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Ecologists Struggle to Get a Grip on ‘Keystone Species’

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Wednesday, April 24, 2024

ecologyEcologists Struggle to Get a Grip on ‘Keystone Species’By Lesley Evans OgdenApril 24, 2024More than 50 years after Bob Paine’s experiment with starfish, hundreds of species have been pronounced “keystones” in their ecosystems. Has the powerful metaphor lost its mathematical meaning?In the late 1960s, Bob Paine described the Pisaster sea star as a “keystone species” in Pacific Northwest tide pools. The concept has since taken on a life of its own. Julian Nieman/Alamy Stock Photo IntroductionAnne Salomon’s first week as a graduate student in 2001 was not what she had anticipated. While other new students headed to introductory lectures, Salomon was whisked away by van and then motorboat to Tatoosh Island, which sits just offshore of the northwestern tip of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. Among the tide pools of this isolated island, Salomon peered at the web of life on the rocks: ochre sea stars, barnacles, mussels, snails and assorted algae that took forms reminiscent of lettuce, moss and bubble wrap. A visit to this wave-pummeled outcrop was a rite of passage for lab associates of Bob Paine. Decades earlier, Paine, armed with a crowbar, had first pried purple Pisaster starfish — the ecosystem’s top predator — from tide pools in nearby Makah Bay and flung them into the sea so he could learn what forces organized the community of rock-clinging creatures. The results would profoundly influence ecology, conservation and the public perception of nature. After three years without starfish, the 15 species originally present in the pools declined to eight. After 10 years, a mussel monoculture dominated the shore. The results of Paine’s experiment, published in The American Naturalist in 1966, showed that a single species can have an outsize influence on an ecological community. When Paine shared his findings with the paleoecologist and conservationist Estella Leopold, she suggested that a powerful concept deserved an evocative name. In a subsequent paper, he designated the Pisaster starfish a “keystone species,” referring to an architectural keystone: the wedge-shaped stone atop an arch that, once inserted, prevents the structure from collapsing. “Bob had a fairly poetic, narrative mind,” said Mary Power, an emeritus professor at the University of California, Berkeley who studied under Paine. (Paine died in 2016.) Salomon, Power and other Paine students dedicated their graduate work to refining the keystone concept and defining a species’ ecological “keystone-ness” mathematically. But like starfish glomming onto rocks, the metaphor took hold in the scientific and public imagination. Many ecologists and conservationists lost sight of the original significance Paine had given to the term and began branding seemingly every important species a keystone. Indeed, an analysis published last year found that over 200 species have been marked as keystones. Usage of the label has become so broad that some ecologists fear that it has lost all meaning. Bob Paine stands in the intertidal zone of the Pacific Northwest, where he studied how purple starfish structured tide pool communities. In one of his final papers, Paine suggested that humans are a “hyperkeystone” species that exerts ecological influence over all other keystones. Kevin Schafer/Alamy IntroductionEcologists today are working to refine what “keystone species” means and advocate for a more discerning application. With a more rigorous identification of keystone species, policymakers can better identify and safeguard species that have disproportionate impacts on ecosystems, they argue. And new applications in microbial medicine could help biologists more precisely quantify the influence of a keystone species, which could benefit not just ecosystems but human health too. Species Essentiality In the decades before Paine conducted his now-famous experiment, ecologists had converged on the theory that species sharing a habitat were connected in a pyramidal network of who eats whom. At the top were rare predators, which ate minor predators or herbivores, which themselves consumed abundant “producers” like plants or algae, which were nourished directly by sunlight and photosynthesis. The web’s stability, ecologists thought, was controlled from the bottom up by the availability of producers. But by the 1960s, that thinking was changing. Could communities also be strongly influenced by predators? Maybe vegetation dominated ecosystems not because producers limited other species, but because predators prevented herbivores from overgrazing. Paine’s experiment was one of the first to convincingly demonstrate such top-down control in real time. Then the ecologist James Estes documented how sea otters in California’s offshore kelp forests played a keystone role akin to that of starfish in Paine’s tide pools. In a 1974 paper published in Science, he described how the sea otter, a single predatory species, structured the diversity of the kelp-forest community. Sea otters kept herbivorous sea urchins in check; without the predators, urchins overgrazed and wiped out the entire suite of kelp-dependent species. These studies and the keystone idea came to prominence at the same moment that America’s environmental conscience was emerging. In 1973, Congress passed the Endangered Species Act, which took a species-focused approach to conserving wildlife. The idea that restoring the population of a single species — a keystone, perhaps — could ensure the biodiversity of an ecological community aligned with this new legal framework. As a result, the keystone-species concept took on a life of its own. Scientists and conservationists increasingly applied the term to any species considered important, mischaracterizing Paine’s original idea. Top predators like wolves and sharks whose absence had drastic trickle-down impacts were demonstrably keystones. So were habitat-altering ecosystem engineers like beavers, woodpeckers, bison and prairie dogs. But before long there were also scientific references to keystone herbivores, keystone plants, keystone pollinators, even keystone pathogens. Groups of species considered important were labeled “keystone guilds.” As the term’s mainstream popularity took off, ecologists quietly worked on a mathematical definition of relationships between the species nodes in an ecological network. On Tatoosh Island, Paine’s students continued to examine tide pools, adding or deleting species to see which ones mattered most to the community. Taking careful measurements over many years, they quantified the relative capacity of each grazer to influence baby kelp’s ability to take root — a measurement Paine called “per capita interaction strength,” and which later became known as “keystone-ness.” If an organism had high keystone-ness, each individual had a disproportionately large effect on its ecosystem. However, most people weren’t following this new ecological math. By the 1990s, some ecologists had become alarmed that overuse of “keystone species” was transforming and diminishing the concept’s meaning. It was time to hash it out. In December 1994, a small conference of ecologists — some self-identifying as “keystone cops” — was held in Hilo, Hawai‘i, to develop a consensus definition. Following Paine and Power’s math, they agreed that “a keystone species is a species whose impacts on its community or ecosystem are large, and much larger than would be expected from its abundance.” The ecologist Anne Salomon, who became  “father-daughter close” with Paine as academic collaborators, studied intertidal communities in Alaska and demonstrated that chiton mollusks are a keystone species there. Brandy Yanchyk IntroductionUnder this definition, salmon are not a keystone species even though they are ecologically important. “If you take one individual salmon out of a river, it’s not going to have a huge effect,” Salomon said. In contrast, if you take one sea star out of a chunk of an intertidal zone, “it’s going to have a big effect.” The Hilo convention was a worthy effort. But it didn’t stop researchers from naming new keystones in the decades that followed. “The problem is that there are no standards to which researchers are held in designating their study organism as a keystone,” said Bruce Menge, a community ecologist at Oregon State University and another former Paine graduate student. “Anyone is free to suggest, argue or speculate that their species is a keystone.” And indeed, a new analysis recently revealed just how far the concept has stretched. We’re All Keystones Here In 2021, Ishana Shukla was a graduate student at the University of Victoria looking to analyze traits of keystone species. “I quite naïvely thought you could just Google a list of keystone species and a lovely list would come up,” she said. When she couldn’t find one, she thought she’d create her own. She mined more than 50 years of published data, encompassing 157 studies, and identified 230 species considered keystones. She saw that as ecological knowledge advanced, “the function of the keystone started to expand wider and wider.” Using an analytical technique that organizes items into related clusters, she and her co-authors found five types of keystone species: large vertebrate carnivores like sharks and wolves; invertebrate munchers like the long-spined sea urchin and cabbage butterfly; middle-of-the-pack species that are both predatory and preyed on, such as bream and bullhead fish; invertebrates that perform vital roles in food webs like northern shrimp and honeybees; and small mammals that modify habitats like the ice rat and black-tailed prairie dog. “We’ve identified a whole swath of keystones that aren’t necessarily getting conservation action or conservation attention, but we can see that they are massively important to our ecosystem,” said Shukla, now a doctoral student at the University of California, Davis. “The most important message from this paper was that keystone species are not all the same,” said Diane Srivastava, a community ecologist at the University of British Columbia who, while working in Costa Rica, identified damselfly larvae as keystone species in water pooled inside bromeliad leaves. “The public perception of a keystone species is that they are the large terrestrial mammals … but actually, most of them are not. Most keystone species are aquatic. Many of them are not predators. There’s a good number of invertebrates.” However, the paper didn’t try to evaluate whether these species were true mathematical keystones or not. Instead, Menge said, Shukla and her collaborators merely summarized how the term has been used and misused. In that way the research emphasized, rather than complicated, “continued liberal use of the term ‘keystone species’ to refer to any strong interactor that has indirect consequences,” he said. None of Shukla’s categories included microbes. Indeed, Paine and others were not thinking about microorganisms at all in their experiments. And yet quantifying keystone-ness has become the subject of a novel line of research in medical microbiology. A new analysis showed the diversity of organisms that ecologists have named ‘keystones’ in their ecosystems. Top to bottom: Large, animal-eating vertebrates, such as the sea otter; invertebrates that shape their environments, such as the honey bee; midsize vertebrates that consume plant-eaters, such as bullhead fish; and smaller, plant-eating invertebrates, such as the cabbage butterfly. Top to bottom: GomezDavid/iStock; Dustin Humes; Andyworks/iStock; Wirestock/iStock A new analysis showed the diversity of organisms that ecologists have named ‘keystones’ in their ecosystems. Clockwise from upper left: Large, animal-eating vertebrates, such as the sea otter; invertebrates that shape their environments, such as the honey bee; midsize vertebrates that consume plant-eaters, such as bullhead fish; and smaller, plant-eating invertebrates, such as the cabbage butterfly. Clockwise from top left: GomezDavid/iStock; Dustin Humes; Andyworks/iStock; Wirestock/iStock IntroductionThe Keystone in Your Gut Microbiomes involve hundreds to thousands of microbial species interacting in a complex ecosystem. So why shouldn’t they have keystone species too? “Presumably, if there’s a keystone species, then the system might be quite fragile,” said Yang-Yu Liu, who studies the microbiome at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and Harvard Medical School. For example, if antibiotics killed off your gut’s keystone microbe, the microbial ecosystem might collapse and cause health complications. “That’s why I’m interested in identifying keystone species from microbial communities,” he said. It’s not technically or ethically possible to remove species in human microbiomes one by one, the way you might pluck starfish off rocks. Instead, Liu and his colleagues turned to AI in a paper published in November in Nature Ecology & Evolution. Using data from gut, oral, soil and coral microbiome databases, they trained a deep learning model to rank the importance of species in microbial communities by looking at what happened to the community after each species was removed from its model microbiome — essentially quantifying the keystone-ness of each microbe. In Liu’s analysis, “we didn’t find any species with very large keystone-ness,” he said. The highest calculated value was around 0.2. With their definition of keystone-ness ranging between zero and 1, “0.2 is really not a big number,” he said. That doesn’t mean there aren’t keystones in microbial communities. Liu believes that these communities have very high levels of functional redundancy — meaning that multiple species may perform similar ecological roles and could therefore be interchangeable. And some species may have high keystone-ness not in an absolute sense but relative to a given person’s microbiome, which is highly personalized. “Those species are quite important in the sense that if you remove them, the system might change a lot,” Liu said. Yang-Yu Liu and postdocs Zheng Sun and Xu-Wen Wang recently used AI to characterize keystone species in gut, oral, soil and coral microbiomes. “If there’s a keystone species, then the system might be quite fragile,” Liu said. Xiaole Yin IntroductionIn that sense, in microbial communities, the keystone species concept is context-dependent. A keystone in one microbiome might not be a keystone in another. “I feel that this aspect has not been highly appreciated by ecologists,” Liu said. Ecologists are now grappling with this contextual nature of keystone species beyond microbes and pondering whether, and how, the concept matters amid the reality of biodiversity loss. Reassessing the Metaphor Menge has dedicated his career to understanding ecological community structure, continuing the emphasis on rocky shores from his graduate work with Paine. He’s found that Paine’s iconic purple star isn’t a keystone species everywhere. It has stronger keystone-ness in some places, for example in tide pools more intensely beaten by waves. “In fact, in more sheltered places, the sea star isn’t really much of a keystone at all,” he said. Paine came to accept this too. Up in Alaska, where the mussel preferred by more southern purple stars is absent, the predator is “just another sea star,” Power recalled Paine saying. The fact that keystone species are context-dependent and that they vary in space and time is “missed in short-term studies,” Menge said. Still, Srivastava isn’t ready to discard the concept. While the focus on keystones and single species may have distracted policymakers and conservationists from more holistic approaches to conservation, protecting and restoring a single species can sometimes benefit many other species in an ecosystem. “It doesn’t mean we rush to save keystone species and ignore the diversity of the system as a whole,” she said. Srivastava also emphasized that keystones are not the only way systems are stabilized. “Ecologists now think that some of the most important interactions in terms of stability are actually relatively weak interactions,” she said. “If you have a high number of species that are weakly interacting, it’s kind of like having a lot of tent pegs tying down your tent in a windstorm. It dissipates some of the perturbations.” Menge largely agrees. Amid a global loss of species, the main focus should be protecting habitats and biodiversity, not individual species, he said. “If those two things were done in enough places, then I’m not sure that the keystone-species idea is all that critical.” Maybe one keystone matters more than the rest. In one of Paine’s final papers, published in 2016 on the day of his death, he and ecologist Boris Worm proposed that humans are a “hyperkeystone species” — one that exerts profound effects through exploitation of other keystones. Humans can’t be removed from the system like starfish to quantify our impact. But we can learn how to reduce our keystone-ness through effective conservation practice and policy, Salomon said. “We also have the ability to learn to steward ourselves.” That’s one reason why ecologists continue to redefine and reconsider keystone species. The powerful symbol isn’t going anywhere, but with an improved definition, people could learn how to apply it better. Paine knew this. Salomon likes to share his words with her students: “You can’t manage out of ignorance. You have to know what species do, whom they eat, what role these prey species play. When you know that, you can make some intelligent decisions.”

More than 50 years after Bob Paine’s experiment with starfish, hundreds of species have been pronounced “keystones” in their ecosystems. Has the powerful metaphor lost its mathematical meaning? The post Ecologists Struggle to Get a Grip on ‘Keystone Species’ first appeared on Quanta Magazine

Ecologists Struggle to Get a Grip on ‘Keystone Species’

April 24, 2024

More than 50 years after Bob Paine’s experiment with starfish, hundreds of species have been pronounced “keystones” in their ecosystems. Has the powerful metaphor lost its mathematical meaning?
Purple and orange sea stars cling to exposed rocks.

In the late 1960s, Bob Paine described the Pisaster sea star as a “keystone species” in Pacific Northwest tide pools. The concept has since taken on a life of its own.

Julian Nieman/Alamy Stock Photo

Introduction

Anne Salomon’s first week as a graduate student in 2001 was not what she had anticipated. While other new students headed to introductory lectures, Salomon was whisked away by van and then motorboat to Tatoosh Island, which sits just offshore of the northwestern tip of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. Among the tide pools of this isolated island, Salomon peered at the web of life on the rocks: ochre sea stars, barnacles, mussels, snails and assorted algae that took forms reminiscent of lettuce, moss and bubble wrap.

A visit to this wave-pummeled outcrop was a rite of passage for lab associates of Bob Paine. Decades earlier, Paine, armed with a crowbar, had first pried purple Pisaster starfish — the ecosystem’s top predator — from tide pools in nearby Makah Bay and flung them into the sea so he could learn what forces organized the community of rock-clinging creatures. The results would profoundly influence ecology, conservation and the public perception of nature. After three years without starfish, the 15 species originally present in the pools declined to eight. After 10 years, a mussel monoculture dominated the shore.

The results of Paine’s experiment, published in The American Naturalist in 1966, showed that a single species can have an outsize influence on an ecological community. When Paine shared his findings with the paleoecologist and conservationist Estella Leopold, she suggested that a powerful concept deserved an evocative name. In a subsequent paper, he designated the Pisaster starfish a “keystone species,” referring to an architectural keystone: the wedge-shaped stone atop an arch that, once inserted, prevents the structure from collapsing. “Bob had a fairly poetic, narrative mind,” said Mary Power, an emeritus professor at the University of California, Berkeley who studied under Paine. (Paine died in 2016.)

Salomon, Power and other Paine students dedicated their graduate work to refining the keystone concept and defining a species’ ecological “keystone-ness” mathematically. But like starfish glomming onto rocks, the metaphor took hold in the scientific and public imagination. Many ecologists and conservationists lost sight of the original significance Paine had given to the term and began branding seemingly every important species a keystone. Indeed, an analysis published last year found that over 200 species have been marked as keystones. Usage of the label has become so broad that some ecologists fear that it has lost all meaning.

Bob Paine stands in the intertidal zone of the Pacific Northwest, where he studied how purple starfish structured tide pool communities. In one of his final papers, Paine suggested that humans are a “hyperkeystone” species that exerts ecological influence over all other keystones.

Kevin Schafer/Alamy

Introduction

Ecologists today are working to refine what “keystone species” means and advocate for a more discerning application. With a more rigorous identification of keystone species, policymakers can better identify and safeguard species that have disproportionate impacts on ecosystems, they argue. And new applications in microbial medicine could help biologists more precisely quantify the influence of a keystone species, which could benefit not just ecosystems but human health too.

Species Essentiality

In the decades before Paine conducted his now-famous experiment, ecologists had converged on the theory that species sharing a habitat were connected in a pyramidal network of who eats whom. At the top were rare predators, which ate minor predators or herbivores, which themselves consumed abundant “producers” like plants or algae, which were nourished directly by sunlight and photosynthesis. The web’s stability, ecologists thought, was controlled from the bottom up by the availability of producers.

But by the 1960s, that thinking was changing. Could communities also be strongly influenced by predators? Maybe vegetation dominated ecosystems not because producers limited other species, but because predators prevented herbivores from overgrazing. Paine’s experiment was one of the first to convincingly demonstrate such top-down control in real time.

Then the ecologist James Estes documented how sea otters in California’s offshore kelp forests played a keystone role akin to that of starfish in Paine’s tide pools. In a 1974 paper published in Science, he described how the sea otter, a single predatory species, structured the diversity of the kelp-forest community. Sea otters kept herbivorous sea urchins in check; without the predators, urchins overgrazed and wiped out the entire suite of kelp-dependent species.

These studies and the keystone idea came to prominence at the same moment that America’s environmental conscience was emerging. In 1973, Congress passed the Endangered Species Act, which took a species-focused approach to conserving wildlife. The idea that restoring the population of a single species — a keystone, perhaps — could ensure the biodiversity of an ecological community aligned with this new legal framework.

As a result, the keystone-species concept took on a life of its own. Scientists and conservationists increasingly applied the term to any species considered important, mischaracterizing Paine’s original idea. Top predators like wolves and sharks whose absence had drastic trickle-down impacts were demonstrably keystones. So were habitat-altering ecosystem engineers like beavers, woodpeckers, bison and prairie dogs. But before long there were also scientific references to keystone herbivores, keystone plants, keystone pollinators, even keystone pathogens. Groups of species considered important were labeled “keystone guilds.”

As the term’s mainstream popularity took off, ecologists quietly worked on a mathematical definition of relationships between the species nodes in an ecological network. On Tatoosh Island, Paine’s students continued to examine tide pools, adding or deleting species to see which ones mattered most to the community. Taking careful measurements over many years, they quantified the relative capacity of each grazer to influence baby kelp’s ability to take root — a measurement Paine called “per capita interaction strength,” and which later became known as “keystone-ness.” If an organism had high keystone-ness, each individual had a disproportionately large effect on its ecosystem.

However, most people weren’t following this new ecological math. By the 1990s, some ecologists had become alarmed that overuse of “keystone species” was transforming and diminishing the concept’s meaning. It was time to hash it out. In December 1994, a small conference of ecologists — some self-identifying as “keystone cops” — was held in Hilo, Hawai‘i, to develop a consensus definition. Following Paine and Power’s math, they agreed that “a keystone species is a species whose impacts on its community or ecosystem are large, and much larger than would be expected from its abundance.”

Portrait of Anne Salomon.

The ecologist Anne Salomon, who became  “father-daughter close” with Paine as academic collaborators, studied intertidal communities in Alaska and demonstrated that chiton mollusks are a keystone species there.

Brandy Yanchyk

Introduction

Under this definition, salmon are not a keystone species even though they are ecologically important. “If you take one individual salmon out of a river, it’s not going to have a huge effect,” Salomon said. In contrast, if you take one sea star out of a chunk of an intertidal zone, “it’s going to have a big effect.”

The Hilo convention was a worthy effort. But it didn’t stop researchers from naming new keystones in the decades that followed. “The problem is that there are no standards to which researchers are held in designating their study organism as a keystone,” said Bruce Menge, a community ecologist at Oregon State University and another former Paine graduate student. “Anyone is free to suggest, argue or speculate that their species is a keystone.” And indeed, a new analysis recently revealed just how far the concept has stretched.

We’re All Keystones Here

In 2021, Ishana Shukla was a graduate student at the University of Victoria looking to analyze traits of keystone species. “I quite naïvely thought you could just Google a list of keystone species and a lovely list would come up,” she said. When she couldn’t find one, she thought she’d create her own. She mined more than 50 years of published data, encompassing 157 studies, and identified 230 species considered keystones. She saw that as ecological knowledge advanced, “the function of the keystone started to expand wider and wider.”

Using an analytical technique that organizes items into related clusters, she and her co-authors found five types of keystone species: large vertebrate carnivores like sharks and wolves; invertebrate munchers like the long-spined sea urchin and cabbage butterfly; middle-of-the-pack species that are both predatory and preyed on, such as bream and bullhead fish; invertebrates that perform vital roles in food webs like northern shrimp and honeybees; and small mammals that modify habitats like the ice rat and black-tailed prairie dog.

“We’ve identified a whole swath of keystones that aren’t necessarily getting conservation action or conservation attention, but we can see that they are massively important to our ecosystem,” said Shukla, now a doctoral student at the University of California, Davis.

“The most important message from this paper was that keystone species are not all the same,” said Diane Srivastava, a community ecologist at the University of British Columbia who, while working in Costa Rica, identified damselfly larvae as keystone species in water pooled inside bromeliad leaves. “The public perception of a keystone species is that they are the large terrestrial mammals … but actually, most of them are not. Most keystone species are aquatic. Many of them are not predators. There’s a good number of invertebrates.”

However, the paper didn’t try to evaluate whether these species were true mathematical keystones or not. Instead, Menge said, Shukla and her collaborators merely summarized how the term has been used and misused. In that way the research emphasized, rather than complicated, “continued liberal use of the term ‘keystone species’ to refer to any strong interactor that has indirect consequences,” he said.

None of Shukla’s categories included microbes. Indeed, Paine and others were not thinking about microorganisms at all in their experiments. And yet quantifying keystone-ness has become the subject of a novel line of research in medical microbiology.

Clockwise from upper left: A sea otter floats on the water’s surface. A honey bee approaches a purple flower. A bullhead fish, sporting wide fins and a frowning face, rests on the pond bottom. A white cabbage butterfly alights on a white daisy.

A new analysis showed the diversity of organisms that ecologists have named ‘keystones’ in their ecosystems. Top to bottom: Large, animal-eating vertebrates, such as the sea otter; invertebrates that shape their environments, such as the honey bee; midsize vertebrates that consume plant-eaters, such as bullhead fish; and smaller, plant-eating invertebrates, such as the cabbage butterfly.

Top to bottom: GomezDavid/iStock; Dustin Humes; Andyworks/iStock; Wirestock/iStock

A new analysis showed the diversity of organisms that ecologists have named ‘keystones’ in their ecosystems. Clockwise from upper left: Large, animal-eating vertebrates, such as the sea otter; invertebrates that shape their environments, such as the honey bee; midsize vertebrates that consume plant-eaters, such as bullhead fish; and smaller, plant-eating invertebrates, such as the cabbage butterfly.

Clockwise from top left: GomezDavid/iStock; Dustin Humes; Andyworks/iStock; Wirestock/iStock

Introduction

The Keystone in Your Gut

Microbiomes involve hundreds to thousands of microbial species interacting in a complex ecosystem. So why shouldn’t they have keystone species too?

“Presumably, if there’s a keystone species, then the system might be quite fragile,” said Yang-Yu Liu, who studies the microbiome at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and Harvard Medical School. For example, if antibiotics killed off your gut’s keystone microbe, the microbial ecosystem might collapse and cause health complications. “That’s why I’m interested in identifying keystone species from microbial communities,” he said.

It’s not technically or ethically possible to remove species in human microbiomes one by one, the way you might pluck starfish off rocks. Instead, Liu and his colleagues turned to AI in a paper published in November in Nature Ecology & Evolution. Using data from gut, oral, soil and coral microbiome databases, they trained a deep learning model to rank the importance of species in microbial communities by looking at what happened to the community after each species was removed from its model microbiome — essentially quantifying the keystone-ness of each microbe.

In Liu’s analysis, “we didn’t find any species with very large keystone-ness,” he said. The highest calculated value was around 0.2. With their definition of keystone-ness ranging between zero and 1, “0.2 is really not a big number,” he said.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t keystones in microbial communities. Liu believes that these communities have very high levels of functional redundancy — meaning that multiple species may perform similar ecological roles and could therefore be interchangeable. And some species may have high keystone-ness not in an absolute sense but relative to a given person’s microbiome, which is highly personalized. “Those species are quite important in the sense that if you remove them, the system might change a lot,” Liu said.

Yang-Yu Liu, Zheng Sun and Xu-Wen Wang stand in front of a Harvard sign.

Yang-Yu Liu and postdocs Zheng Sun and Xu-Wen Wang recently used AI to characterize keystone species in gut, oral, soil and coral microbiomes. “If there’s a keystone species, then the system might be quite fragile,” Liu said.

Xiaole Yin

Introduction

In that sense, in microbial communities, the keystone species concept is context-dependent. A keystone in one microbiome might not be a keystone in another. “I feel that this aspect has not been highly appreciated by ecologists,” Liu said.

Ecologists are now grappling with this contextual nature of keystone species beyond microbes and pondering whether, and how, the concept matters amid the reality of biodiversity loss.

Reassessing the Metaphor

Menge has dedicated his career to understanding ecological community structure, continuing the emphasis on rocky shores from his graduate work with Paine. He’s found that Paine’s iconic purple star isn’t a keystone species everywhere. It has stronger keystone-ness in some places, for example in tide pools more intensely beaten by waves. “In fact, in more sheltered places, the sea star isn’t really much of a keystone at all,” he said.

Paine came to accept this too. Up in Alaska, where the mussel preferred by more southern purple stars is absent, the predator is “just another sea star,” Power recalled Paine saying.

The fact that keystone species are context-dependent and that they vary in space and time is “missed in short-term studies,” Menge said.

Still, Srivastava isn’t ready to discard the concept. While the focus on keystones and single species may have distracted policymakers and conservationists from more holistic approaches to conservation, protecting and restoring a single species can sometimes benefit many other species in an ecosystem. “It doesn’t mean we rush to save keystone species and ignore the diversity of the system as a whole,” she said.

Srivastava also emphasized that keystones are not the only way systems are stabilized. “Ecologists now think that some of the most important interactions in terms of stability are actually relatively weak interactions,” she said. “If you have a high number of species that are weakly interacting, it’s kind of like having a lot of tent pegs tying down your tent in a windstorm. It dissipates some of the perturbations.”

Menge largely agrees. Amid a global loss of species, the main focus should be protecting habitats and biodiversity, not individual species, he said. “If those two things were done in enough places, then I’m not sure that the keystone-species idea is all that critical.”

Maybe one keystone matters more than the rest. In one of Paine’s final papers, published in 2016 on the day of his death, he and ecologist Boris Worm proposed that humans are a “hyperkeystone species” — one that exerts profound effects through exploitation of other keystones.

Humans can’t be removed from the system like starfish to quantify our impact. But we can learn how to reduce our keystone-ness through effective conservation practice and policy, Salomon said. “We also have the ability to learn to steward ourselves.”

That’s one reason why ecologists continue to redefine and reconsider keystone species. The powerful symbol isn’t going anywhere, but with an improved definition, people could learn how to apply it better.

Paine knew this. Salomon likes to share his words with her students: “You can’t manage out of ignorance. You have to know what species do, whom they eat, what role these prey species play. When you know that, you can make some intelligent decisions.”

Read the full story here.
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With thousands of feral horses gone, Kosciuszko’s fragile ecosystems are slowly recovering

With feral horses gone, fragile alpine areas are no longer being trampled by hard hooves. But Kosciuszko’s landscapes will take decades to recover.

Author supplied , CC BY-NDIn Kosciuszko National Park in Australia’s alpine region, the landscape is slowly changing. Patches of native vegetation cropped bald by horses are regrowing. Some long-eroded creek banks look less compacted along the edges. Visitors come across fewer horses standing on the roads, a real traffic hazard. In 2023, New South Wales authorised the aerial shooting of feral horses in Kosciuszko National Park. And in late November, the government passed a bill to repeal the law that recognised feral horses as having “heritage status” in the park. This change removed the legal protections on horses in Kosciuszko that had set them apart from other introduced species such as deer, pigs, foxes and rabbits. Now horses will be treated the same way as other invasive species across Australia, restoring consistency to managing their impact on the landscape. The latest survey estimates around 3,000 horses remain in Kosciuszko National Park, down from roughly 17,000 a year ago. More than 9,000 horses have been culled since 2021. The current management plan is designed to retain 3,000 horses – a compromise between ecological protection and perceived heritage values. It will remain in place until mid-2027. So what are the environmental effects of having fewer horses in Kosciuszko? And what could the park look like in the future? Stallion standing in an alpine sphagnum bog. Author supplied, CC BY-ND The damage For decades, feral horses have been a major source of ecological damage in Kosciuszko’s alpine landscapes. Their impacts have been especially pronounced in the past decade, as horse numbers within the fragile high country grew largely unchecked. Empirical studies and analyses of satellite imagery show horses reduce vegetation cover, break down soil structure, and damage streambanks, peat beds and alpine bogs – carbon-rich soils built over tens of thousands of years. Some of this damage results from their feeding on slow-growing alpine grasses and herbs. Horses typically eat 2% of their body mass daily, which equates to about 8 kilograms each day. Compare this to the largest native herbivore in the high country, the Eastern Grey Kangaroo, which eats roughly 600 grams per day, a 13-fold difference. But the real damage is done by their feet. Feral horses walk up to 50 kilometres a day, and their hard hooves collapse the sphagnum moss layers and compact the deep peat soils. This plants and soils normally act like slow-release water sponges, storing snowmelt and feeding streams throughout summer. And unlike wombats, kangaroos and other native wildlife, feral horses follow each other in single file, making deep walking paths that crisscross alpine meadows, draining them dry. Read more: Feral horses in Australia's high country are damaging peatlands, decreasing carbon stores Those changes affect the whole ecosystem. Alpine skinks, broad-toothed rats, corroboree frogs, mountain pygmy possums, and native fish all depend on dense vegetation, intact moss beds or sediment-free streams — the very features horses degrade. A mob of feral horses crossing a river in Kosciuszko National Park. Author supplied, CC BY-ND Waterways have been hit especially hard. The Australian Alps supply nearly a third of the surface water that enters the Murray–Darling Basin, yet horse trampling around waterways muddies clear streams and destabilises the slow, steady inflows on which these catchments rely. These impacts aren’t confined to the park. In recent years, large numbers of horses have moved into adjoining areas, including state forests, where their disturbance compounds the effects of commercial logging and endangers visitors and overnight campers. Although most attention about horse impacts have focused on Kosciuszko and alpine ecosystems more generally, almost half a million feral horses affect landscapes Australia-wide, with tropical woodlands and semi-arid rangelands hardest hit. An alpine creek bank, its peaty soil eroded from horse tracks. Author supplied, CC BY-ND What we’ve seen so far We have spent a lot of time working in the park over the past year. And we’ve begun to notice small shifts in the high country that align with what we’d expect from feral animal control. We’ve spotted fewer horses during our days in the field. In areas that were repeatedly trampled, tiny pockets of vegetation are creeping into bare patches. Even some long-eroded banks look softer at the edges. These impressions are strictly anecdotal, not formal evidence. But they hint at a landscape starting to breathe again as the pressure eases. And there’s a safety element too. Anyone who drives the alpine roads knows the shock of rounding a bend among the snowgums to find a horse, or an entire mob, standing on the bitumen. Fewer horses mean fewer of those dangerous encounters for researchers, National Parks staff, and visitors alike. The slow return With far fewer horses in the high country, these pressures are beginning to ease. As trampling declines, bogs and fens are expected to start recovering and hold water for longer. Moss beds will start to regrow and other peat-forming plants will be able to regain a foothold in soils that aren’t constantly compacted and overgrazed. Less grazing means alpine herbs, sedges and snow-grass have room to return. Bare ground stabilises. Stream edges settle. Creeklines begin to clear. A rocky alpine stream beneath the main range in Kosciusko National Park. Author supplied, CC BY-ND Those improvements flow upwards: more stable soils and denser vegetation creates better habitat for the frogs, skinks, small mammals and invertebrates that rely on cool, wet, structured alpine environments. Recovery will take time – decades, not months. Long-term empirical studies will be essential to show what is changing and identify parts of the park where targeted restoration efforts will be needed to hasten recovery. Finally, a real chance None of this will happen quickly. Alpine ecosystems heal slowly, and decades of damage can’t be undone overnight. Short growing seasons mean plants return gradually, not in sudden flushes. Many slopes and creeklines still show the scars of cattle grazing more than 60 years after livestock were removed. Disturbance lingers here for generations. Lower horse numbers are only a beginning, but they’re the essential first step. And now — with fewer horses on the ground and the legal barriers removed — Kosciuszko finally has a realistic path to recovery. The coming decade will determine how much of its fragile alpine heritage can be restored. The delicate alpine ecosystem of Kosciuszko National Park. Author Supplied, CC BY-ND David M Watson receives research funding from the Federal Government (through ARC, DAFF, DCCEEW), and is on the board of the Holbrook Landcare Network and the Great Eastern Ranges. He served two terms on the NSW Threatened Species Scientific Committee, prior to resigning when the Wild Horse Heritage Act became law in June 2018.Patrick Finnerty is the current director for early career ecology at the Ecological Society of Australia, the Early Career Coordinator at the Australasian Wildlife Management Society, and a council member for the Royal Zoological Society of NSW. He receives funding from the Australian Research Council.

Louisiana town fights for relief after a billion-dollar oil disaster

Federal and state officials have sued the company behind the blast, but Roseland, Louisiana, residents say the case won’t bring relief to their town.

Four months have passed since a Louisiana oil facility burst apart, spewing a dense black sludge that drifted across homes, farms, and waterways as far as 50 miles away.  Since then, the U.S. Department of Justice and Louisiana environmental regulators have filed a sweeping lawsuit against Smitty’s Supply, the company that ran the facility storing oil and vehicle lubricants. But residents in the majority-Black town are skeptical that they’ll benefit from the $1 billion federal lawsuit.  Much of that belief stems from the fact that despite repeated calls for help, the black goo still clings to walls, roofs, and soil of more than half of the town’s properties, according to Van Showers, the mayor of Roseland, Louisiana.  “People want to know when they’re going to receive help, and there is nothing to make them think that this process would lead to that,” said Showers, who works at a local chicken processing plant and has struggled financially through the clean-up process.  That skepticism is rooted in hard experience — and in a broader history of environmental racism that has left Black communities shouldering disproportionate burdens. The gap has left residents in a state of prolonged uncertainty about their water, their health, and whether the legal action unfolding in distant courtrooms will ever reach their homes. It is a familiar pattern, particularly in Louisiana, where environmental disasters have consistently hit Black and low-income communities hardest while leaving them last in line for recovery. Read Next How government shutdowns give polluters a free pass Naveena Sadasivam Initially, residents in the town, where the average person earns just $17,000 per year, were told to clean up the mess themselves.  The explosion had sprayed the community of 1,100 residents with dozens of chemicals, including cancer-causing ones known as PFAS, or “forever chemicals.” One resident living on a fixed income told Capital B that in the weeks after the event she went over $1,000 in credit card debt to replace the stained panels on her trailer.  However, in October, after sustained pressure from residents, the tide seemed to turn. Federal and state agencies ramped up their presence in the disaster zone, canvassed the community, brought the lawsuit, and began testing wildlife — including fish and deer — for contamination. But even with the increased governmental response, attorneys, residents, and local officials warn that it is not nearly enough. The lawsuit compensation, if ever paid out, will most likely not trickle down to residents, Showers and local lawyers said. Civil penalties collected from federal lawsuits are generally deposited into the U.S. Treasury’s general fund and are often used exclusively to fund environmental cleanup costs, not to support residents.  “As far as the lawsuit, I don’t think it’s going to benefit the community,” Showers said. Read Next They survived the hurricane. Their insurance company didn’t. Zoya Teirstein The government’s suit alleges that for years, Smitty’s knowingly violated safety rules and pollution permits. The company failed to maintain basic spill-prevention and emergency response plans, regulators said.  The complaint says millions of gallons of contaminated firefighting water, oil, and chemicals flowed off-site into ditches, and seeks more than $1 billion in fines and penalties tied to the explosion and spill. In response to the lawsuit, a representative of Smitty’s wrote, “Smitty’s has been and remains committed to following all applicable laws and regulations, and to operating as a responsible member of the Tangipahoa Parish community.” The disaster was the “result of an unforeseen industrial fire,” the representative added, and the company is “implementing measures to help prevent future incidents and protect our waterways and neighbors.” Yet even since the lawsuit was brought, according to state documents, Smitty’s was caught pumping unpermitted “oily liquids” into local waterways.  Meanwhile, a recent Louisiana Department of Environmental Quality report shows a state contractor has recovered at least 74 live wild animals from the disaster zone and 59 of them had either digested the oily substance or were covered in it. At least eight animals were found dead, including four turtles and an alligator. Dozens more pets and livestock, including cattle and horses, have been coated in the residue. Many residents, including Showers, have seen their animals die. Those findings, combined with reports of stillborn calves, underscore how deeply the contamination has seeped into daily life, residents said.  The explosion has not only unleashed lasting environmental and health threats — the kind that, as Showers worries, “can lay dormant for years and then all of a sudden … you start getting a lot of folks with cancer” — it has also shuttered Roseland’s largest employer, Smitty’s Supply, indefinitely. Millie Simmons lives less than a mile from the explosion site. She has felt lingering health effects from the disaster. Adam Mahoney / Capital B For weeks after the explosion, Millie Simmons, a 58-year-old child care worker, had difficulty being outside in Roseland for longer than 10 minutes without respiratory irritation. Even when inside her home, she felt “drained” and “sluggish” for weeks.  Showers said she is not alone. The biggest complaints he is still receiving are that “people are still sick” and “want to know when they’re going to receive help as far as getting their property cleaned.” “Most definitely, we deserve something,” Simmons said.  A nation’s environmental divide In October, the federal government delegated the cleanup process entirely to the state and Smitty’s. Some residents say they have seen Smitty’s contractors cleaning a few properties, but others, including the mayor, say their claims have gone unanswered. Showers said the company reimbursed him for just one night in a hotel when he was forced to leave the town after the explosion and never responded to his request for compensation after a litter of his dogs fell ill and died in the weeks after.  Advocates with the Louisiana Environmental Action Network, or LEAN, who have notified Smitty’s and federal and state environmental regulators of their intent to sue, said residents continue to approach them about contaminated crops and water wells. They’re unsure if their water is safe, even months later.  “There’s so many unanswered questions that bring such huge anxiety to the communities,” said Marylee Orr, LEAN’s executive director. “People don’t feel safe in their homes.”​​ A litter of dogs owned by Roseland’s mayor, Van Showers, in 2023. His most recent litter died after the explosion, he said. Courtesy of Van Showers Orr said she is especially worried that the courtroom path now unfolding will repeat familiar patterns from other environmental disasters.  In places like Grand Bois in south Louisiana and in Flint, Michigan, she noted, residents waited years for historic settlements to turn into actual checks they could cash — only to see large portions of the money eaten up by legal fees. In Flint, residents have waited over a decade for compensation for the country’s most notorious water crisis that caused clusters of neurological and developmental issues among children. When it is all said and done, only a portion of the impacted residents will receive checks for about $1,000. In Roseland, Showers has found himself operating in an information vacuum. He is relying more on outside news reports than official briefings to learn the full extent of contamination in his own town. In fact, he did not know about the state report showing the harms to local animals until Capital B shared it with him.  “No one from the government has ever told me anything,” he said. “It’s aggravating.” That lack of transparency makes it harder, he added, to answer the basic questions residents bring to him at the grocery store, at church, and outside town hall: “Is my water safe? What’s happening to the animals? Am I going to be OK?” In October, Showers and residents of Roseland organized a town cleanup. Courtesy of the City of Roseland This is a dynamic that reflects both the long-standing political dynamics of Louisiana and deepening uncertainty under the Trump administration.  His position as a Black Democrat leading a majority-Black town in a state dominated by white, conservative leadership has only intensified that isolation, he told Capital B in September.  Historically Black communities have received less recovery aid than white areas with comparable damage during environmental disasters. Now, experts warn that federal support for environmental disasters in Black and Democratic areas is poised to weaken even further under the Trump administration, which has slashed EPA and DOJ enforcement to historic lows. During the first 11 months of Trump’s second term, the EPA and DOJ have filed just 20 enforcement actions against polluters, imposing $15.1 million in penalties. During the final 19 days of the Biden administration last January, the EPA and DOJ imposed $590 million in penalties.  The current administration has also instructed EPA officials not to consider whether affected communities are “minority or low-income populations” when prioritizing enforcement actions. Showers estimates that fewer than three-quarters of properties have been cleaned and that many residents who dutifully called the claims hotline are still living with stained roofs, sticky yards, and lingering health problems. “There’s just not enough information being put out or work being done to make people feel at ease about what’s going on.” This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Louisiana town fights for relief after a billion-dollar oil disaster on Jan 3, 2026.

Are you a hellraiser mite or a knobbled weevil? Take the quiz and vote for NZ’s Bug of the Year

Take the personality quiz to match with one of NZ’s larger-than-life little creatures, then cast your vote.

The black tunnelweb spider. Samuel Purdie, CC BY-NCThe New Zealand velvet worm’s reign as Bug of the Year is coming to an end, with voting now open for the 2026 competition. This year, 21 nominees are vying for the crown in the competition’s fourth year. Nearly 100 bugs have so far featured, representing an incredible range of rich invertebrate diversity – from insects and arachnids to crustaceans, worms and molluscs. The term “bug” was chosen deliberately. While not scientifically precise, it acts as an easily understood umbrella definition of Aotearoa New Zealand’s sometimes overlooked littlest animals. As relatively large organisms ourselves, we humans tend to notice and celebrate larger and more charismatic fauna and flora, such as birds and trees. But they comprise only about 5% of New Zealand’s estimated 70,000 native land species. The rest are small and often unseen, but absolutely vital. Aotearoa is home to over 20,000 insect species – and those are just the ones we’ve identified. Around 6,000 beetle species alone crawl, burrow and fly across our landscape. Bugs are the tiny critters that run the world. Forming the base of many food webs and ecological interactions, they underpin much of our freshwater and terrestrial biodiversity. They pollinate food crops, decompose waste and recycle nutrients. Owing to their fast response to environmental changes, they also serve as key indicators of environmental health. Master of camouflage: the double-spined stick insect. Dougal Townsend, CC BY-NC And the nominees are … This year’s nominees are the most diverse in the competition’s history. There are repeat candidates, such as the endangered Canterbury knobbled weevil (Hadramphus tuberculatus), as well as new contenders such as the tadpole shrimp (Lepidurus apus viridis) which reproduces without males, or the double-spined stick insect (Micrarchus hystriculeus), which is an incredible master of camouflage. Some nominees, such as the sapphire spider fly (Apsona muscaria) – a fly that eats spiders – are relatively unknown. And there are more familiar species such as the impressively large black tunnelweb spider (Porrhothele antipodiana). Others are known for their outstanding features or behaviour, including the hellraiser mite (Neotrichozetes spinulosa), which looks like a walking pin-cushion, and a critically threatened avatar moth (Arctesthes avatar), named for the movie series with its themes of environmental destruction. We even have the ancient and gigantic glow-in-the-dark North Auckland worm, and the Otago alpine cockroach (Celatoblatta quinquemaculata) that can survive being frozen solid. There is also one of the world’s only marine insects, the intertidal caddisfly (Philanisus plebeius), whose nymph lives on the rocky shore. Like a walking pin-cushion: the hellraiser mite. Shou Saito, CC BY-NC Many are endemic and found only here. But like bugs and insect populations around the planet, they face mounting threats – described in one study as “death by a thousand cuts” – from climate change, agrichemical use and habitat loss or modification. Aotearoa is not exempt from these threats, but many of our bugs are data-deficient, understudied, underappreciated and often out-competed for attention by other wildlife. This summer, keep an eye out for the tiny things around you: the bugs that soar in our skies, scamper in our forests, settle in our rivers and lakes or even hide underground. As humans continue to expand urban landscapes into natural ones, the Entomological Society of New Zealand hopes its Bug of the Year contest will help build public support and appreciation for more research into these unsung heroes of the natural world. How to vote Not sure what to vote for? Take the personality quiz to see which bug you most align with. Voting closes on February 16 2026, with results announced on February 18. Nominees are suggested by the public, so if your top pick isn’t featured this year, you can make recommendations by July 1 for the 2027 contest and beyond. Connal McLean is affiliated with The Entomological Society of New Zealand and The Moths and Butterflies of New Zealand Trust. Jacqueline Theis receives funding from the Ministry of Business, Innovation and Employment (grant number UOWX2101). She is affiliated with the Entomological Society of New Zealand.

The Top Human Evolution Discoveries of 2025, From the Intriguing Neanderthal Diet to the Oldest Western European Face Fossil

Smithsonian paleoanthropologists examine the year’s most fascinating revelations

The Top Human Evolution Discoveries of 2025, From the Intriguing Neanderthal Diet to the Oldest Western European Face Fossil Smithsonian paleoanthropologists examine the year’s most fascinating revelations Paranthropus boisei composite hand Courtesy of Carrie Mongle This has been quite the wild year in human evolution stories. Our relatives, living and extinct, got a lot of attention—from new developments in ape cognition to an expanded perspective of a big-toothed hominin cousin. A new view on a famous foot also revealed more about a lesser-known hominin species, Australopithecus deyiremeda. New tool and technology finds, coupled with dietary studies, showed us more than ever about the behavior of our ancestors and ourselves. New fossils gave us a glimpse at the earliest Europeans, predating both our own species and the Neanderthals. Finally, we dove deeper into the blockbuster story of the year, looking at some of the biggest Denisovan studies which give us a clearer than ever picture of these enigmatic human relatives.Human traits of chimps and bonobos Portrait of a bonobo Fiona Rogers / Getty Images A February study investigated theory of mind, or the uniquely human trait of recognizing the cognitive sapience of others, which allows modern humans to communicate and coordinate to an extent not seen in other animals. Study co-author Luke Townrow and colleagues set up an experiment where bonobos would receive a food reward hidden under cups, but only if they cooperated with their human partner and showed them where the food was first. Sometimes the bonobo could tell the human knew where the food was, and sometimes the animal could tell the human didn’t know where the food was. Bonobos pointed to the location of the hidden food more frequently and quicker when they knew the human was ignorant of the food’s location, indicating that they could interpret the human’s mental state and act accordingly, a hallmark of theory of mind. In addition to cooperating, an April study shows that apes also share, especially when it comes to fermented fruit. Anna Bowland and colleagues documented the first recorded instance of fermented food sharing in chimpanzees, observed in Cantanhez National Park, Guinea-Bissau. At least 17 chimps of all ages shared fermented breadfruits, ranging between 0.01 percent and 0.61 percent alcohol by volume. While this may not be enough ethanol to result in the sort of intoxication levels desired by many humans, this demonstrates that food sharing, and fermented food consumption, have deep evolutionary roots, supported by the evolution of ethanol metabolism among all African apes. On top of all that monkey business, an October study shows that chimps even have complex decision-making processes. Hanna Schleihauf and colleagues presented to chimps two boxes, one that contained food and one that was either empty or contained a non-food item. The chimps were allowed to choose a box twice, after receiving either weak or strong evidence about which box contains the food. The team found that chimps were able to revise their beliefs about the food’s location in response to more convincing evidence: When they picked the wrong box after the weak hint, they switched to the correct box after the following strong hint. Also, when they picked the correct box after a strong hint, they kept their selection after a weak hint. The study highlights the chimpanzees’ ability to make rational decisions, and even change decisions, in response to learning new information. Fun fact: Chimps may use medicinal herbs In a study last year, researchers collected extracts of plants that they saw chimpanzees eating outside of their normal diets in Uganda’s Budongo Central Forest Reserve. The researchers discovered that “88 percent of the plant extracts inhibited bacterial growth, while 33 percent had anti-inflammatory properties.” A holistic picture of Paranthropus The reconstructed left hand of the Paranthropus boisei Mongle, Carrie et al., Nature, 2025 Besides learning more about our ape relatives, we also learned a lot more about some of our hominin cousins this year. Paranthropus is a genus of hominins consisting of three species, mostly known for their large teeth and massive chewing muscles that they likely used to break down tough plant fibers. However, not much was known about them outside of their mouths and skulls. A Paranthropus study from April helps to close this gap, describing an articulated lower limb from the Swartkrans site in South Africa. Travis Pickering and colleagues described a partial pelvis, femur and tibia of an adult Paranthropus robustus dating back 2.3 million to 1.7 million years ago. The anatomy of the hip, femur and knee indicate that this individual was fully bipedal. This hominin would probably have been only about three feet tall, one of the tiniest hominins on record. Due to a lack of other fossil material for comparison and the pelvis fossil being very incomplete, estimating the sex of this individual is more difficult. However, another study from May pioneered the use of different methods to estimate the sex of Paranthropus fossils. Analyzing proteins preserved in fossil tooth enamel, Palesa Madupe and colleagues were able to determine sex and begin to investigate genetic variability in Paranthropus fossils from South Africa. Using these proteins, the team was able to identify two male and two female individuals, allowing for more accurate hypotheses about sexual dimorphism (sex-based body size and shape differences). The team also found that one of the individuals appeared to be more distantly related, hinting at microevolution within this species. Lastly, a study published in October described a Paranthropus boisei hand from the Koobi Fora site in Kenya, which allowed scientists to learn if Paranthropus could have made stone tools. Carrie Mongle and colleagues looked at the nearly complete Paranthropus hand, which reveals a mostly hominin-looking morphology. Yet with strong musculature and wide bones, the grasping capabilities of Paranthropus seem to converge with that of gorillas, although they likely used this powerful grip to strip vegetation and process food rather than for climbing. Additionally, with a long thumb and precision grasping capabilities, the authors hypothesize that nothing in their hand morphology would have prevented Paranthropus boisei from making and using stone tools. This builds on other recent finds suggesting that the ability to make and use complex tools was not limited to the genus Homo.The family of a famous footThe Burtele foot, a fossil from Ethiopia that was described in 2012 and originally not given a species designation, dates to about 3.4 million years ago. Despite being contemporaneous with Australopithecus afarensis, Lucy’s species, the fossil looked almost nothing like it. The locomotor adaptations were completely different, and the foot still had an opposable big toe, like modern apes and the earlier genus Ardipithecus. In November, Yohannes Haile-Selassie and colleagues published research on other fossils from the same site where the Burtele foot was found. A new mandible with teeth links the hominin fossils at Burtele to a less well-known species, Australopithecus deyiremeda. This species had primitive teeth and grasping feet, with isotopic evidence pointing to a plant-based diet more similar to that of earlier species like Ardipithecus ramidus and Australopithecus anamensis. These new finds show that primitive traits persisted more recently into the timeline of human evolution and that our family tree is even bushier than previously thought.Ancient tool technologies An ancient ochre fragment that shows signs of re-use  d’Errico, Francesco et al., Science Advances, 2025 Archaeological sites, by definition, are evidence of past human behavior. But it’s not often a find is unearthed that turns out to be evidence of just one past human’s behavior. A study in August by Dominik Chlachula and colleagues reports on a small cluster of 29 stone artifacts from the Milovice IV site in the Czech Republic that were probably bundled together in a container or pouch made of perishable material: basically, a Stone Age hunter-gatherer’s personal toolkit. The 30,000-year-old blade and bladelet tools were made from different kinds of stone (flint, radiolarite, chert and opal). Use-wear analysis showed they were used for cutting, scraping and drilling, and the kit also included projectiles used for hunting. Now we move farther back in time, to when some of the earliest members of our lineage were making tools. In November, David Braun and colleagues reported on stone toolmaking in the Turkana Basin of Kenya that started about 2.75 million years ago at the new site of Namorotukunan, which contains one of the oldest and longest intervals of the making of Oldowan tools. This simple core-and-flake technology was, as revealed by this new evidence, nevertheless undertaken with enough skill—and the tools useful enough for various activities—to be made consistently for almost 300,000 years, through dramatic environmental changes, highlighting our ancestors’ resilience. However, not all ancient tools were made for practical purposes. In October, Francesco d’Errico and colleagues described three pieces of ochre, an iron-rich mineral pigment, from archaeological sites in Crimea, Ukraine. These artifacts were deliberately collected, shaped, engraved, polished, resharpened and deposited there by Neanderthals up to 70,000 years ago. Although it’s impossible to know what the Neanderthals did with these yellow and red pigments, the fact that they seemed to be kept sharpened suggests that their tips were used to produce linear marks. This suggests that they had a symbolic or artistic function, rather than a utilitarian one, perhaps playing a role in identity expression, communication and transmitting knowledge across generations.Neanderthal eating habitsWhen they weren’t busy coloring with paleo-crayons, our Neanderthal cousins are known for being skilled hunters of large animals, and two studies in July shed new light on their diets. First, Lutz Kindler and colleagues documented that 125,000 years ago, at the site of Neumark-Nord in Germany, Neanderthals processed at least 172 animals at the edge of a lake, most likely to extract bone grease. This “fat factory,” as the researchers called it, is much older than previously documented grease extraction sites, and this extreme bone-bashing behavior had not been seen before at Neanderthal sites. The team documented how Neanderthals transported the bones of these animals, mostly antelope, deer and horses, but even some forest elephants, to the site to crush, chop up and boil to get at the nutritious, calorie-rich fat inside. (Speaking of Neanderthals cooking things, a December study by Rob Davis, Nick Ashton and colleagues documented the earliest evidence of deliberate fire-making from the 400,000-year-old site of Barnham in England, where they found heated sediments, fire-cracked flint handaxes and fragments of iron pyrite—a mineral used to strike sparks with flint—likely brought to the site from far away.) Later in July, Melanie Beasley and colleagues made an intriguing suggestion about the Neanderthal diet. Humans and our earlier relatives can only eat a certain proportion of protein in our diets without getting protein poisoning, but chemical signatures (specifically, nitrogen isotope values) in Neanderthal bones indicate that they ate as much protein as other ancient hyper-carnivores. So, what was causing this? Maybe it was maggots, fat-rich fly larvae. When an animal dies, maggots feed on the decaying flesh, which has higher nitrogen values as it decomposes. Many Indigenous forager groups regard putrid meat as a tasty treat. If Neanderthals were eating nitrogen-enriched maggots feeding on rotting muscle tissue in dried, frozen or cached (deliberately stored) dead animals, that might at least partly explain their unusually high nitrogen values. While our later evolutionary cousins may have munched on maggots, a study in January by Tina Lüdecke and colleagues looked at carbon and nitrogen isotopes in the teeth of Australopithecus and other animal species dating back more than three million years ago from South Africa’s Sterkfontein site. The isotope ratios of the seven Australopithecus teeth were variable but consistently low, and more similar to the contemporaneous herbivores than the carnivores, suggesting they were not consuming much meat. This follows with other recent studies suggesting, contrary to common belief, that carnivory was not a major factor shaping our evolution.The earliest EuropeansTwo studies this year focused on early evidence for hominins in Europe. In January, Sabrina Curran and colleagues reported cut marks on several animal bones from the Graunceanu site in Romania, dating to at least 1.95 million years ago—now among the earliest evidence that hominins had spread to Eurasia by that time. To verify that these were cut marks made by stone tools, they compared 3D shape data from impressions of the marks to a reference set of almost 900 modern marks made by stone tool butchery, carnivore feeding and sedimentary abrasion. They concluded that the marks on eight Graunceanu fossils, mainly hoofed animals like deer, were stone tool cut marks. In March, Rosa Huguet and colleagues reported on the earliest hominin face fossil from Western Europe, dated to 1.4 million-1.1 million years ago, found in Spain. The shape of the left half of the face fossil is more similar to Homo erectus (which had not been documented in Europe), rather than resembling later and more modern looking Homo antecessor fossils found almost 1,000 feet away and dated to between 900,000-800,000 years ago. The scientific name of the new fossil is ATE7-1, but its nickname is “Pink.” This is a nod to Pink Floyd’s album The Dark Side of the Moon, which in Spanish is La cara oculta de la luna (cara oculta means hidden face). Also, Huguet’s first name, Rosa, is Spanish for pink.New Denisovan discoveries A reconstruction of the Harbin cranium by paleoartist John Gurche Courtesy of John Gurche Denisovan fossils have been found in Siberia and throughout East Asia, although they are few and far between. Denisovans may be our most enigmatic cousins, because we’ve learned more about them through DNA, including DNA we got from interbreeding with them, than from their fossils. Until this year, that is. A study from April described a new Denisovan mandible. Takumi Tsutaya and colleagues analyzed the Penghu 1 mandible, dredged up from the coast of Taiwan, and discovered that the morphology and protein sequences both matched it with Denisovans. Proteomics also allowed the team to determine this was a male individual, and this find expands the known range of Denisovans into warmer, wetter regions of Asia. Next, two stories from this summer took a second look at the Harbin cranium, termed “Dragon Man” and given the species name Homo longi in 2021. The first study, in June, looked at the proteome of the Harbin cranium, while the second study, in July, looked at the mitochondrial DNA; both studies were led by Qiaomei Fu. While no DNA was able to be retrieved from the fossil itself, proteomics and the DNA from dental calculus both suggested that this fossil was part of the Denisovan group. Together, these studies give the first look at the face of a Denisovan, lining up morphology with molecules. While more work needs to be done to build the body of evidence and give scientists a more complete view of Denisovan anatomy, habitat and behavior, being able to link complete fossils with the molecular evidence is a huge step forward. While it is unclear what this means for the name “Denisovan” itself, we hypothesize that it will persist as a popular or common name, much like how we call Homo neanderthalensis “Neanderthals” today. Lastly, in September, Xiaobo Feng and colleagues reconstructed and described the Yunxian 2 cranium from China, dating to one million years ago. The skull was meticulously reconstructed from crushed and warped fragments and appears to have a mix of primitive and derived traits, and it is also closely aligned with the Homo longi group. The phylogenetic analysis conducted by the team changes the perspective of late hominin divergence, with Homo longi and Homo sapiens being sister taxa to the exclusion of Neanderthals, and all three groups having evolutionary origins two to three times older than previously thought: at least 1.2 million years ago. While more finds will support or refute these phylogenetic claims, new fossil evidence continues to help refine our understanding of our lineage—and never stops surprising us.This story originally appeared in PLOS SciComm, a blog from PLOS, a nonprofit that publishes open-access scientific studies. Get the latest on what's happening At the Smithsonian in your inbox.

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