And this would need to happen early, probably even before symptoms appear, Krainc says.
“Without this human model, we would not have been able to untangle the pathway,” Krainc says. In dishes of mouse neurons with Parkinson’s-related mutations, dopamine didn’t kick off the same toxic cascade, a difference that might be due to human neurons containing more dopamine than mice neurons. Dopamine-producing neurons in mice and people “have some very fundamental differences,” Krainc says. And those differences might help explain why discoveries in mice haven’t translated to treatments for people with Parkinson’s, he says.
Over the past few decades, scientists have been accumulating evidence that oxidized dopamine can contribute to Parkinson’s disease, Hastings says. Given that knowledge, the new results are expected, she says, but still welcome confirmation of the idea.
These toxic cellular events occurred in lab dishes, not actual brains. “Cell cultures aren’t the perfect re-creation of what’s going on in the human brain,” Hare cautions. But these types of experiments are “the next best thing for monitoring the chemical changes” in these neurons, he says.
To quickly unfurl and refold their wings, earwigs stretch the rules of origami.
Yes, those garden pests that scurry out from under overturned flowerpots can also fly. Because earwigs spend most of their time underground and only occasionally take to the air, they pack their wings into packages with a surface area more than 10 times smaller than when unfurled, using an origami-like series of folds. Springy wing joints let the insects bypass some of the mathematical constraints that normally limit the way a rigid two-dimensional material can be folded, researchers report March 23 in Science. Earwig wings’ folding pattern should be impossible according to mathematical equations that predict the three-dimensional designs that can be made by folding a two-dimensional material like a sheet of paper, says study coauthor Andres Arrieta, a mechanical engineer at Purdue University in West Lafayette, Ind.
Origami theory assumes that the material being folded is perfectly rigid. But the joints of earwigs’ wings — where creases form — are rich in a rubbery polymer called resilin. This little bit of stretch lets earwig wings do what a regular origami structure can’t: lock into two different conformations, open or folded up, and transition between the two. It’s an example of a bistable structure — something like the slap bracelets, popular in the 1980s and 1990s, which switch from a flat conformation to a curved one when whacked against a wrist, says study coauthor André Studart, a materials scientist at ETH Zürich. When locked open, earwig wings store energy in the springy resilin joints. When that strain is released, the wings rapidly crumple back to their folded position. Such constructions can inform robotics design. Inspired by the wings, the researchers created a prototype gripper. Its rigid pieces are held together by rubbery, strategically placed joints. Within fractions of a second, the structure can snap from its mostly flat conformation to one that can grip a small object and hold it without constant external force. While other materials scientists have pushed the limits of origami by making flat pieces bendable, this design instead stretches the hinges, says Jesse Silverberg, a physicist at Harvard University who wasn’t part of the study. Such a design has been observed and discussed, but never before been implemented in this way.
The earwig “is a beautiful example of how nature uses slight extensions to ideal mathematical origami to do something amazing,” says Itai Cohen, a physicist at Cornell University who wasn’t part of the study.
Perhaps that’s a slight redemption for the much-maligned insect.
The Chugach people of southern Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula have picked berries for generations. Tart blueberries and sweet, raspberry-like salmonberries — an Alaska favorite — are baked into pies and boiled into jams. But in the summer of 2009, the bushes stayed brown and the berries never came.
For three more years, harvests failed. “It hit the communities very hard,” says Nathan Lojewski, the forestry manager for Chugachmiut, a nonprofit tribal consortium for seven villages in the Chugach region. The berry bushes had been ravaged by caterpillars of geometrid moths — the Bruce spanworm (Operophtera bruceata) and the autumnal moth (Epirrita autumnata). The insects had laid their eggs in the fall, and as soon as the leaf buds began growing in the spring, the eggs hatched and the inchworms nibbled the stalks bare.
Chugach elders had no traditional knowledge of an outbreak on this scale in the region, even though the insects were known in Alaska. “These berries were incredibly important. There would have been a story, something in the oral history,” Lojewski says. “As far as the tribe was concerned, this had not happened before.”
At the peak of the multiyear outbreak, the caterpillars climbed from the berry bushes into trees. The pests munched through foliage from Port Graham, at the tip of the Kenai Peninsula, to Wasilla, north of Anchorage, about 300 kilometers away. In summer, thick brown-gray layers of denuded willows, alders and birches lined the mountainsides above stretches of Sitka spruce. Two summers ago, almost a decade after the first infestation, the moths returned. “We got a few berries, but not as many as we used to,” says Chugach elder Ephim Moonin Sr., whose house in the village of Nanwalek is flanked by tall salmonberry bushes. “Last year, again, there were hardly any berries.” For more than 35 years, satellites circling the Arctic have detected a “greening” trend in Earth’s northernmost landscapes. Scientists have attributed this verdant flush to more vigorous plant growth and a longer growing season, propelled by higher temperatures that come with climate change. But recently, satellites have been picking up a decline in tundra greenness in some parts of the Arctic. Those areas appear to be “browning.” Like the salmonberry harvesters on the Kenai Peninsula, ecologists working on the ground have witnessed browning up close at field sites across the circumpolar Arctic, from Alaska to Greenland to northern Norway and Sweden. Yet the bushes bereft of berries and the tinder-dry heaths (low-growing shrubland) haven’t always been picked up by the satellites. The low-resolution sensors may have averaged out the mix of dead and living vegetation and failed to detect the browning.
Scientists are left to wonder what is and isn’t being detected, and they’re concerned about the potential impact of not knowing the extent of the browning. If it becomes widespread, Arctic browning could have far-reaching consequences for people and wildlife, affecting habitat and atmospheric carbon uptake and boosting wildfire risk.
Growing greenbelt The Arctic is warming two to three times as fast as the rest of the planet, with most of the temperature increase occurring in the winter. Alaska, for example, has warmed 2 degrees Celsius since 1949, and winters in some parts of the state, including southcentral Alaska and the Arctic interior, are on average 5 degrees C warmer.
An early effect of the warmer climate was a greener Arctic. More than 20 years ago, researchers used data from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s weather satellites to assess a decade of northern plant growth after a century of warming. The team compared different wavelengths of light — red and near-infrared — reflecting off vegetation to calculate the NDVI, the normalized difference vegetation index. Higher NDVI values indicate a greener, more productive landscape. In a single decade — from 1981, when the first satellite was launched, to 1991 — the northern high latitudes had become about 8 percent greener, the researchers reported in 1997 in Nature.
The Arctic ecosystem, once constrained by cool conditions, was stretching beyond its limits. In 1999 and 2000, researchers cataloged the extent and types of vegetation change in parts of northern Alaska using archival photographs taken during oil exploration flyovers between 1948 and 1950. In new images of the same locations, such as the Kugururok River in the Noatak National Preserve, low-lying tundra plants that once grew along the riverside terraces had been replaced by stands of white spruce and green alder shrubs. At some of the study’s 66 locations, shrub-dominated vegetation had doubled its coverage from 10 to 20 percent. Not all areas showed a rise in shrub abundance, but none showed any decrease.
In 2003, Howard Epstein, a terrestrial ecologist at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, and colleagues looked to the satellite record, which now held another decade of data. Focusing on Alaska’s North Slope, which lies just beyond the crown of the Brooks Range and extends to the Beaufort Sea, the researchers found that the highest NDVI values, or “peak greenness,” during the growing season had increased nearly 17 percent between 1981 and 2001, in line with the warming trend. Earth-observing satellites have been monitoring the Arctic tundra for almost four decades. In that time, the North Slope, the Canadian low Arctic tundra and eastern Siberia have become especially green, with thicker and taller tundra vegetation and shrubs expanding northward. “If you look at the North Slope of Alaska, if you look at the overall trend, it’s greening like nobody’s business,” says Uma Bhatt, an atmospheric scientist at the University of Alaska Fairbanks.
Yet parts of the Arctic, including the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta of western Alaska, the Canadian Arctic Archipelago (the islands north of the mainland that give Canada its pointed tip) and the northwestern Siberian tundra, show extensive browning over the length of the satellite record, from the early 1980s to 2016. “It could just be a reduction in green vegetation. It doesn’t necessarily mean the widespread death of plants,” Epstein says. Scientists don’t yet know why plant growth there has slowed or reversed — or whether the satellite signal is in some way misleading.
“All the models indicated for a long time that we would expect greening with warmer temperatures and higher productivity in the tundra, so long as it wasn’t limited in some other way, like [by lower] moisture,” says Scott Goetz, an ecologist and remote-sensing specialist at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. He is also the science team lead for ABoVE, NASA’s Arctic-Boreal Vulnerability Experiment, which is tracking ecosystem changes in Alaska and western Canada. “Many of us were quite surprised … that the Arctic was suddenly browning. It’s something we need to resolve.”
Freeze-dried tundra While global warming has propelled widespread trends in tundra greening, extreme winter weather can spur local browning events. In recent years, in some parts of the Arctic, extraordinary warm winter weather, sometimes paired with rainfall, has put tundra vegetation under enormous stress and caused plants to lose freeze resistance, dry up or die — and turn brown.
Gareth Phoenix, a terrestrial ecologist at the University of Sheffield in England, recalls his shock at seeing a series of midwinter timelapse photos taken in 2001 at a research site outside the town of Abisko in northern Sweden. In the space of a couple of days, the temperature shot up from −16° C to 6° C, melting the tundra’s snow cover. “As an ecologist, you’re thinking, ‘Whoa! Those plants would usually be nicely insulated under the snow,’ ” he says. “Suddenly, they’re being exposed because all the snow has melted. What are the consequences of that?”
Arctic plants survive frigid winters thanks to that blanket of snow and physiological changes, known as freeze resistance, that allow plants to freeze without damage. But once the plants awaken in response to physical cues of spring — warmer weather, longer days — and experience bud burst, they lose that ability to withstand frigid conditions. That’s fine if spring has truly arrived. But if it’s just a winter heat wave and the warm air mass moves on, the plants become vulnerable as temperatures return to seasonal norms. When temporary warm air covers thousands of square kilometers at once, plant damage occurs over large areas. “These landscapes can look like someone’s gone through with a flamethrower,” Phoenix says. “It’s quite depressing. You’re there in the middle of summer, and everything’s just brown.”Jarle Bjerke, a vegetation ecologist at the Norwegian Institute for Nature Research in Tromsø, saw browning across northern Norway and Sweden in 2008. The landscape — covered in mats of crowberry, an evergreen shrub with bright green sausagelike needles — was instead shades of brown, red-brown and grayish brown. “We saw it everywhere we went, from the mountaintops to the coastal heaths,” Bjerke says. Bjerke, Phoenix and other researchers continue to find brown vegetation in the wake of winter warming events. Long periods of mild winter weather have rolled over the Svalbard archipelago, the cluster of islands in the Arctic Ocean between Norway and the North Pole, in the last decade. The snow melted or blew away, exposing the ground-hugging plants. Some became encrusted in ice following a once-unheard-of midwinter rainfall. In 2015, the Arctic bell heather, whose small white flowers brighten Arctic ridges and heaths, were brown that summer, gray the next and then the leaves fell off. “It’s not new that plants can die during mild winters,” Bjerke says. “The new thing is that it is now happening several winters in a row.”
Insect invasion The weather needn’t always be extreme to harm plants in the Arctic. With warmer winters and summers, leaf-eating insects have thrived, defoliating bushes and trees beyond the insects’ usual range. “They’re very visual events,” says Rachael Treharne, an Arctic ecologist who completed her Ph.D. at the University of Sheffield and now works at ClimateCare, a company that helps organizations reduce their climate impact. She remembers being in the middle of an autumnal moth outbreak in northern Sweden one summer. “There were caterpillars crawling all over the plants — and us. We’d wake up with them in our beds.”
In northernmost Norway, Sweden and Finland in the mid-2000s, successive bursts of geometrid moths defoliated 10,000 square kilometers of mountain birch forest — an area roughly the size of Puerto Rico. The outbreak was one of Europe’s most abrupt and large-scale ecosystem disturbances linked to climate change, says Jane Jepsen, an Arctic ecologist at the Norwegian Institute for Nature Research. “These moth species benefit from a milder winter, spring and summer climate,” Jepsen says. Moth eggs usually die at around −30° C, but warmer winters have allowed more eggs of the native autumnal moth to survive. With warmer springs, the eggs hatch earlier in the year and keep up with the bud burst of the mountain birch trees. Another species — the winter moth (O. brumata), found in southern Norway, Sweden and Finland — expanded northward during the outbreak. The spring and summer warmth favored the larvae, which ate more and grew larger, and the resulting hardier female moths laid more eggs in the fall.
While forests that die off can grow back over several decades, some of these mountain birches may have been hammered too hard, Jepsen says. In some places, the forest has given way to heathland. Ecological transitions like this could be long-lasting or even permanent, she says.
Smoldering lands Once rare, wildfires may be one of the north’s main causes of browning. As grasses, shrubs and trees across the region dry up, they are being set aflame with increasing frequency, with fires covering larger areas and leaving behind dark scars. For example, in early 2014 in the Norwegian coastal municipality of Flatanger, sparks from a power line ignited the dry tundra heath, destroying more than 100 wooden buildings in several coastal hamlets.
Sparsely populated places, where lightning is the primary cause of wildfires, are also seeing an uptick in wildfires. Scientists say lightning strikes are becoming more frequent as the planet warms. The number of lightning-sparked fires has risen 2 to 5 percent per year in Canada’s Northwest Territories and Alaska over the last four decades, earth system scientist Sander Veraverbeke of Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam and his colleagues reported in 2017 in Nature Climate Change.
In 2014, the Northwest Territories had 385 fires, which burned 34,000 square kilometers. The next year, 766 fires torched 20,600 square kilometers of the Alaskan interior — accounting for about half the total area burned in the entire United States in 2015.
In the last two years, wildfires sent plumes of smoke aloft in western Greenland (SN: 3/17/18, p. 20) and in the northern reaches of Sweden, Norway and Russia, places where wildfires are uncommon. Wildfire activity within a 30-year period could quadruple in Alaska by 2100, says a 2017 report in Ecography. Veraverbeke expects to see “more fires in the Arctic in the future.”
The loss of wide swaths of plants could have wide-ranging local effects. “These plants are the foundation of the terrestrial Arctic food webs,” says Isla Myers-Smith, a global change ecologist at the University of Edinburgh. The shriveled landscapes can leave rock ptarmigan, for example, which rely heavily on plants, without enough food to eat in the spring. The birds’ predators, such as the arctic fox, may feel the loss the following year.
The effects of browning may be felt beyond the Arctic, which holds about half of the planet’s terrestrial carbon. The boost in tundra greening allows the region to store, or “sink,” more carbon during the growing season. But carbon uptake may slow if browning events continue, as expected in some regions.
Treharne, Phoenix and colleagues reported in February in Global Change Biology that on the Lofoten Islands in northern Norway, extreme winter conditions cut in half the heathlands’ ability to trap carbon dioxide from the atmosphere during the growing season.
Yet there’s still some uncertainty about how these browned tundra ecosystems might change in the long-term. As the land darkens, the surface absorbs more heat and warms up, threatening to thaw the underlying permafrost and accelerate the release of methane and carbon dioxide. Some areas might switch from being carbon sinks to carbon sources, Phoenix warns.
On the other hand, other plant species — with more or less capacity to take up carbon — could move in. “I’m still of the view that [these areas] will go through these short-term events and continue on their trajectory of greater productivity,” Goetz says.
A better view The phenomena that cause browning events — extreme winter warming, insect outbreaks, wildfires — are on the rise. But browning events are tough to study, especially in winter, because they’re unpredictable and often occur in hard-to-reach areas. Ecologists working on the ground would like the satellite images and the NDVI maps to point to areas with unusual vegetation growth — increasing or decreasing. But many of the browning events witnessed by researchers on the ground have not been picked up by the older, lower-resolution satellite sensors, which scientists still use. Those sensors oversimplify what’s on the ground: One pixel covers an area 8 kilometers by 8 kilometers. “The complexity that’s contained within a pixel size that big is pretty huge,” Myers-Smith says. “You have mountains, or lakes, or different types of tundra vegetation, all within that one pixel.” At a couple of recent workshops on Arctic browning, remote-sensing experts and ecologists tried to tackle the problem. “We’ve been talking about how to bring the two scales together,” Bhatt says. New sensors, more frequent snapshots, better data access and more computing power could help scientists zero in on the extent and severity of browning in the Arctic.
Researchers have begun using Google Earth Engine’s massive collection of satellite data, including Landsat images at a much better resolution of 30 meters by 30 meters per pixel. Improved computational capabilities also enable scientists to explore vegetation change close up. The European Space Agency’s recently launched Sentinel Earth-observing satellites can monitor vegetation growth with a pixel size of 10 meters by 10 meters. Says Myers-Smith: “That’s starting to get to a scale that an ecologist can grapple with.”
In other star systems, some moons could escape their planets and start orbiting their stars instead, new simulations suggest. Scientists have dubbed such liberated worlds “ploonets,” and say that current telescopes may be able to find the wayward objects.
Astronomers think that exomoons — moons orbiting planets that orbit stars other than the sun — should be common, but efforts to find them have turned up empty so far (SN Online: 4/30/19). Astrophysicist Mario Sucerquia of the University of Antioquia in Medellín, Colombia and colleagues simulated what would happen to those moons if they orbited hot Jupiters, gas giants that lie scorchingly close to their stars (SN: 7/8/17, p. 4). Many astronomers think that hot Jupiters weren’t born so close, but instead migrated toward their star from a more distant orbit. As the gas giant migrates, the combined gravitational forces of the planet and the star would inject extra energy into the moon’s orbit, pushing the moon farther and farther from its planet until eventually it escapes, the researchers report June 27 at arXiv.org.
“This process should happen in every planetary system composed of a giant planet in a very close-in orbit,” Sucerquia says. “So ploonets should be very frequent.”
Some ploonets may be indistinguishable from ordinary planets. Others, whose orbits keep them close to their planet, could reveal their presence by changing the timing of when their neighbor planet crosses, or transits, in front of the star. The ploonet should stay close enough to the planet that its gravity can speed or slow the planet’s transit times. Those deviations should be detectable by combining data from planet-hunting telescopes like NASA’s TESS or the now-defunct Kepler, Sucerquia says. Ploonethood may be a relatively short-lived phenomenon, though, making the worlds more difficult to spot. About half of the ploonets in the researchers’ simulations crashed into either their planet or star within about half a million years. And half of the remaining survivors crashed within a million years.
Even with few visible survivors, ploonets could help explain some bizarre exoplanetary features. Moon debris from such crashes could lead to giant ring systems around planets, like the 37 rings that encircle exoplanet J1407b, the team says.
Or, if the ploonet had an icy surface or an atmosphere before moving close to its star, the star’s heat would evaporate it, giving the ploonet a tail like a comet’s. Evaporating ploonets zipping by with a long light-blocking tail could explain strangely flickering stars like Tabby’s star, Sucerquia says (SN: 12/22/18, p. 9).
“Those structures [rings and flickers] have been discovered, have been observed,” Sucerquia says. “We just propose a natural mechanism to explain [them].”
While the solar system doesn’t have any hot Jupiters, ploonethood may be possible here, too. Earth’s moon is moving slowly away from the Earth, at a rate of about 4 centimeters per year. When it eventually breaks free, “the moon is a potential ploonet,” Sucerquia says — although that won’t happen for about 5 billion years.
The study is a good first step for thinking about what would happen to exomoons in real planetary systems, says planetary astrophysicist Natalie Hinkel of the Southwest Research Institute in San Antonio, who wasn’t involved in the new work. “Nobody’s looked at the problem quite like this,” she says. “It adds to the layers of how complex these systems are.”
Plus, ploonet is “a wonderful name,” Hinkel says. “Normally I sort of eye-roll at these made-up names, but this one is a keeper.”
