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The Happiest Little House of Horrors

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Monday, September 30, 2024

You have been granted access, use your keyboard to continue reading.The Happiest Little House of HorrorsWelcome to the Spruce House in Finland, where macabre jokes about the end of the world are built into a comfortable island cabin.NewJan-Erik Andersson and Marjo Malin at the Spruce House in Turku, Finland. “This house is really about symbols, what art can do, and what houses should be,” Mr. Andersson said.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesSept. 30, 2024, 5:01 a.m. ETA metal pool ladder is fixed to a wooden veranda outside Jan-Erik Andersson’s house in western Finland. But there is no pool here, and we are 1,000 feet from the sea. The steps to nowhere, says Mr. Andersson, are a provocation, “an artwork to protest about rising waters.”“We are waiting for our pool,” he adds. “It will not be long. The world is burning.”More unsettling visual jokes about imminent environmental catastrophe turn up all over his hexagonal home, known as the Spruce House. But Mr. Andersson, an artist, designer and performer, can’t help but envelop them in the beauty that he sees all around the natural world. He’s an optimist, after all.Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesVesa Laitinen for The New York TimesVesa Laitinen for The New York TimesVesa Laitinen for The New York TimesThe Spruce House, newly built on a semirural plot on the island of Hirvensalo, in Finland’s Turku archipelago, resembles a wicked-green wooden head, perhaps some kind of Nordic folk-horror goblin. Its mossy green roof is a misshapen hat, its scarlet door an abstracted bloody mouth, its narrow windows a pair of malevolent eyes.It is built to high environmental standards, and heated and cooled by geothermal energy, but these technicalities aren’t really what interest its creator. “There are many houses, many architects dealing with purely ecological problems,” he says. “This house is really about symbols, what art can do, and what houses should be. In my opinion, there should be more art interventions.”Mr. Andersson and Ms. Malin in the kitchen. The ‘philosopher’s table,’ an acrylic work by Mr. Andersson, imagines mountains, temples and knowledge systems consumed by flames.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesMr. Andersson, modest and energetic at 70, is a well-known art figure in the Nordics. He moved into the 795-square-foot house this year with his wife, the graphic designer Marjo Malin, having built it to his own design as a postdoctoral project working with the Finnish architect Erkki Pitkäranta. Together, they conceived a visual tension between Mr. Andersson’s eco-optimism and the apocalyptic motifs in the interiors — much of which are Ms. Malin’s work.“She has less faith in humanity’s ability to work together to solve problems and I am more positive, so you get both sides,” Mr. Andersson says.The architect Erkki Pitkäranta, who designed the house with Mr. Andersson, describes his aesthetic as “strict and functional,” whereas his client’s is driven by colors and forms. “Those are very good things to put together.”Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesAfter a few months living the house, Ms. Malin says, “it feels normal, you get used to it.”“It’s also functioning very well, and it feels like home,” she adds. “I think it feels like when you are inside your mother’s womb. It feels like a safe place because it’s little and round.”Perhaps the best way to think of the Spruce House is as a manifesto you can live in. Mr. Pitkäranta describes his architectural point of view as “strict and functional,” whereas his clients come from a world of intentional colors and forms — “and those are very good things to put together.”The name refers to three spruce trees originally on site, which fell prey to parasites and had to be cut down. Those bathetic pool steps are an installation by Trudi Entwistle, the English environmental artist, who also laid out Mr. Andersson’s garden — a series of earth ramps tangled with wild grasses and meadow flowers, suggesting the house’s inhabitants are stranded in a wasted landscape that’s been returned to nature.The staircase is both “the stairway to heaven and the road to hell,” Mr. Andersson says.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesMs. Malin designed many of the interior moitifs.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesDownstairs, there’s a bathroom and an open kitchen/living room anchored by the “philosopher’s table,” a circular acrylic work by Mr. Andersson. Its surface design imagines mountains, ancient temples and knowledge systems consumed by flames. A second, rotating table features violent, swirling digital galaxies flocked with spruce branches. To complete the metaphor, 10 black “burnt” Philippe Starck chairs are positioned neatly around the table.“The doom scenarios have been part of art for centuries, but we are still here,” Mr. Andersson says. “Talk and communication is the only way, and we have 10 chairs around the table for that. And a big monitor beside the table for bringing those discussions online.”Ms. Malin’s designs for the interior include a kitchen backsplash of red Perspex in the shape of cartoonish scarlet flames, reminiscent of the “This is fine” internet meme. “The fire, lots of black and orange, was my idea,” she says. “Then Jan-Erik and I decided together how to use them.”Clusters of lampshades are junk-shop bargains of the mid-20th century, mass-produced variety, a way to find use for old plastics. For fixtures, Ms. Malin improvised with secondhand finds: “I used old egg cups for door handles,” she said.Ms. Malin’s designs in the kitchen include a backsplash of red Perspex in the shape of scarlet flames. “I used old egg cups for door handles,” she says. Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesThe staircase, with steps that change from red to orange to yellow to white as one ascends, is “the stairway to heaven and the road to hell,” says Mr. Andersson. “You get hotter as you go down, you come up onto a cloud — symbolically, of course.”Upstairs, there’s a compact bedroom, a shower room and two micro-offices, one each for the couple. Ms. Malin’s desk and shelves are immaculate. “She’s a very minimalist person,” her husband says. His space is only slightly messier and has a balcony overlooking the garden: “It’s a beer-drinking place, only for me and my beer bottle. There’s no room for anyone else.”The house is hexagonal, he says, because “there are no squares in nature.” He borrowed the motif from the rock formations at the Giant’s Causeway in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. “Natural forms are good for our psyche. With squares it wouldn’t have the same feeling at all.” Most of the windows are arrow-shaped, with five corners.Not all motifs and artworks are didactic — some are purely decorative, like the five facade sculptures by the Finnish artists Heini Aho and Kimmo Schroderus, among others. They were, Mr. Andersson says, blind commissions; he simply invited artists he admires to make him something, then fastened the results to the exterior in an arrangement that pleased him. “There should be more ornaments,” he says.“We are waiting for our pool,” Mr. Andersson says. “It will not be long. The world is burning.”Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesEvery window in the house has five corners. “There are no squares in nature.”Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesThe Spruce House may be a Finnish curiosity, but it comes from a global tradition of homes known as “Gesamtkunstwerk” — a German term meaning “total artwork,” indicating highly individualistic collisions of architecture and art. Their creators use and live with their work.The Spruce House is Mr. Andersson’s second attempt at such a project. His first was Life on a Leaf, a custard-yellow villa with a wooden facade and crowned with an indigo-glass skylight in the shape of an enormous, upside-down bluebell — “only for philosophizing and drinking in,” he says. The house was a celebration of nature, also designed by Mr. Andersson and Mr. Pitkäranta and completed in 2009 for his doctoral project at the Academy of Fine Arts in Helsinki. In his 2020 book “Total Design,” professor George H. Marcus of the University of Pennsylvania included Life on a Leaf alongside masterpieces by Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe and Finland’s Alvar Aalto.Life on a Leaf, which sits on the plot next to the Spruce House, was initially funded through philanthropic donations, and as part of a special arrangement it was Mr. Andersson’s home for a while. Now it belongs to a nonprofit organization set up to secure its future, and hosts artists in residence. By contrast, Mr. Andersson paid for the Spruce House himself, with support from the city of Turku, which owns the land, and some funding from the Kone Foundation, an arts sponsor in Finland. The total cost was €250,000 (about $275,000), excluding the external sculptures.Mr. Andersson commissioned other Finnish artists to create the facade sculptures.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesMr. Andersson fastened them to the exterior in an arrangement that pleased him.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesTurku’s planning officials insisted the new house complement Life on a Leaf, effectively prohibiting Mr. Andersson from building anything bland or conventional. “Both buildings are works of art in themselves and contain separate visible artworks to delight people,” says Timo Hintsanen, director of development for the City of Turku. “From a cultural significance perspective, it is important that the complex is as open as possible.”One final structure sits on the site: The sunshine-yellow sauna, shaped like an enormous garlic clove, or perhaps a Russian Orthodox Church dome, with bugle-shaped metal pipes where a stalk should be. This is the Sounding Dome, a fiberglass steamhouse created with the American sound artist Shawn Decker as a public commission in 2011. Today, the sauna is out of order and awaiting repair, but the sound installation still works. Inside are rows of chairs mounted on platforms — secondhand finds with the legs removed.Mr. Andersson closes the door. Through the silence comes a discordant drone, like the low whine of an animal, then a shrill whistle and a gurgle. When the heat rises, the sound becomes louder and more intense — a way to heighten the senses beyond the powers of a standard sauna. “The sound travels around your head,” he says.The sunshine-yellow sauna, shaped like an enormous garlic clove, is the “sounding dome,” a fiberglass steamhouse created with the American sound artist Shawn Decker.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York TimesHow often does he use it? “I am not a big sauna person,” he says. “It takes away your efficiency. I’m a workaholic.”He hopes the Spruce House design may one day be replicated at scale, perhaps as some kind of experimental housing estate. On the way out, we pass two low stools with knobbly, concrete seats on the veranda. Mr. Andersson says he made the stools for philosophizing on.“They are uncomfortable on purpose,” he says, “because we cannot be sure of anything.”

Welcome to the Spruce House in Finland, where macabre jokes about the end of the world are built into a comfortable island cabin.

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The Happiest Little House of Horrors

Welcome to the Spruce House in Finland, where macabre jokes about the end of the world are built into a comfortable island cabin.

New

Jan-Erik Andersson and Marjo Malin at the Spruce House in Turku, Finland. “This house is really about symbols, what art can do, and what houses should be,” Mr. Andersson said.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

A metal pool ladder is fixed to a wooden veranda outside Jan-Erik Andersson’s house in western Finland. But there is no pool here, and we are 1,000 feet from the sea. The steps to nowhere, says Mr. Andersson, are a provocation, “an artwork to protest about rising waters.”

“We are waiting for our pool,” he adds. “It will not be long. The world is burning.”

More unsettling visual jokes about imminent environmental catastrophe turn up all over his hexagonal home, known as the Spruce House. But Mr. Andersson, an artist, designer and performer, can’t help but envelop them in the beauty that he sees all around the natural world. He’s an optimist, after all.

  1. Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

  2. Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

  3. Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

  4. Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

The Spruce House, newly built on a semirural plot on the island of Hirvensalo, in Finland’s Turku archipelago, resembles a wicked-green wooden head, perhaps some kind of Nordic folk-horror goblin. Its mossy green roof is a misshapen hat, its scarlet door an abstracted bloody mouth, its narrow windows a pair of malevolent eyes.

It is built to high environmental standards, and heated and cooled by geothermal energy, but these technicalities aren’t really what interest its creator. “There are many houses, many architects dealing with purely ecological problems,” he says. “This house is really about symbols, what art can do, and what houses should be. In my opinion, there should be more art interventions.”

Mr. Andersson and Ms. Malin in the kitchen. The ‘philosopher’s table,’ an acrylic work by Mr. Andersson, imagines mountains, temples and knowledge systems consumed by flames.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

Mr. Andersson, modest and energetic at 70, is a well-known art figure in the Nordics. He moved into the 795-square-foot house this year with his wife, the graphic designer Marjo Malin, having built it to his own design as a postdoctoral project working with the Finnish architect Erkki Pitkäranta. Together, they conceived a visual tension between Mr. Andersson’s eco-optimism and the apocalyptic motifs in the interiors — much of which are Ms. Malin’s work.

“She has less faith in humanity’s ability to work together to solve problems and I am more positive, so you get both sides,” Mr. Andersson says.

The architect Erkki Pitkäranta, who designed the house with Mr. Andersson, describes his aesthetic as “strict and functional,” whereas his client’s is driven by colors and forms. “Those are very good things to put together.”Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

After a few months living the house, Ms. Malin says, “it feels normal, you get used to it.”

“It’s also functioning very well, and it feels like home,” she adds. “I think it feels like when you are inside your mother’s womb. It feels like a safe place because it’s little and round.”

Perhaps the best way to think of the Spruce House is as a manifesto you can live in. Mr. Pitkäranta describes his architectural point of view as “strict and functional,” whereas his clients come from a world of intentional colors and forms — “and those are very good things to put together.”

The name refers to three spruce trees originally on site, which fell prey to parasites and had to be cut down. Those bathetic pool steps are an installation by Trudi Entwistle, the English environmental artist, who also laid out Mr. Andersson’s garden — a series of earth ramps tangled with wild grasses and meadow flowers, suggesting the house’s inhabitants are stranded in a wasted landscape that’s been returned to nature.

The staircase is both “the stairway to heaven and the road to hell,” Mr. Andersson says.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times
Ms. Malin designed many of the interior moitifs.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

Downstairs, there’s a bathroom and an open kitchen/living room anchored by the “philosopher’s table,” a circular acrylic work by Mr. Andersson. Its surface design imagines mountains, ancient temples and knowledge systems consumed by flames. A second, rotating table features violent, swirling digital galaxies flocked with spruce branches. To complete the metaphor, 10 black “burnt” Philippe Starck chairs are positioned neatly around the table.

“The doom scenarios have been part of art for centuries, but we are still here,” Mr. Andersson says. “Talk and communication is the only way, and we have 10 chairs around the table for that. And a big monitor beside the table for bringing those discussions online.”

Ms. Malin’s designs for the interior include a kitchen backsplash of red Perspex in the shape of cartoonish scarlet flames, reminiscent of the “This is fine” internet meme. “The fire, lots of black and orange, was my idea,” she says. “Then Jan-Erik and I decided together how to use them.”

Clusters of lampshades are junk-shop bargains of the mid-20th century, mass-produced variety, a way to find use for old plastics. For fixtures, Ms. Malin improvised with secondhand finds: “I used old egg cups for door handles,” she said.

Ms. Malin’s designs in the kitchen include a backsplash of red Perspex in the shape of scarlet flames. “I used old egg cups for door handles,” she says. Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

The staircase, with steps that change from red to orange to yellow to white as one ascends, is “the stairway to heaven and the road to hell,” says Mr. Andersson. “You get hotter as you go down, you come up onto a cloud — symbolically, of course.”

Upstairs, there’s a compact bedroom, a shower room and two micro-offices, one each for the couple. Ms. Malin’s desk and shelves are immaculate. “She’s a very minimalist person,” her husband says. His space is only slightly messier and has a balcony overlooking the garden: “It’s a beer-drinking place, only for me and my beer bottle. There’s no room for anyone else.”

The house is hexagonal, he says, because “there are no squares in nature.” He borrowed the motif from the rock formations at the Giant’s Causeway in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. “Natural forms are good for our psyche. With squares it wouldn’t have the same feeling at all.” Most of the windows are arrow-shaped, with five corners.

Not all motifs and artworks are didactic — some are purely decorative, like the five facade sculptures by the Finnish artists Heini Aho and Kimmo Schroderus, among others. They were, Mr. Andersson says, blind commissions; he simply invited artists he admires to make him something, then fastened the results to the exterior in an arrangement that pleased him. “There should be more ornaments,” he says.

“We are waiting for our pool,” Mr. Andersson says. “It will not be long. The world is burning.”Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times
Every window in the house has five corners. “There are no squares in nature.”Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

The Spruce House may be a Finnish curiosity, but it comes from a global tradition of homes known as “Gesamtkunstwerk” — a German term meaning “total artwork,” indicating highly individualistic collisions of architecture and art. Their creators use and live with their work.

The Spruce House is Mr. Andersson’s second attempt at such a project. His first was Life on a Leaf, a custard-yellow villa with a wooden facade and crowned with an indigo-glass skylight in the shape of an enormous, upside-down bluebell — “only for philosophizing and drinking in,” he says. The house was a celebration of nature, also designed by Mr. Andersson and Mr. Pitkäranta and completed in 2009 for his doctoral project at the Academy of Fine Arts in Helsinki. In his 2020 book “Total Design,” professor George H. Marcus of the University of Pennsylvania included Life on a Leaf alongside masterpieces by Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe and Finland’s Alvar Aalto.

Life on a Leaf, which sits on the plot next to the Spruce House, was initially funded through philanthropic donations, and as part of a special arrangement it was Mr. Andersson’s home for a while. Now it belongs to a nonprofit organization set up to secure its future, and hosts artists in residence. By contrast, Mr. Andersson paid for the Spruce House himself, with support from the city of Turku, which owns the land, and some funding from the Kone Foundation, an arts sponsor in Finland. The total cost was €250,000 (about $275,000), excluding the external sculptures.

Mr. Andersson commissioned other Finnish artists to create the facade sculptures.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times
Mr. Andersson fastened them to the exterior in an arrangement that pleased him.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

Turku’s planning officials insisted the new house complement Life on a Leaf, effectively prohibiting Mr. Andersson from building anything bland or conventional. “Both buildings are works of art in themselves and contain separate visible artworks to delight people,” says Timo Hintsanen, director of development for the City of Turku. “From a cultural significance perspective, it is important that the complex is as open as possible.”

One final structure sits on the site: The sunshine-yellow sauna, shaped like an enormous garlic clove, or perhaps a Russian Orthodox Church dome, with bugle-shaped metal pipes where a stalk should be. This is the Sounding Dome, a fiberglass steamhouse created with the American sound artist Shawn Decker as a public commission in 2011. Today, the sauna is out of order and awaiting repair, but the sound installation still works. Inside are rows of chairs mounted on platforms — secondhand finds with the legs removed.

Mr. Andersson closes the door. Through the silence comes a discordant drone, like the low whine of an animal, then a shrill whistle and a gurgle. When the heat rises, the sound becomes louder and more intense — a way to heighten the senses beyond the powers of a standard sauna. “The sound travels around your head,” he says.

The sunshine-yellow sauna, shaped like an enormous garlic clove, is the “sounding dome,” a fiberglass steamhouse created with the American sound artist Shawn Decker.Credit...Vesa Laitinen for The New York Times

How often does he use it? “I am not a big sauna person,” he says. “It takes away your efficiency. I’m a workaholic.”

He hopes the Spruce House design may one day be replicated at scale, perhaps as some kind of experimental housing estate. On the way out, we pass two low stools with knobbly, concrete seats on the veranda. Mr. Andersson says he made the stools for philosophizing on.

“They are uncomfortable on purpose,” he says, “because we cannot be sure of anything.”

Read the full story here.
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Birding’s Tragic Blind Spot

Humans love to watch birds in nature. So why do we ignore the lives of the birds destined for our plates? The post Birding’s Tragic Blind Spot appeared first on The Revelator.

Birding is having a moment.  According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, there are more than 90 million birders in this country, making birding one of the most popular recreational activities, second only to walking. Bookstores have embraced this, with recently bestselling bird memoirs by authors Amy Tan and Margaret Renkl, as well as actor Lili Taylor. I too am a birder, though one troubled by a blind spot I see in too many of my fellow enthusiasts. Perhaps this blind spot is a side effect of looking at the world through binoculars. We spend so much time focused on distant birds that we don’t always see the birds closest to us. Like the birds on our plates. Consider the chicken. Globally, more than 80 billion chickens are killed each year, a number so big it borders on the unimaginable. I’ll break it down this way: By the time you finish reading this essay, nearly 18 million birds will have perished. Most chickens never see the sky, never set foot on planet Earth. They are born under artificial lights and die under artificial lights six horrific weeks later. Cage-free chickens may experience a bit more room and possibly a bit of sunshine, but the end result is equally dismal. A few chickens survive. Some are rescued (or stolen, depending on your perspective) from animal warehouses. (And yes, warehouse is a more appropriate term than farm.) In case you’re doubting how these birds differ from the ones we seek and celebrate, you might want to meet a few of them. Odds are, you’ll find an animal sanctuary near you — check the Global Federation of Animal Sanctuaries website for a list.  Perhaps you’re near the Woodstock Farm Sanctuary in High Falls, New York, where you can meet Peppermint, rescued from a live kill market, or The Iowa Survivors, 10 of the more than 1,400 chickens collectively saved when an egg facility in Iowa was preparing to kill 140,000 chickens during the darkest days of COVID. On my side of the country, at Tikkun Olam Sanctuary in Southern Oregon, you can meet Scissors, a bird born with a crossed beak, a genetic condition that makes it nearly impossible for her to eat like the other birds — a death sentence nearly anywhere but at a sanctuary. And if you hold Scissors in your arms as I have (she loves to be held), you might wonder how such a beautiful bird can be viewed by so many as disposable. If she hadn’t found her home at the sanctuary, she wouldn’t be alive today, deemed too much trouble to feed in reward for her eggs. As for turkeys, the United States has a national holiday to blame for the more than 200 million turkey deaths each year. And even ducks, for whom we happily make way in Boston, died to the tune of 28 million in 2024. How do we remove these birding blind spots? The first step is to acknowledge that all birds have equal value, including those we eat and those we may consider pests (such as starlings and pigeons). 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Lemurs Are Having a Mysterious 'Baby Boom' in Madagascar. Here's Why That Might Not Be a Good Thing

Researchers are investigating a sudden spike in pregnancies in one black-and-white ruffed lemur population that might signal environmental stress to the mammals

Lemurs Are Having a Mysterious ‘Baby Boom’ in Madagascar. Here’s Why That Might Not Be a Good Thing Researchers are investigating a sudden spike in pregnancies in one black-and-white ruffed lemur population that might signal environmental stress to the mammals Elizabeth Preston, bioGraphic November 7, 2025 8:30 a.m. A population of black-and-white ruffed lemurs on Madagascar is experiencing changes in the cadence of its breeding, researchers say. Inaki Relanzon / Nature Picture Library Every August, about halfway through his journey into Madagascar, veterinarian Randy Junge decides he’s never doing it again. After 30 hours of travel from the United States to reach the island off the southeast coast of Africa, he and his colleagues face a 12-hour trip by car over roads that are “bad to nonexistent,” he says. Then a team helps them carry their gear to camp—a hike of 18 miles through the rainforest. Once he recovers a little, though, Junge—who is the vice president of conservation medicine at the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium in Ohio—always changes his mind. He’ll be back. What stands to be learned about the long-term consequences of environmental change to the health of Madagascar’s lemurs is just too important. Junge works with Andrea Baden, a biological anthropologist at Hunter College in New York, on a long-term project monitoring a remote population of black-and-white ruffed lemurs (Varecia variegata). Baden started the project at Ranomafana National Park in southeast Madagascar in 2005. Junge joined in 2017. Every summer, they camp out at the park for about ten days and work with a Malagasy team to capture lemurs; conduct medical exams; and collect blood, feces and other samples for later analysis. They also observe lemur families and social interactions. For the rest of year, Malagasy research technicians, guides and graduate students keep tabs on the lemurs’ activity. 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Back in Ohio, Junge’s animal patients at the zoo “live a pretty soft life,” he says. The lemurs he sees in the rainforest, by contrast, bear signs of their tougher environment, such as cracked teeth or broken fingers that have healed crooked. The environment also shapes reproduction. The pampered black-and-white ruffed lemurs in zoos breed every year and often bear litters of three to five infants. In their native habitat of Madagascar, where all wild lemur species dwell, the black-and-white ruffed lemurs have fewer babies at a time—if they get pregnant at all. Like other lemur species in the wild, black-and-white ruffed lemurs live in the treetops, eat mostly fruit and breed within a specific window of time. But unlike their cousins, which breed annually or at regular intervals such as every other year, black-and-white ruffed lemurs have unpredictable gaps between birth years. Their fickle fecundity is reinforced in a surprising way. Most of the time—as is the case with other lemur species—a female black-and-white ruffed lemur’s vulva has no opening at all. “They could not have sex if they wanted to,” Baden says. But for 24 to 72 hours around July of a lucky year, she says, “Their vagina will open like a flower.” There’s a brief frenzy of mating. Then the females close up shop again. “It’s totally weird,” Baden says. Researchers Randy Junge and Andrea Baden visit the Ranomafana forest in Madagascar each year to study black-and-white ruffed lemurs with their Malagasy colleagues. Randy Junge The result is a boom-or-bust baby cycle: In the years when the Ranomafana population breeds, usually 80 to 100 percent of adult females end up giving birth that October. A mother normally has two or three infants at a time, born helpless and with their eyes closed, “like puppies,” Baden says. Unlike nearly every other hairy primate, young black-and-white ruffed lemurs are unable to cling to their moms’ fur.  For the first month or so of life, the mom has to stay with her young nearly full-time in the nest—a high platform of branches and leaves. For maybe an hour each day, she leaves to forage fruit and to socialize. “Mom takes off and will literally make a beeline to other females’ nests and pop in and pay little visits,” Baden says. After about a month, the mother moves her infants to a new nest, carrying them one at a time in her mouth. Outside this nest, an adult male or female will stand guard, letting the mother spend more time away. Some moms continue parenting like this, Baden says. Others change tack, teaming up with their neighbors instead. They carry their babies to the nests of relatives or friends, or to crooks of trees, and park the kids together under the eye of a sentinel male, while all the moms go out. Baden compares this arrangement to a kindergarten. The mothers who take advantage of shared nests spend more time feeding themselves, and their infants seem more likely to survive, perhaps because more regular meals for mom translate into richer milk. The synchrony of their reproductive habits helps to make this communal care possible. “Something in their environment tells them ‘yes’ or ‘no,’” Baden says. The availability of certain resources may serve as a signal to breed. But no one knows exactly what that signal is, she says. “We’re only just starting to understand this system.” Black-and-white ruffed lemurs typically birth two to three babies at a time, but their pregnancies can be as long as five years apart. Lauren Bilboe / Shutterstock From 2005 to 2023, Baden always saw two or more years between breeding seasons at Ranomafana. Gaps between breeding years seem to be the norm in other black-and-white ruffed lemur populations, too. In Madagascar’s Manombo forest, other researchers observed a stretch where black-and-white ruffed lemurs didn’t breed for five years. That’s why, at Ranomafana in 2024, field observers were startled to see the lemurs mating for the second year in a row. To learn more about what was going on with the population, the U.S. scientists brought a portable ultrasound machine on their annual field visit. (Coincidentally, Baden was eight months pregnant at the time. She sent a graduate student in her place to make the long journey and hike. “I’m tough, but not that tough,” she says.) The Ranomafana population consists of about 40 lemurs, with 15 or so adult females. As in other years, the team used tranquilizer darts to capture some of the lemurs. After using a net to catch each sleepy animal falling from the tree canopy, they collected medical data, conducted ultrasounds on the females and replaced radio collars as needed. The team managed to get ultrasounds on seven of the females. The blurry black-and-white images revealed another surprise: pregnant mothers—but only some. Four of the seven females were pregnant (three with twins and one with a single fetus). In normal years, either none of the females get pregnant, or nearly all of them do. “Not half,” Junge says. Furthermore, he says, one fetus was about twice as big as all the others, suggesting its mother had bred early, outside of the usual window. Junge and Baden brought a portable ultrasound into the field to determine if any females were pregnant for an unprecedented second year in a row. Randy Junge The scientists didn’t know how many of these fetuses would survive to term. Come fall, though, the infants arrived—not in October but mid-September, in yet another aberration from their usual pattern. Multiple litters were born. Some lemur moms successfully reproduced for the second year in a row. Two years of babies might seem like a good thing. But Baden worries that the consecutive breeding years in Ranomafana hint at something different—perhaps a scrambling of whatever environmental cues usually synchronize their boom-or-bust communal breeding. “We’re seeing kind of wonky timing of reproduction, and we’re seeing the plants are fruiting and flowering at different times,” likely due to climate change, Baden says. “We’re seeing way drier wet seasons.” All in all, she says, “There may be some sort of breakdown in the system.” Researchers estimated in 2019 that this species had declined by at least 80 percent over the prior two decades. If scientists can figure out what environmental cues influence the black-and-white ruffed lemurs’ reproduction, that knowledge could be critical for keeping them alive.  Junge is studying the lemurs’ blood to see if the presence of a certain vitamin or mineral in their diet, for example, predicts when they’ll breed. “For instance, if there was a critical nutrient they get from one tree that isn’t fruiting, it could upset the whole reproductive cycle,” Junge speculates. “It’s a little scary, because that ability to succeed may be a very fine line.” A black-and-white ruffed lemur on a branch Diego Grandi / Shutterstock Climate change is rattling Madagascar and its wildlife beyond Ranomafana National Park. In addition to warming and rainfall changes, cyclones are becoming more common and intense on the island. These storms knock down trees and leave holes in the canopy. Increasing storms could disrupt the lemurs’ food supply. Because black-and-white ruffed lemurs have a more selective fruit diet than other species do, they may struggle to adapt when cyclones destroy their preferred feeding trees. The five-year breeding gap in one black-and-white ruffed lemur population came after an intense cyclone tore through their forest.   But climate change is only one of the environmental factors threatening Madagascar’s lemurs. Habitat loss is an ongoing problem that’s difficult to combat, as Harizo Georginnot Rijamanalina, one of Baden’s Malagasy graduate students, has seen firsthand. Rijamanalina recalls visiting a forest in his village as a child. He was tagging along with his father, who was on a mining expedition. While his dad’s team dug their pit, Rijamanalina explored the forest, collecting sticks to make into toy weapons, while lemurs swung overhead. That forest is still intact; Rijamanalina went home for a visit in 2022 and identified about 11 lemur species living there. After finishing his PhD at the University of Antananarivo in Madagascar’s capital city, he plans to take his expertise back home and work on conserving that site and its wildlife. But other areas of lemur habitat across the island have shrunk as he has grown up. The impacts of climate change on the forest, Rijamanalina says, are “exacerbated by intervention of local communities, who struggle from the difficult life.” In trying to survive, they log the forests, mine them for gold or gemstones, or hunt the lemurs themselves for meat.  “You see, every year, the forest [gets] pushed back,” says Tim Eppley, chief conservation officer at the U.S.-based conservation nonprofit Wildlife Madagascar. “It’s largely driven by lack of opportunity and food for the local human populations.” All wild lemurs live in Madagascar and the nearby Comoro Islands, and most populations have been impacted by the forces of development and climate change. Luca Nichetti / Shutterstock As a result, Eppley says, lemurs today are in “a very precarious situation.” Nearly all of Madagascar’s more than 100 lemur species are threatened with extinction. “Many of them have very small populations that exist just within a single forest, or maybe a series of forest fragments,” Eppley says. Every population is critical to protect, scientists say. Baden and her team hope that continuing the ultrasounds in coming field seasons, along with their other biomedical research, will unlock secrets about the black-and-white ruffed lemur’s fertility and unusual reproductive habits that could help safeguard the species. By tracking which lemurs get pregnant, then comparing the data to how the lemur families look later, the team can find out how many pregnancies arise from the short breeding season—and how many of those fetuses make it to term and survive. Lemurs have semi-opposable thumbs that help them grip branches. Pav-Pro Photography Ltd / Shutterstock Even though some Ranomafana females gave birth in two consecutive seasons, “I’ll be curious to see what mortality looks like this time,” Baden says. She’s noticed more infants in recent years not making it to their first birthday. It could be yet another sign that, between the poorly understood lemurs and their shifting environment, some equilibrium is slipping. Was the Ranomafana lemurs’ one weird year in 2024 the start of a trend that could hurt their odds of survival? Or just a fluke? In 2025, the Malagasy team didn’t notice the lemurs mating and assumed things were back to normal. The U.S. researchers brought the portable ultrasound with them when they returned to the rainforest in August, though, just to be sure. And what they found was unprecedented: At least two females were pregnant, yet again. If the babies make it to term, it will be one mother’s third straight year of breeding. She’ll birth those infants, though, into an uncertain future. This story originally appeared in bioGraphic, an independent magazine about nature and regeneration powered by the California Academy of Sciences. Get the latest Science stories in your inbox.

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California lawmakers found money for these pet projects even as they slashed the budget

California lawmakers faced a difficult budget year, but they still managed to put hundreds of millions of dollars in earmarks in the state budget to benefit their districts — and help them get re-elected.

In summary California lawmakers faced a difficult budget year, but they still managed to put hundreds of millions of dollars in earmarks in the state budget to benefit their districts — and help them get re-elected. Despite facing a $12 billion deficit this year, California’s Legislature still managed to spend at least $415 million for local projects to help lawmakers win their next elections.  CalMatters found close to 100 earmarks inserted into just one of the state’s budget bills for local projects and programs that had little apparent benefit to anyone outside the lawmakers’ districts. Some of the earmarks raise concerns about legislative priorities in a difficult budget year, such as lawmakers spending millions from the general fund on museums, trails, parks and other amenities in wealthy communities.The spending includes $5 million in general fund money for a LGBTQ+ venue in high-cost San Francisco, $2.5 million for a private day school in Southern California and $250,000 for a private farm-animal rescue on the North Coast. Around $250 million of the local-project earmarks were funds taken from the $10 billion Proposition 4 climate bond California voters approved last year.  Some of the Prop. 4 earmarks included:  $26 million to programs paying farmers for private land conservation. $20 million to help the public access a Southern California beach gated off by a wealthy community. $15 million for “geologic heritage sites” including the La Brea Tar Pits — whose fossils have been used to study climate change in the last epoch. The earmarks were approved at the same time Gov. Gavin Newsom and lawmakers left state worker positions unfilled, suspended some health care benefits, forewent raises for firefighters, filled budget holes with high-interest bond money and took billions of dollars from the state’s “rainy day” emergency fund. Kristen Cox, executive director of the Long Beach Community Table foodbank, said the money lawmakers spent this year to enhance communities in their districts — often for projects that some would consider frills — isn’t going to the neediest Californians. “It’s misprioritization,” she said. “My priorities are to help the people that need it the most. Their priorities seem to be ‘Let’s make this city look gentrified and pretty and beautiful.’”  A secret process that benefits lawmakers Many of the earmarks — one-time allotments of cash for a specific purpose or project — are fairly benign and went to local infrastructure needs such as fire stations, parks, public schools and environmental projects.  They also represent just a small portion of the state’s $321 billion budget, which pays for programs and services that typically are intended to help all of California.  But inside the notoriously secretive budget negotiation process, lawmakers also have the ability to set aside sizable chunks of money to benefit their districts through an even more opaque earmark system.  It allows them to direct money to their pet projects without leaving a fingerprint — at least until they issue a press release touting a new community perk or show up for ribbon-cutting and check-passing ceremonies. Such spending, disparagingly called “pork-barrel spending” or “pork” for short, is hardly new or unique to California, said Thad Kousser, a former legislative staffer and political science professor at UC San Diego. He has extensively studied equity in how politicians divide up budgets for local needs.  Learn more about legislators mentioned in this story. Mike McGuire Democrat, State Senate, District 2 (Santa Rosa) Christopher Cabaldon Democrat, State Senate, District 3 Jerry McNerney Democrat, State Senate, District 5 (Stockton) Scott Wiener Democrat, State Senate, District 11 (San Francisco) Monique Limón Democrat, State Senate, District 19 (Santa Barbara) Benjamin Allen Democrat, State Senate, District 24 (El Segundo) Henry Stern Democrat, State Senate, District 27 (Calabasas) Catherine Blakespear Democrat, State Senate, District 38 (Encinitas) Brian Jones Republican, State Senate, District 40 (San Diego) Cecilia Aguiar-Curry Democrat, State Assembly, District 4 (Davis) Ash Kalra Democrat, State Assembly, District 25 (San Jose) Gregg Hart Democrat, State Assembly, District 37 (Santa Barbara) Jesse Gabriel Democrat, State Assembly, District 46 (Encino) There’s a reason it’s pervasive: When politicians keep the cash flowing back home, it helps them get re-elected, he said. “Politicians across generations — and in every country — try to use some portion of the budget on these clear signals that they’re directing the flow of government dollars to real people and real organizations right at home in their district,” he said. “Voters reward that.” Eyeing higher office? Send pork home The biggest recipient of the earmarks in Senate Bill 105 appears to be the North Coast Senate district of Democratic Senate President Pro Tem Mike McGuire. After losing his legislative leadership seat this year, he seems to be positioning himself for a congressional bid, according to The Santa Rosa Press Democrat. If he does run, he’ll be able to tout all the cash he brought to his Senate district this year.  His district was the recipient of more than two dozen earmarks totalling more than $100 million, accounting for a quarter of the earmark funds CalMatters identified. They went to fund a regional hospital, harbors, habitat projects, schools and fire stations. His district also received $250,000 for the farm-animal rescue.  State Sen. President Pro Tem Mike McGuire during a floor session at the state Capitol in Sacramento on April 24, 2025. Photo by Fred Greaves for CalMatters His largest earmarks included $50 million in Prop. 4 funds for a redwood trail that’s to run 320 miles across his district. McGuire’s office didn’t make him available for an interview. McGuire instead sent an emailed statement defending the earmarks. “Our state’s budget includes smart, one-time investments across California,” McGuire said. “Many in our state have been working on these projects for years to make California safer, stronger and more resilient.” Sen. Scott Wiener, the powerful Senate Budget Committee chairperson from San Francisco, is definitely running for higher office. Wiener announced last month he’s running for Nancy Pelosi’s congressional seat. The budget included at least $9 million in general fund earmarks benefiting the voters of San Francisco who will decide whether to send him to Washington, D.C. The money went for parks, restroom improvements and “to support the preservation and revitalization of a historic LGBTQ+ venue” in the city’s Castro neighborhood, according to the budget bill which doesn’t name the venue.  San Francisco is also slated to receive $1 million for a new oncology clinic and chemotherapy center for Chinese Hospital and $250,000 for “accessibility improvements” to Wah Mei child development center. Wiener’s office didn’t respond to interview requests. Lawmakers complained of earmarks None of the earmarks have a lawmaker’s name on them, making it extremely difficult for members of the public — or even other lawmakers — to decipher whose they are and which districts benefited. The governor’s administration is responsible for some. Legislative staff told CalMatters while reporting this story that earmark requests sent to budget committees aren’t public records.  CalMatters instead used the Digital Democracy database’s ‘Find your legislators’ tool to triangulate which pork projects are in which lawmakers’ districts from earmarks inserted into SB 105. That’s one of 40 budget-related bills Newsom signed this year. There are almost certainly more earmarks buried in the other budget measures. The secretive nature of earmarks — and the number and size of them this year — became a source of contention in September at the Senate Budget and Fiscal Review Committee.  Some Democratic lawmakers complained that so many last-minute earmarks had popped up in the spending bills. They questioned whether the earmarks were being fairly distributed to communities with the most need. “For the climate bond money, the general fund money, the Medi-Cal money, the Department of Education money, across the transit money, in almost every one, there is at least one — sometimes 40 — specific allocations,” Sacramento Sen. Christopher Cabaldon told the committee.  “The broader concern about equity and balance in those earmarks is certainly a point really well taken,” said Sen. Ben Allen, a Democrat representing the El Segundo area. Nonetheless, none of the 90 Democrats who control the Legislature voted against the budget this year, according to Digital Democracy.Newsom also signed it into law. His office didn’t respond to an interview request.  Susan Shelley of the Howard Jarvis Taxpayers Association blasted the pork-project spending as hypocritical, especially as some liberal groups and lawmakers support raising taxes or turning to voters to pass new bonds to prop up the state’s shaky finances. Politicians, she said, like to say, “‘We need money for everything in California.’ And what are they spending the money on now? Basically gifts to the districts that make the elected representatives look good and that are not essential or not as essential.” Pork in Prop. 4  About $275 million in Prop. 4 funds also went to backfill the state’s general fund budget covering existing environmental, fire and energy programs and for expenses such as deferred maintenance at state parks.  Using bond funds to pay for existing expenses in the general fund means there’s less bond money available to pay for the new expenditures voters thought they were supporting. The separate bond earmarks from lawmakers reflect their priorities and may not necessarily be what voters wanted either. Some of the lawmakers’ earmarks include:  $40 million to secure public access to a beach blocked off by the wealthy gated Hollister Ranch community in Santa Barbara County and for a separate dam-removal project. Both projects are in the district of Sen. Monique Limón, who is replacing McGuire as the Senate Democratic leader next year. She shares a district with a handful of assemblymembers who may have sought the earmarks.  Limón’s district also received $1 million for a museum in Santa Barbara “for an interactive water exhibit.” Limón replied to an interview request with an email from her spokesperson, Christina Montoya. “While the senator was not involved in Prop. 4 allocations,” Montoya said, “she is glad to see projects funded that advance the goals of the state.” An aerial photo of Hollister Ranch, located west of Santa Barbara along the Gaviota Coast, on June 16, 2021. Photo by George Rose, Getty Images $1 million went to the UC Davis Integrative Center for Alternative Meat and Protein, primarily at the request of San Jose Assemblymember Ash Kalra. UC Davis isn’t in Kalra’s district, but he’s a vegan and the chair of the Assembly Select Committee On Alternative Protein Innovation. The $15 million earmark “for geologic heritage sites” including the La Brea Tar Pits in Los Angeles was from Democratic Assemblymember Isaac Bryan. His office didn’t make him available for an interview. Taxpayers will pay at least $6 billion in interest and other expenses to finance Prop. 4 over the next four decades. Using Prop. 4 to pay farmers  An example of how earmarks lock up Prop. 4 funds can be found in this year’s budget for the Wildlife Conservation Board. The $10 billion bond is supposed to provide $1 billion for the board to give out as grants in the coming years. The board uses a competitive process that prioritizes habitat project proposals to provide the most ecological benefits for California. This year, the Legislature gave the board $339 million in Prop. 4 money to spend. But about a quarter of it — $88 million — is going to projects the board must now fund because of  lawmakers’ earmarks.  Gregg Hart, a Santa Barbara Democratic assemblymember, got one of the biggest earmarks from the board’s funds — $16 million for a conservation easement on Rancho San Julian, a 13,000-acre private ranch in his district. Conservation easements are legal agreements that ensure private lands don’t get sold and turned into environmentally unfriendly developments.  In an interview, Hart said preserving the ranch’s habitat in perpetuity is in line with what voters intended when they voted for Prop. 4. Assemblymember Gregg Hart speaks during a committee hearing on petroleum and gasoline supply on Sept. 18, 2024. Photo by Miguel Gutierrez Jr., CalMatters “In my district, this is a signature ranch that is an environmental gem,” Hart said. “And preserving that is a very high-value project.” The conservation board also must allocate $10 million in Prop. 4 earmarks to programs that will pay farmers and private wetland landowners in the Central Valley to flood their fields to provide habitat for waterbirds.  Central Valley farmers already have received hundreds of millions of dollars in federal crop subsidies over the decades. The flooded-field earmarks came from Democratic Sen. Jerry McNerney, who represents the Stockton area, and Assemblymember Cecilia Aguiar-Curry representing the Davis area. In an emailed statement, McNerney called the $10 million expenditure a “win-win for farmers and for wetlands … ensuring that migratory birds have places to rest and refuel on their long journey on the Pacific Flyway.” The total number of earmarks relying on Prop. 4 funds has Senate Republican Leader Brian Jones of San Diego saying, “I told you so.” He urged voters to reject the bond last year.  “It was going to be pork,” he said. “It was going to be earmarked projects that the legislators are going to be able to move …. into things that really didn’t have anything to do with the story that was being told to the voters when they voted.” Jones’ district was the recipient of some pork, though he said he made no requests for Prop. 4 money. His earmarks were from the general fund. They include $1.4 million for San Diego County dam repairs and $615,000 to the San Diego Mountain Biking Association “for building and maintaining public trails for mountain biking.”  ‘What did we get?’ from the general fund Other notable earmarks from general fund dollars, separate from the climate bond, include large one-time allocations for projects to benefit the state’s Jewish community. The Legislature has an  18-member Jewish Caucus.The funds include $15 million for the Museum of Tolerance and the Holocaust Memorial in Los Angeles as well as $5.4 million for the Jewish Community Center of the East Bay.  The Los Angeles Jewish community and interfaith leaders hold a candle lighting ceremony marking the exact moment of the first anniversary since Hamas spearheaded attacks on Israel on Oct. 7, at a ceremony at The Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles on Oct. 6, 2024. Photo by Damian Dovarganes, AP Photo An earmark for $2.5 million also went “for security and other infrastructure” at Milken Community School East Campus, a private Los Angeles Jewish school with annual tuition of nearly $55,000. The school is in Assemblymember Jesse Gabriel’s and Sen. Henry Stern’s districts. Stern’s office said the earmark for the private school wasn’t his. Gabriel co-chairs the Legislative Jewish Caucus with Wiener. Gabriel also oversees the Assembly Budget Committee. He didn’t return messages. Neither did the school.Gabriel this week attended a check-passing ceremony at the Discovery Cube in Los Angeles. He and two other local lawmakers touted getting the children’s museum a $5 million earmark from Prop. 4 funds. Other earmarks using general fund money included at least $1.7 million for trail improvements and an urban garden in Democratic Sen. Catherine Blakespear’s wealthy coastal district, as well as $3.6 million for the Oceanside Museum of Art.  Blakespear responded to an interview request with an emailed statement. “I’m grateful that these impactful community projects were funded through the state’s general fund,” she said. “I know they will provide immense value to these communities and their residents and are deserving of funding.” She announced this week she would be appearing at a check-passing ceremony for one of her earmarks: $1.2 million to the city of Mission Viejo for the Oso Creek Trail Improvement Project. Former Stockton-area Democratic state Sen. Susan Talamantes Eggman said such earmarks are hardly surprising. She was proud to bring back to her district $10 million in her last term to reopen two dilapidated community swimming pools.   “I mean, that is fantastic for my district,” she said.  But she acknowledged it is a lot harder for lawmakers to justify those sorts of expenses when there are so many of them in a difficult budget year.  “I think you either hope that (people) won’t find out, or they see what stuff they’re getting, and they’re like, ‘Oh, all right, well, as long as we got ours,’ right?” she said. “What people are more concerned about is equity. ‘What did we get?’”

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Crews Are Working to Fix Alaska Native Villages Devastated by Flooding. but Will Residents Return?

Crews are working to repair remote Alaska Native villages that were devastated by the remnants of a typhoon last month

KWIGILLINGOK, Alaska (AP) — Darrel John watched the final evacuees depart his village on the western coast of Alaska in helicopters and small planes and walked home, avoiding the debris piled on the boardwalks over the swampy land.He is one of seven residents who chose to remain in Kwigillingok after the remnants of Typhoon Halong devastated the village last month, uprooting homes and floating many of them miles away, some with residents inside. One person was killed and two remain missing.“I just couldn’t leave my community,” John said while inside the town’s school, a shelter and command post where he has helped solve problems in the storm's aftermath.But what will become of that community and others damaged by the severe flooding — whether their people, including John's children, will come back — is an open question as winter arrives.The office of Alaska Gov. Mike Dunleavy says the state's focus is on repairing the villages and supporting the more than 1,600 people who were displaced. It could take 18 months. Hundreds are in temporary housing, many in Alaska's biggest city, Anchorage, where they must accustom themselves to a world very different from the subsistence lifestyle they're used to.Even with short-term repairs, residents question whether their villages can persist where they are as rising seas, erosion, melting permafrost and worsening storms threaten inundation year after year. John hopes repairs can keep the community together long enough to come up with a plan to move the village.“A lot of people have claimed they’re not returning. They don’t want to do this again,” said Louise Paul, a 35-year resident of Kipnuk, the hardest-hit village, who evacuated about 100 miles away to the regional hub city of Bethel. “Every fall, we have a flood. It might not be as extreme as this one was, but as the years have set in, we’re seeing it. The climate warming is increasing the storms and they’re just getting worse and worse.” A region of natural abundance — and floods Where the Yukon and Kuskokwim rivers enter the Bering Sea is one of the largest river deltas in the world — a low-lying area roughly the size of Alabama, with dozens of villages and a population of about 25,000 people. For thousands of years Athabascan and Yup’ik people were nomadic, following the seasons as they fished for salmon and hunted moose, walrus, seals, ducks and geese. They settled into permanent villages around churches or schools after missionaries and then government arrived. Those villages remain off the road system — connected by plane or boat, with all-terrain vehicles or snowmachines in winter.Flooding has long been a problem. Strong winds can push high tides and even sheets of ice onto land. In the 1960s, tidal floods prompted some frustrated residents of Kwigillingok to start another village, Konkiganak, about 10 miles (16 kilometers) away. Alaska Native villages on the front lines of global warming With climate change, storms have grown more intense. Shorter periods of ice coverage means less protection from erosion. Melting permafrost undermines villages.Kwigillingok spent years seeking state and federal help as well as working to raise some houses on pilings and to move others to higher ground, according to a 2019 report from the Alaska Institute for Justice. But that “high ground” is only about 3 feet (0.9 m) above the rest of the village on the flat, treeless tundra.In Kipnuk, the Kugkaktlik River has cut ever closer. This year, the Trump administration canceled a $20 million grant for a rock wall to reinforce the riverbank — a step recommended by the Army Corps of Engineers in 2009 — amid the administration’s efforts to cut government spending.Some 144 Alaska Native communities face threats from warming, said a 2024 report from the Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium. Over the next 50 years, some $4.3 billion will be needed to mitigate damage, it found.Relocating villages is no easy task. Newtok began planning in the mid-1990s and only moved its last residents into the new town of Mertarvik, northwest of Kwigillingok, last year. The relocation cost more than $160 million in state and federal money. A storm surge unlike others Harry Friend has lived through many floods in Kwigillingok in his 65 years, but nothing like what the remnants of Typhoon Halong brought the night of Oct. 11. Other homes, loosed from the ground, bashed his before floating upriver. The Coast Guard plucked dozens of survivors from rooftops.“When the water started coming in, my house was floating, shaking, floating, shaking," he said. The next morning, the homes of his older sisters and brother, who lived next door, were gone.His family has settled with relatives in a nearby village, but he returned to see what he could salvage and to retrieve his shotguns so he can hunt.Unmoored homes are scattered across the tundra like game pieces on a board. One building rested on its corrugated metal roof and rocked in the wind. Others had smashed into boardwalks. Coffins lodged in above-ground cemeteries washed away.But work crews have arrived with large earth movers, gravel and other material brought by barge. Some residents have come back to help, such as by repairing boardwalks, recovering coffins or righting fishing boats that overturned.Efforts to rebuild, which include repairing water and fuel lines, will proceed as long as the weather allows, said state emergency management spokesman Jeremy Zidek.Kwigillingok resident Nettie Igkurak stayed behind to cook traditional food for the workers, search crews and remaining residents. The school freezer works, and it's stocked with moose meat.“I knew I had to stay and cook for them because they had no one,” she said.Friend has since rejoined his family. He couldn't remain at the home for the winter: The power outage spoiled his stockpile of seal, walrus, moose and beluga whale. And because the storm surge forced salt water from the Bering Sea into the village, there's little access to fresh water.He knows the village will likely need relocation.“This is our land," Friend said. “You’ve got to come back to your home."Some 500 miles (800 km) away, Darrell John of Kipnuk — not related to the Darrel John who remained in Kwigillingok — is realizing his idyllic subsistence life may be over.“We’re probably never going back home,” he said as he took a break from filling out assistance applications at a shelter in Anchorage.Like other residents, he was airlifted twice — first to the regional hub of Bethel, and then to Anchorage when shelters in Bethel became too crowded. He and his family are staying in a motel room.They abandoned their home for the village school as the water rose at 2 a.m. When he returned, it was gone, along with his shed full of freezers packed with berries, fish, moose and seal.He got in a boat, found his house far upriver, and retrieved some clothing and birth certificates.As they were airlifted out, he saw that most of the village cemetery's graves were gone. He felt like he was abandoning his late mother and brother.Anchorage has its advantages, he said: “Flushing toilets; we don’t have them back home.”But to hunt, he now needs permits and for the animals to be in season — hurdles foreign to subsistence hunters.And he will need a job — but what?“I have no idea,” John said. “This was not a plan to be here."Johnson reported from Seattle and Bohrer from Juneau, Alaska.___ The Associated Press’ climate and environmental coverage receives financial support from multiple private foundations. AP is solely responsible for all content. Find AP’s standards for working with philanthropies, a list of supporters and funded coverage areas at AP.org.Copyright 2025 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Photos You Should See – Oct. 2025

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Researchers Found Hundreds of Mysterious Dimples on the Seafloor Near Antarctica. Now They Know What Creature Made Them

The indentations are nests of fish called yellowfin notie, and they are not randomly scattered—rather, they appear to have been arranged in distinct patterns

Researchers Found Hundreds of Mysterious Dimples on the Seafloor Near Antarctica. Now They Know What Creature Made Them The indentations are nests of fish called yellowfin notie, and they are not randomly scattered—rather, they appear to have been arranged in distinct patterns Sarah Kuta - Daily Correspondent November 6, 2025 8:56 a.m. While seaching for Ernest Shackleton's lost ship Endurance in 2019, researchers stumbled across clusters of indentations on the seafloor. Weddell Sea Expedition 2019 Scientists were using an underwater robot to explore the waters around Antarctica when they came across a peculiar scene: The seafloor was dotted with hundreds of mysterious dimple-like indentations. At first, the researchers were totally perplexed. Working aboard the polar research vessel S.A. Agulhas II, they went back and forth, debating what the imprints might be—and what might have made them, reports BBC Wildlife Magazine’s Melissa Hobson. Now, the scientists say they have an answer. The depressions were nests created by yellowfin notie (Lindbergichthys nudifrons), a type of fish that thrives in the extreme cold of Antarctic waters. Researchers describe their discovery in a new paper published October 28 in the journal Frontiers in Marine Science. Fun fact: A big berg When the giant iceberg A68 broke free from the Larsen C ice shelf in 2017, it made news, even becoming a social media star. It's no wonder: The iceberg was twice as large as the entire country of Luxembourg and was even visible from space, before breaking up into smaller pieces. The discovery “goes to show that exploration of our world is still underway, with constant new findings,” lead author Russ Connelly, a marine biologist at the University of Essex in England, tells CNN’s Ashley Strickland. Researchers discovered the yellowfin notie nests during the 2019 Weddell Sea Expedition. The mission, which took place in January and February 2019, included scientists from around the world. It had several goals. A big one was to find Ernest Shackleton’s lost ship Endurance, which became trapped in sea ice and sank in 1915. But the team also wanted to investigate ice shelves in the Weddell Sea, particularly a largely unexplored region of the Larsen C ice shelf on the Antarctic Peninsula. In July 2017, a massive, 2,200-square-mile iceberg called A68 broke free from the ice shelf, revealing a huge swath of newly accessible seafloor below. “That calving event provided a unique opportunity to study a region undergoing rapid environmental change, specifically the first chance to study previously inaccessible areas of the seabed that were once underneath A68,” Connelly writes in a commentary accompanying the paper.The researchers didn’t find the Endurance—though another group located it three years later in 2022—but they did learn plenty about the Weddell Sea, one of the most remote and least studied regions on the planet, Connelly writes. The yellowfin notie nests, for example, were a major find. In total, the team documented 1,036 nests across five sites. The researchers found larvae in and around 72 of them. Video footage also revealed new insights about the creatures, including how they arrange their nests to ensure the survival of their young. The nests, which had all been cleared of plankton, were not randomly scattered. Instead, they were “organized into distinct patterns, forming a vast, geometric fish neighborhood on the seafloor,” Connelly writes. Over 1,000 Strange Markings Discovered On Antarctic Seafloor Many of the nests were arranged in clusters, and the scientists suspect this setup helps keep the eggs safe from hungry predators, like brittle stars and ribbon worms. Once the eggs are laid, males stand guard for roughly four months to ensure the little ones don’t get eaten. Since yellowfin notie males are known to defend the area surrounding their nest—up to about 9.8 inches away—the clusters likely make everyone safer. Some of the nests were more isolated, perched on the outskirts of the communities. Researchers think those are inhabited by larger, stronger fish that are better suited to defend themselves and their eggs on their own. The arrangement is an example of the “selfish herd” theory, which posits that animals “reduce their domain of danger by putting other individuals between themselves and an approaching predator,” the researchers write in the paper. Similar defensive nesting patterns have been observed in other species of fish, though this is the first time scientists have documented it in yellowfin notie. “The entire community is a dynamic interplay between cooperation and self-preservation,” Connelly writes. Nearly 15 percent of the active nests had pebbles in and around them, and some had been built next to rocks. The researchers suspect the fish might be taking advantage of stones that fall off icebergs as they melt. These rocks “are ideal to lay eggs on as they allow good oxygenation of the eggs, helping to prevent rotting on the seafloor, whilst also providing a barrier to animals living within the muds to eating the eggs,” Autun Purser, an ecologist at the Alfred Wegener Institute who was not involved with the research but reviewed the paper for the journal, tells CNN. Zooming out, the scientists hope their findings will help support efforts to get the Weddell Sea designated as a marine protected area. The move would not only help protect charismatic creatures like penguins and seals, but also “these hidden nurseries that form part of the Antarctic food web,” Connelly writes. “These underwater environments are a powerful reminder that even in the planet’s most extremes, life finds a way to build complex, resilient communities,” he adds. Get the latest stories in your inbox every weekday.

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