Cookies help us run our site more efficiently.

By clicking “Accept”, you agree to the storing of cookies on your device to enhance site navigation, analyze site usage, and assist in our marketing efforts. View our Privacy Policy for more information or to customize your cookie preferences.

This 'Clock' Could Warn of Hidden Stresses to Animals, Offering a Long-Sought Signal That a Population Is Nearing Collapse

News Feed
Tuesday, October 7, 2025

This ‘Clock’ Could Warn of Hidden Stresses to Animals, Offering a Long-Sought Signal That a Population Is Nearing Collapse The epigenetic clock measures biological age and could help scientists assess the health of polar bears, dolphins, baboons and other threatened creatures “while recovery is still possible” The epigenetic clock is emerging as a wildlife conservation tool. Knowable Magazine Key takeaways: Epigenetic clocks as a conservation tool Conservationists have been searching for a biological marker to hint that an animal population is in distress so that they can address warning signs before a collapse becomes inevitable. A recent preprint study used epigenetic clocks, a marker of “biological age,” to find that polar bear populations are aging more quickly than previous generations did, suggesting melting sea ice is taking a toll on their health. Wildlife conservation is a race against time—too often, a losing one. Typically, by the time scientists detect signs of species decline, populations have already collapsed. Genetic diversity is already depleted. Birth rates have plunged. And by the time these biological red flags are seen, the window for effective intervention has nearly closed. That’s what happened with the passenger pigeon: Once the most abundant bird in North America, it vanished in the blink of an ecological eye—wiped out by unchecked hunting and habitat destruction before anyone realized how fast the population was unraveling. The same story played out with the Chinese river dolphin, the Pyrenean ibex and the Caribbean monk seal. Silent declines went unnoticed for years until the tipping point had passed, leaving conservationists to document extinctions instead of preventing them. And the northern white rhino? By the time the world finally paid attention, the damage was irreversible. Poachers had reduced the species to two surviving individuals—both female. Determined to avoid more preventable losses, scientists have begun hunting for molecular warning signs that appear before populations spiral. But early leads, such as stress hormones and the length of the specialized tips of chromosomes—telomeres—have proved fickle, too easily swayed by the daily chaos of life in the wild. That’s why many scientists are now pinning their hopes on a novel tool called an epigenetic clock. This molecular timekeeper doesn’t keep time like a wristwatch, though. Instead, it measures “biological age,” a hidden ledger that can echo the calendar’s count but also offers a more nuanced reflection of how fast an organism is wearing down from stress, disease and environmental hardship. Epigenetic clocks work by analyzing patterns of chemical tags called methyl groups that get added to or subtracted from DNA at predictable sites across the genome as animals grow older. Some of these methylation signatures are remarkably stable and tightly linked to aging across many species. And, crucially for conservationists, they can be read from a simple tissue or blood sample. In the lab, researchers analyze skin biopsies from Lahille’s dolphins to measure DNA methylation patterns—molecular marks that reveal both true age and signs of accelerated aging. Oceanographic Museum Prof. Eliézer de C. Rios / FURG, Southern Brazil That makes epigenetic clocks especially valuable for elusive or long-lived species, where accurate age data are often missing. Wildlife biologists are already using these clocks to understand the age structures of animal populations, offering insights into their reproduction, survival and longevity. But the clocks hold deeper promise. When an animal’s biological age runs higher than its chronological one, it can signal physiological strain—a kind of molecular distress flare that may go off before any visible signs of problems. The potential for detecting accelerated aging before a population begins to visibly collapse is what excites Colin Garroway, an evolutionary ecologist at the University of Manitoba in Canada. “Almost everything else we have is a lagging indicator of species decline,” he says. “This is at least potentially forward-looking.” Garroway’s confidence in the power of epigenetic clocks took shape through a study of polar bears from the Canadian Arctic. In work now posted on the preprint server bioRxiv, which has not yet undergone peer review, he and his colleagues found that bears born in recent decades are aging markedly faster than those from earlier generations—their biological ages outpacing their chronological ones. The likely cause, the researchers conclude: Longer ice-free periods are stranding bears on land, cutting off access to the seals that form the core of their diet, ultimately sapping the fat reserves they need to survive. “The change is too fast and too significant for them,” says co-author Evan Richardson, a polar bear ecologist with Environment and Climate Change Canada, the government agency that partially funded the study. That burden is then evident in the telltale molecular marks on the animals’ DNA. Richardson hopes the findings will force the “harder discussions” around polar bear management. But beyond sounding the alarm for this one imperiled species, he and his colleagues are hopeful that the wider conservation community will embrace epigenetic clocks as a proactive tool to safeguard biodiversity—before the point of no return. As Meaghan Jones, a University of Manitoba medical geneticist involved in the research, puts it: “This is a way to monitor populations in real time and see how stress is impacting them while recovery is still possible.” Clocking in The idea of tracking biological age through molecular changes first gained traction in studies of human DNA. Beginning in the early 2010s, biogerontologist Steve Horvath—then at the University of California, Los Angeles and now with the anti-aging biotech company Altos Labs—identified dozens and later hundreds of sites in the genome where DNA methylation tags were predictably gained or lost as people grew older. He used methylation patterns to construct a statistical model that could estimate a person’s age, launching the first epigenetic clocks. Horvath’s clocks emerged as powerful health indicators, with individuals whose biological age exceeded their chronological one showing a higher risk of chronic illness or early death—and that same logic, outlined in the 2025 issue of the Annual Review of Public Health, soon found a foothold in wildlife biology, too. Wild wood mice are helping scientists at the University of Edinburgh uncover how environmental factors such as food shortages and parasite infections accelerate biological aging. suffolk_jim / iNaturalist In 2021, for example, a team led by Jenny Tung, an evolutionary anthropologist now at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Germany, developed a baboon-specific version of the epigenetic clock and applied it to a wild population in Kenya’s Amboseli basin. The researchers found that males with a high dominance rank tended to be biologically older than their lower-status peers, even when their chronological ages were the same. It was a compelling demonstration that the clock could connect ecologically relevant pressures to accelerated aging in a wild animal. And contrary to what might be expected—that social success would track with better health—it revealed the biological toll of dominance. “Attaining and maintaining high rank is costly,” Tung says. Other studies linking life stressors to accelerated aging would eventually follow—Garroway’s polar bear work among the most prominent—but most early adopters of epigenetic clocks for wildlife biology focused on a more basic goal: filling gaps in demographic data. Traditionally, estimating the age of wildlife involves methods such as tooth extraction to count growth rings, which is labor-intensive and intrusive. Epigenetic clocks, in contrast, require a small tissue or blood sample, often obtainable through remote methods like dart biopsies. From there, researchers extract DNA and use lab methods to read the methylation patterns known to change with age. Then, they apply statistical models to compare the patterns with animals of known ages. Inspired by the work of Horvath and others, wildlife biologists began adapting epigenetic clocks for the animals they study: humpback whales, lampreys, sea turtles, salmon. Then, in 2017, Horvath secured a $1.5 million grant to build clocks for a menagerie of species. Lions and tigers and bears Horvath began cold-emailing field biologists, zoo veterinarians and wildlife researchers, inviting anyone with blood, DNA or other archived tissues in their freezers to join the project. “Whoever had samples became a partner,” he says. Specimens poured in—for nearly 350 animal species in total, representing 25 of the 26 known taxonomic orders of mammal. Horvath generated clocks for elephants, bats, zebras, monkeys, marmots, mole rats and more. From this, he and his global network of collaborators built a universal mammalian epigenetic clock, one that factored in each species’ maximum lifespan alongside observable shifts in DNA methylation over time. The result was a clock that could accurately gauge an individual’s age, both chronological and biological, from a DNA sample—not just in humans or lab mice, but in otters, opossums and Tasmanian devils, too. Horvath’s main aim was to explore how aging unfolds across the animal kingdom and what accelerates the process—potentially uncovering antiaging mechanisms that might be replicated pharmaceutically. But there were clear applications for conservation, starting with filling in missing details about survival and reproduction in the wild. In Alaska, for example, wildlife biologist Susannah Woodruff, then with the United States Fish and Wildlife Service and now with the state’s Department of Fish and Game, turned to the pan-mammalian clock to estimate the ages of the state’s polar bears. Working independently of the Canadian team pursuing similar questions, she and her colleagues first ran samples through this “universal” clock and found it performed reasonably well, producing estimates within a year or two of the bears’ true ages. “That’s pretty good,” Woodruff says. Building a clock tailored specifically to polar bears was better still. Doing that required getting blood samples from known-age individuals—something not feasible for every species—but in Woodruff’s case, she had access to nearly 200 such bears. And as a head-to-head comparison published in July showed, the bear-specific clock yielded more precise and reliable results, pinpointing age to within plus-or-minus nine months. Epigenetic clock studies show that polar bears born in recent decades are aging faster than earlier generations, likely due to shrinking sea ice that limits their hunting opportunities and erodes fat reserves. Susannah Woodruff Short of developing a bespoke species clock, the next best thing can be to adapt one from closely related kin. That’s the approach taken to study the Lahille’s dolphin by conservation medicine veterinarian Ashley Barratclough of the nonprofit National Marine Mammal Foundation in San Diego. This vulnerable subspecies of bottlenose dolphin is found off the coast of South America, with fewer than 600 left in the wild. Few have reliable age records. Barratclough and her colleagues first created a clock for the common bottlenose dolphin, using blood and skin samples collected from known-age animals maintained by the U.S. Navy. In collaboration with Brazilian marine biologist Pedro Fruet, Barratclough then applied the tool to the genetically distinct Lahille’s dolphin, filling in demographic black holes that, among other things, identified reproductive-age females, thus providing a focal point for conservationists to target in their efforts to rebuild the population. “For an endangered cetacean species like the Lahille’s bottlenose dolphin, every piece of demographic information is extremely important to understand the future of the population,” says Fruet, founder of the conservation group Kaosa. “And the epigenetic clock tool is helping us to refine and get estimates that we couldn’t otherwise.” Notably, in Brazil’s Patos Lagoon, where the true ages of some Lahille’s dolphins are known, the tool also revealed signs of accelerated aging, notes Fruet—a finding he fears may reflect the impact of pollutants from industry and agriculture, among other stresses. Barratclough has documented similar effects in the Gulf Coast of Louisiana, where dolphins exposed to oil pollution from the 2010 Deepwater Horizon disaster appear to have aged faster than their counterparts living in cleaner waters elsewhere. Conservation biologists use remote dart biopsies to collect tissue from Lahille’s dolphins, a vulnerable subspecies with fewer than 600 individuals left in the wild. The samples provide crucial data on their age structure and reproductive potential. Pedro Fruet / Kaosa Worse for wear As evidence grows that epigenetic clocks can not only reveal true age but also flag premature aging, researchers are beginning to probe how environmental hardships shape the tempo of aging in the wild. At the University of Edinburgh, for example, evolutionary biologist Tom Little and disease ecologist Amy Pedersen are experimentally manipulating factors such as food availability and parasite load in wild wood mouse populations, then tracking the epigenetic fallout over time. “If you look at the human literature, we’ve got all these things—diet, stress, infections—that we know influence biological age,” Little says. “But in wildlife, we just don’t know what environmental features drive animals to be gray before their time.” Such research, however, requires running large numbers of samples through expensive molecular tests, and a major barrier to wider-scale adoption of wildlife clocks remains cost. The most commonly used testing platform—the Horvath Mammalian Array, based on Horvath’s research, manufactured by the genomics giant Illumina and sold by the nonprofit Epigenetic Clock Development Foundation—runs about $200 per sample, which adds up quickly when trying to analyze dozens or hundreds of wild animals. “It becomes very cost-prohibitive, especially in my budgetary world,” says Aaron Shafer, a population geneticist at Trent University in Canada who is studying whether epigenetic clocks can reveal premature signs of aging linked to chronic wasting disease, a deadly neurodegenerative illness affecting deer populations across North America. Shafer is spearheading the development of lower-cost, custom-built tests to make the technology more accessible for conservation use. In parallel, Garroway and Jones, together with Levi Newediuk, a wildlife ecologist at Mount Royal University in Canada, have been working on ways to streamline the use of epigenetic clocks in wildlife research so it can be applied in more species and settings. They also want to drive home the relevance of epigenetic clock data to policy decisions by connecting biological aging directly to habitat degradation. In their polar bear study, for instance, the researchers didn’t just document faster aging. They tied those biological shifts to tangible environmental change. Bears born in recent decades, as Arctic temperatures have risen, showed clear signs of accelerated biological aging, the scientists found. And unpublished follow-up analyses indicate that the effect plays out unevenly across regions, shaped by the distinct ecological pressures faced by each population of bears. According to Newediuk, the trend was most pronounced around Hudson Bay, where seasonal sea ice breaks up earlier and forms later than it once did, curtailing hunting opportunities and limiting access to seals. In contrast, bears from regions with more stable ice, such as those living near the Beaufort Sea and around other parts of the high Arctic, are aging more slowly. The findings, in other words, lend weight to long-standing concerns that vanishing sea ice isn’t just threatening the bears’ hunting grounds—it’s quietly eroding their biological resilience. “They’re in trouble, for sure,” Newediuk says. Fortunately for the threatened wildlife, accelerated aging isn’t necessarily a one-way street. As Tung’s investigation of baboons has shown, it can be slowed—potentially reversed. Tung found that when male baboons lost dominance rank, their epigenetic clocks seemed to slow down. In a couple instances, biological age even ticked backward as males fell in social status, despite the passage of time. That means the rate of aging is “not necessarily a fixed trait,” says Tung. And if it can be delayed in baboons, perhaps it can be rolled back in other species as well. “It opens the door to that possibility.”Knowable Magazine is an independent journalistic endeavor from Annual Reviews. Get the latest Science stories in your inbox.

The epigenetic clock measures biological age and could help scientists assess the health of polar bears, dolphins, baboons and other threatened creatures "while recovery is still possible"

This ‘Clock’ Could Warn of Hidden Stresses to Animals, Offering a Long-Sought Signal That a Population Is Nearing Collapse

The epigenetic clock measures biological age and could help scientists assess the health of polar bears, dolphins, baboons and other threatened creatures “while recovery is still possible”

Illustration of dolphins, a deer, a polar bear, a whale fluke, a primate and a black bear peering out from a clock
The epigenetic clock is emerging as a wildlife conservation tool. Knowable Magazine

Key takeaways: Epigenetic clocks as a conservation tool

  • Conservationists have been searching for a biological marker to hint that an animal population is in distress so that they can address warning signs before a collapse becomes inevitable.
  • A recent preprint study used epigenetic clocks, a marker of “biological age,” to find that polar bear populations are aging more quickly than previous generations did, suggesting melting sea ice is taking a toll on their health.

Wildlife conservation is a race against time—too often, a losing one. Typically, by the time scientists detect signs of species decline, populations have already collapsed. Genetic diversity is already depleted. Birth rates have plunged. And by the time these biological red flags are seen, the window for effective intervention has nearly closed.

That’s what happened with the passenger pigeon: Once the most abundant bird in North America, it vanished in the blink of an ecological eye—wiped out by unchecked hunting and habitat destruction before anyone realized how fast the population was unraveling.

The same story played out with the Chinese river dolphin, the Pyrenean ibex and the Caribbean monk seal. Silent declines went unnoticed for years until the tipping point had passed, leaving conservationists to document extinctions instead of preventing them.

And the northern white rhino? By the time the world finally paid attention, the damage was irreversible. Poachers had reduced the species to two surviving individuals—both female.

Determined to avoid more preventable losses, scientists have begun hunting for molecular warning signs that appear before populations spiral. But early leads, such as stress hormones and the length of the specialized tips of chromosomes—telomeres—have proved fickle, too easily swayed by the daily chaos of life in the wild. That’s why many scientists are now pinning their hopes on a novel tool called an epigenetic clock.

This molecular timekeeper doesn’t keep time like a wristwatch, though. Instead, it measures “biological age,” a hidden ledger that can echo the calendar’s count but also offers a more nuanced reflection of how fast an organism is wearing down from stress, disease and environmental hardship.

Epigenetic clocks work by analyzing patterns of chemical tags called methyl groups that get added to or subtracted from DNA at predictable sites across the genome as animals grow older. Some of these methylation signatures are remarkably stable and tightly linked to aging across many species. And, crucially for conservationists, they can be read from a simple tissue or blood sample.

gloved hands working with samples in a petri dish
In the lab, researchers analyze skin biopsies from Lahille’s dolphins to measure DNA methylation patterns—molecular marks that reveal both true age and signs of accelerated aging. Oceanographic Museum Prof. Eliézer de C. Rios / FURG, Southern Brazil

That makes epigenetic clocks especially valuable for elusive or long-lived species, where accurate age data are often missing. Wildlife biologists are already using these clocks to understand the age structures of animal populations, offering insights into their reproduction, survival and longevity. But the clocks hold deeper promise. When an animal’s biological age runs higher than its chronological one, it can signal physiological strain—a kind of molecular distress flare that may go off before any visible signs of problems.

The potential for detecting accelerated aging before a population begins to visibly collapse is what excites Colin Garroway, an evolutionary ecologist at the University of Manitoba in Canada. “Almost everything else we have is a lagging indicator of species decline,” he says. “This is at least potentially forward-looking.”

Garroway’s confidence in the power of epigenetic clocks took shape through a study of polar bears from the Canadian Arctic. In work now posted on the preprint server bioRxiv, which has not yet undergone peer review, he and his colleagues found that bears born in recent decades are aging markedly faster than those from earlier generations—their biological ages outpacing their chronological ones. The likely cause, the researchers conclude: Longer ice-free periods are stranding bears on land, cutting off access to the seals that form the core of their diet, ultimately sapping the fat reserves they need to survive.

“The change is too fast and too significant for them,” says co-author Evan Richardson, a polar bear ecologist with Environment and Climate Change Canada, the government agency that partially funded the study. That burden is then evident in the telltale molecular marks on the animals’ DNA.

Richardson hopes the findings will force the “harder discussions” around polar bear management. But beyond sounding the alarm for this one imperiled species, he and his colleagues are hopeful that the wider conservation community will embrace epigenetic clocks as a proactive tool to safeguard biodiversity—before the point of no return.

As Meaghan Jones, a University of Manitoba medical geneticist involved in the research, puts it: “This is a way to monitor populations in real time and see how stress is impacting them while recovery is still possible.”

Clocking in

The idea of tracking biological age through molecular changes first gained traction in studies of human DNA. Beginning in the early 2010s, biogerontologist Steve Horvath—then at the University of California, Los Angeles and now with the anti-aging biotech company Altos Labs—identified dozens and later hundreds of sites in the genome where DNA methylation tags were predictably gained or lost as people grew older. He used methylation patterns to construct a statistical model that could estimate a person’s age, launching the first epigenetic clocks.

Horvath’s clocks emerged as powerful health indicators, with individuals whose biological age exceeded their chronological one showing a higher risk of chronic illness or early death—and that same logic, outlined in the 2025 issue of the Annual Review of Public Health, soon found a foothold in wildlife biology, too.

a small brown mouse in the grass
Wild wood mice are helping scientists at the University of Edinburgh uncover how environmental factors such as food shortages and parasite infections accelerate biological aging. suffolk_jim / iNaturalist

In 2021, for example, a team led by Jenny Tung, an evolutionary anthropologist now at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Germany, developed a baboon-specific version of the epigenetic clock and applied it to a wild population in Kenya’s Amboseli basin. The researchers found that males with a high dominance rank tended to be biologically older than their lower-status peers, even when their chronological ages were the same.

It was a compelling demonstration that the clock could connect ecologically relevant pressures to accelerated aging in a wild animal. And contrary to what might be expected—that social success would track with better health—it revealed the biological toll of dominance. “Attaining and maintaining high rank is costly,” Tung says.

Other studies linking life stressors to accelerated aging would eventually follow—Garroway’s polar bear work among the most prominent—but most early adopters of epigenetic clocks for wildlife biology focused on a more basic goal: filling gaps in demographic data.

Traditionally, estimating the age of wildlife involves methods such as tooth extraction to count growth rings, which is labor-intensive and intrusive. Epigenetic clocks, in contrast, require a small tissue or blood sample, often obtainable through remote methods like dart biopsies. From there, researchers extract DNA and use lab methods to read the methylation patterns known to change with age. Then, they apply statistical models to compare the patterns with animals of known ages.

Inspired by the work of Horvath and others, wildlife biologists began adapting epigenetic clocks for the animals they study: humpback whales, lampreys, sea turtles, salmon. Then, in 2017, Horvath secured a $1.5 million grant to build clocks for a menagerie of species.

Lions and tigers and bears

Horvath began cold-emailing field biologists, zoo veterinarians and wildlife researchers, inviting anyone with blood, DNA or other archived tissues in their freezers to join the project. “Whoever had samples became a partner,” he says.

Specimens poured in—for nearly 350 animal species in total, representing 25 of the 26 known taxonomic orders of mammal. Horvath generated clocks for elephants, bats, zebras, monkeys, marmots, mole rats and more. From this, he and his global network of collaborators built a universal mammalian epigenetic clock, one that factored in each species’ maximum lifespan alongside observable shifts in DNA methylation over time. The result was a clock that could accurately gauge an individual’s age, both chronological and biological, from a DNA sample—not just in humans or lab mice, but in otters, opossums and Tasmanian devils, too.

Horvath’s main aim was to explore how aging unfolds across the animal kingdom and what accelerates the process—potentially uncovering antiaging mechanisms that might be replicated pharmaceutically. But there were clear applications for conservation, starting with filling in missing details about survival and reproduction in the wild.

In Alaska, for example, wildlife biologist Susannah Woodruff, then with the United States Fish and Wildlife Service and now with the state’s Department of Fish and Game, turned to the pan-mammalian clock to estimate the ages of the state’s polar bears. Working independently of the Canadian team pursuing similar questions, she and her colleagues first ran samples through this “universal” clock and found it performed reasonably well, producing estimates within a year or two of the bears’ true ages. “That’s pretty good,” Woodruff says.

Building a clock tailored specifically to polar bears was better still. Doing that required getting blood samples from known-age individuals—something not feasible for every species—but in Woodruff’s case, she had access to nearly 200 such bears. And as a head-to-head comparison published in July showed, the bear-specific clock yielded more precise and reliable results, pinpointing age to within plus-or-minus nine months.

an adult polar bear and two cubs resting near water
Epigenetic clock studies show that polar bears born in recent decades are aging faster than earlier generations, likely due to shrinking sea ice that limits their hunting opportunities and erodes fat reserves. Susannah Woodruff

Short of developing a bespoke species clock, the next best thing can be to adapt one from closely related kin. That’s the approach taken to study the Lahille’s dolphin by conservation medicine veterinarian Ashley Barratclough of the nonprofit National Marine Mammal Foundation in San Diego. This vulnerable subspecies of bottlenose dolphin is found off the coast of South America, with fewer than 600 left in the wild. Few have reliable age records.

Barratclough and her colleagues first created a clock for the common bottlenose dolphin, using blood and skin samples collected from known-age animals maintained by the U.S. Navy. In collaboration with Brazilian marine biologist Pedro Fruet, Barratclough then applied the tool to the genetically distinct Lahille’s dolphin, filling in demographic black holes that, among other things, identified reproductive-age females, thus providing a focal point for conservationists to target in their efforts to rebuild the population.

“For an endangered cetacean species like the Lahille’s bottlenose dolphin, every piece of demographic information is extremely important to understand the future of the population,” says Fruet, founder of the conservation group Kaosa. “And the epigenetic clock tool is helping us to refine and get estimates that we couldn’t otherwise.”

Notably, in Brazil’s Patos Lagoon, where the true ages of some Lahille’s dolphins are known, the tool also revealed signs of accelerated aging, notes Fruet—a finding he fears may reflect the impact of pollutants from industry and agriculture, among other stresses. Barratclough has documented similar effects in the Gulf Coast of Louisiana, where dolphins exposed to oil pollution from the 2010 Deepwater Horizon disaster appear to have aged faster than their counterparts living in cleaner waters elsewhere.

above and below photos of a dolphin's head and a dart for biopsy just below its dorsal fin
Conservation biologists use remote dart biopsies to collect tissue from Lahille’s dolphins, a vulnerable subspecies with fewer than 600 individuals left in the wild. The samples provide crucial data on their age structure and reproductive potential. Pedro Fruet / Kaosa

Worse for wear

As evidence grows that epigenetic clocks can not only reveal true age but also flag premature aging, researchers are beginning to probe how environmental hardships shape the tempo of aging in the wild. At the University of Edinburgh, for example, evolutionary biologist Tom Little and disease ecologist Amy Pedersen are experimentally manipulating factors such as food availability and parasite load in wild wood mouse populations, then tracking the epigenetic fallout over time.

“If you look at the human literature, we’ve got all these things—diet, stress, infections—that we know influence biological age,” Little says. “But in wildlife, we just don’t know what environmental features drive animals to be gray before their time.”

Such research, however, requires running large numbers of samples through expensive molecular tests, and a major barrier to wider-scale adoption of wildlife clocks remains cost. The most commonly used testing platform—the Horvath Mammalian Array, based on Horvath’s research, manufactured by the genomics giant Illumina and sold by the nonprofit Epigenetic Clock Development Foundation—runs about $200 per sample, which adds up quickly when trying to analyze dozens or hundreds of wild animals.

“It becomes very cost-prohibitive, especially in my budgetary world,” says Aaron Shafer, a population geneticist at Trent University in Canada who is studying whether epigenetic clocks can reveal premature signs of aging linked to chronic wasting disease, a deadly neurodegenerative illness affecting deer populations across North America. Shafer is spearheading the development of lower-cost, custom-built tests to make the technology more accessible for conservation use.

In parallel, Garroway and Jones, together with Levi Newediuk, a wildlife ecologist at Mount Royal University in Canada, have been working on ways to streamline the use of epigenetic clocks in wildlife research so it can be applied in more species and settings. They also want to drive home the relevance of epigenetic clock data to policy decisions by connecting biological aging directly to habitat degradation.

In their polar bear study, for instance, the researchers didn’t just document faster aging. They tied those biological shifts to tangible environmental change. Bears born in recent decades, as Arctic temperatures have risen, showed clear signs of accelerated biological aging, the scientists found. And unpublished follow-up analyses indicate that the effect plays out unevenly across regions, shaped by the distinct ecological pressures faced by each population of bears.

According to Newediuk, the trend was most pronounced around Hudson Bay, where seasonal sea ice breaks up earlier and forms later than it once did, curtailing hunting opportunities and limiting access to seals. In contrast, bears from regions with more stable ice, such as those living near the Beaufort Sea and around other parts of the high Arctic, are aging more slowly.

The findings, in other words, lend weight to long-standing concerns that vanishing sea ice isn’t just threatening the bears’ hunting grounds—it’s quietly eroding their biological resilience. “They’re in trouble, for sure,” Newediuk says.

Fortunately for the threatened wildlife, accelerated aging isn’t necessarily a one-way street. As Tung’s investigation of baboons has shown, it can be slowed—potentially reversed. Tung found that when male baboons lost dominance rank, their epigenetic clocks seemed to slow down. In a couple instances, biological age even ticked backward as males fell in social status, despite the passage of time.

That means the rate of aging is “not necessarily a fixed trait,” says Tung. And if it can be delayed in baboons, perhaps it can be rolled back in other species as well. “It opens the door to that possibility.”

Knowable

Knowable Magazine is an independent journalistic endeavor from Annual Reviews.

Get the latest Science stories in your inbox.

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

Majestic wild horses are trampling Mono Lake's otherworldly landscape. The feds plan a roundup

Federal officials plan to round up wild horses roaming the Eastern Sierra, citing hazards and damage. But local tribes and others seek a different outcome.

Several dozen horses calmly graze along the shores of Mono Lake, a sparkling saline expanse spread out before the jagged Sierra Nevada mountains. The September sun is blazing. A pair of brown horses come up side by side and stare intensely at an approaching visitor.These wild equines soon may disappear from beside the ancient lake. The prospect is stirring emotional disagreement over the future of the herd, which has surged to more than three times what federal officials say the land can support.“These horses deserve a place to roam and be free, but around Mono Lake is not the place,” said Bartshe Miller of the Mono Lake Committee, an environmental nonprofit. Bartshe Miller, Eastern Sierra policy director for the Mono Lake Committee, looks out onto the landscape at Warm Springs, a remote area on the east side of Mono Lake. Earlier this year, the U.S. Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management approved a plan to round up and remove hundreds of wild horses roaming beyond the roughly 200,000 acres designated for them along the California and Nevada border. No date has been set, but it could be as soon as this fall.It would be a relief for some. Environmentalists say the horses are degrading the otherworldly landscape at Mono Lake, including bird habitat and its famed tufa — textured rock columns that would look at home on Mars. Ranchers say the animals are gobbling down plants needed to sustain their cattle. Federal officials highlight the safety hazard posed by horses that have wandered onto highways.Others see the move as a travesty. One method to oust the horses would use helicopters to drive them into a trap, which animal welfare groups say creates dangerous, even deadly, situations for horses. A pending federal bill would ban the practice.Local tribes and nonprofits have partnered to fight the roundup plan, arguing that the Indigenous community should be tapped to manage the animals that roam their ancestral lands. A separate group of plaintiffs has sued the government, claiming it’s reneging on its duty to protect the horses. A group of horses roams near the community of Benton, Calif., not far from the Nevada border. Ronda Kauk, of the Mono Lake Kootzaduka’a tribe, stands near wild horses. “We’re all living spirits,” said Ronda Kauk, a member of the Mono Lake Kootzaduka’a tribe. “And it’s sad that people just don’t care about another living thing because they think it doesn’t belong there.”Unseen evolutionFor 36 years, Dave Marquart was part of a small team that monitored wetlands rimming Mono Lake, places so inaccessible even four-wheel drives can get stuck. Flung out far on the landscape, only wildlife could enjoy them. The area was a major nesting site for yellow-headed black birds, red-winged black birds, marsh wrens, soras and Virginia rails.“There weren’t a lot of people that saw the transition that I saw, from healthy wetlands to completely trampled and devastated wetlands,” said Marquart, who was an interpretive naturalist for the Mono Lake Tufa State Natural Reserve until he retired in 2019. “It was quite a drastic change.”Marquart recalled a time when he’d encounter fewer than 50 horses. They’d bolt when they saw his vehicle coming. That fear faded and their ranks grew. Over time, he said, they stamped ponds and urinated and defecated in the water. The birds stopped showing up. Bartshe Miller holds grass he said was pulled up by the roots by wild horses roaming near Mono Lake. According to Miller, horses started arriving near the lake around 2015. Before retiring, Marquart said, he helped organize a field trip involving the Forest Service, BLM and State Parks to showcase the impacts.“Everybody saw that it was an issue and felt that something needed to be done,” he said.Today, sizable mounds of horse manure dot Warm Springs, a remote area along the eastern edge of Mono Lake that Marquart had raised the alarm about during his tenure. White bones of fallen equines rest in the alkaline meadows. Chestnut fur gleamed on a hoof attached to a leg bone.Miller, the Mono Lake Committee’s Eastern Sierra policy director, and Geoff McQuilkin, its executive director, led the way to a burbling spring rimmed by innumerable hoof prints. Surrounding vegetation was nibbled to nubs. Wildlife compete for the limited water here. The bleached bones of a wild horse lie in vegetation near the shores of Mono Lake. “The birds that would have a safe haven in that spring or be hidden away from raptors and predators overhead don’t have that opportunity anymore,” McQuilkin said.The pair first remembered the horses showing up in remote areas around the lake in 2015, as the state was gripped by drought. By 2021, as they pushed west, they landed at South Tufa, where tourists congregate to gaze at the limestone columns. In the spring of 2023, horse carcasses emerged along the shores of South Tufa and nearby Navy Beach as the snow from a winter of biblical proportions melted.“The recent deaths of these horses provide further evidence that the size of this herd cannot be supported by the landscape which they are expanding onto,” Lisa Cox, a spokesperson for the Inyo National Forest, said at the time.“They’re medicine.” Rana Saulque, vice chairwoman of the Utu Utu Gwaitu Paiute tribe, walks near a natural spring in an area where wild horses gather near the community of Benton, Calif. On a pleasantly cool day in September, Rana Saulque stared transfixed at a group of roughly 50 wild horses in the River Spring Lakes Ecological Reserve, not far from her tribe’s reservation near the town of Benton. Saulque, vice chairwoman for the Utu Utu Gwaitu Paiute tribe, draws a parallel between ousting the horses and the historic persecution of her people by the government. “They’re going to run them down with helicopters and genocide them, just like they ran down us,” she said through tears. A striking cremello horse stood out from the rest — a beloved subject for photographers who sojourn here. A brown foal with a white stripe on its muzzle teetered on toothpick legs. Several babies hugged close to their moms.Mostly, the horses peacefully graze, but two rear up momentarily. “That’s horsing around,” Saulque said. Then they begin galloping and suddenly they look powerful and sleek. Epic, like a poster for a classic western film. Dozens of wild horses graze on the River Spring Lakes Ecological Reserve. “They’re so magical,” the vice chairwoman said. “They’re medicine for people.”Federal officials stress that they have precautions in place to ensure safety during helicopter roundups. That includes avoiding peak foaling periods and hot weather that would stress the horses.The Utu Utu Gwaitu Paiute are among a coalition that wants to pause the planned roundups for two years and ultimately secure land back to set aside a sanctuary for the horses to roam. As envisioned, local tribes would help manage the herd, including darting horses with a birth control vaccine to limit population growth. Horses could be put to work at pack stations, equine therapy and rodeo schools for kids, the group says.The proposal could also help revive horse culture that runs deep in the tribal communities, Saulque said. Jim Walker, her great-great-grandfather and a respected medicine man, rode mustangs all the way to Florida, visiting tribes along the way to exchange medicine and horses. Maya Jamal Kasberg, founder of nonprofit Made by Mother Earth, is part of the coalition that wants to scrap the current plan to round up Montgomery Pass horses. Kauk’s tribe historically rode the horses from Lee Vining into Yosemite to gather basket-making materials, among other activities. Mustangs were tapped for Native American rodeos and relay races, she added.According to the coalition that includes the nonprofit American Wild Horse Conservation, the feds and groups like the Mono Lake Committee have the science all wrong. The herbivores chomp down invasive cheatgrass that poses wildfire risk, and their poop — maligned by many — actually spreads native seeds, they say. Wild and free — for nowAt the heart of the emotional battle playing out in the Eastern Sierra is the Montgomery Pass wild horse herd. According to the U.S. Forest Service, its origin is unknown. But there’s speculation that it’s linked to mustang drives between the Owens Valley and Nevada.A 1971 law declared wild horses and burros “living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the West,” and made it illegal to harass, capture or kill them on public lands. But the Forest Service and BLM, which became responsible for managing them, can remove “excess animals” to preserve the health of the range.The way this often plays out is that horses are rounded up and offered for adoption or sale. Those that aren’t taken in by a private owner are shipped to pastures where they often live out their remaining days. A census last year found that there are now about 700 horses in the Montgomery Pass herd. Federal officials designated the Montgomery Pass Wild Horse Territory, a remote area spanning sagebrush steppe and pinyon pine forest east of Mono Lake. They say the land can sustainably support 138 to 230 horses. As of last year, nearly 700 were documented in an aerial survey, with most ranging outside the territory, according to the agencies. Now under a plan approved in March, up to 500 horses could be ousted, with the Forest Service leading the effort and BLM assisting.Both agencies declined requests for interviews for this story, citing pending litigation. In August, a documentary filmmaker, primary care physician and wildlife ecologist sued the government authorities overseeing the agencies, claiming the roundups will decimate the herd to the point where long-term survival is unlikely.“This case represents yet another attempt by the agencies to evade their statutory duties to protect, preserve and manage the herd,” the suit reads.The government has agreed not to round up horses before Oct. 20, according to court documents.When multiple uses collide Rancher Leslie Hunewill looks at calves and their moms at her family’s historic ranch in Bridgeport. Leslie Hunewill’s cattle ranching family sees quite a bit of “horse activity” on grazing lands in an area called the Mono Sand Flats, to the east and north of the lake. Since purchasing the right to use the public land, her outfit has been able to graze there for only about five weeks in the last two years — and not consecutively. The culprit? “A huge number of horses,” she said.“Our cattle have not been out there,” she said. “There’s nothing for them to eat.” Cows aren’t allowed on the roughly 50,000-acre expanse during the growing season. But the horses, facing no fences, go for what’s green and pushing up, she said.“It doesn’t make sense for us to overuse or overgraze the land when we need to come back to it,” she said. “So when we are doing our part to manage the portion of it that we can, which is, say, our use of the cattle on that land, that’s all well and good. But who is taking charge of the horses and saying, this is too heavy use?” The Hunewills, who have deep roots in the Eastern Sierra, operate a guest ranch in Bridgeport. The law directs agencies to manage horse populations to maintain a “thriving natural ecological balance.” BLM and the Forest Service have to consider mustangs alongside grazing, wildlife and what’s good for the land. Some say the agencies have kicked the can down the road on management of the Montgomery Pass herd.Hunewill’s family has deep roots in the Eastern Sierra. Her great-great-great-grandfather came to California in the 1860s as a gold miner. He struck it rich, and got into the lumber business. When that stopped paying out, he used his oxen to feed the town of Bodie. Her family is still in the beef business, with the meat generally staying on the West Coast.They employ quite a few mustangs at their guest ranch operation in the town of Bridgeport, including Jethro, a friendly brown fella with a splash of white on his forehead. They’re hardy horses, and can be enlisted as pack animals high up in the mountains. Some don’t need shoes because of their “great feet.” But their robustness means “everybody’s already got their mustang,” she said, stymieing the prospect of mass adoptions.Shifting dynamicsWild horse populations can increase as much as 20% a year. Montgomery Pass horses used to summer in the high country and were once kept in check by mountain lions that preyed on foals, according to John Turner, a professor at the University of Toledo College of Medicine, who studied the herd for decades.That changed around 2008 or 2009, when the horses began lingering at lower elevations, where the open country makes it difficult for lions to hunt.The herd’s population surged. Turner sees the government’s current system of rounding up horses and holding them as unsustainable. And costly.“The gathers are successful at that time, but the reproductive rate of the animals is greater than the capacity to remove them,” he said.

From the telegraph to AI, our communications systems have always had hidden environmental cost

The telegraph was hailed for its revolutionary ability to span distance. Now AI is being hailed as a great leap forward. But both came with environmental costs.

The first attempt to lay submarine telegraph cable between Britain and France. Universal History Archive/GettyWhen we post to a group chat or talk to an AI chatbot, we don’t think about how these technologies came to be. We take it for granted we can instantly communicate. We only notice the importance and reach of these systems when they’re not accessible. Companies describe these systems with metaphors such as the “cloud” or “artificial intelligence”, suggesting something intangible. But they are deeply material. The stories told about these systems centre on newness and progress. But these myths obscure the human and environmental cost of making them possible. AI and modern communication systems rely on huge data centres and submarine cables. These have large and growing environmental costs, from soaring energy use to powering data centres to water for cooling. There’s nothing new about this, as my research shows. The first world-spanning communication system was the telegraph, which made it possible to communicate between some continents in near-real time. But it came at substantial cost to the environment and humans. Submarine telegraph cables were wrapped in gutta-percha, the rubber-like latex extracted from tropical trees by colonial labourers. Forests were felled to grow plantations of these trees. Is it possible to design communications systems without such costs? Perhaps. But as the AI investment bubble shows, environmental and human costs are often ignored in the race for the next big thing. The telegraph had a sizeable environmental and social cost. Pictured: workers coiling the first transatlantic telegraph cable in the bilge tanks of the S.S. Great Eastern in 1865. Universal History Archives/Getty From the “Victorian internet” to AI Before the telegraph, long distance communication was painfully slow. Sending messages by ship could take months. In the 1850s, telegraph cables made it possible to rapidly communicate between countries and across oceans. By the late 1800s, the telegraph had become ubiquitous. Later dubbed the “Victorian internet”, the telegraph was the predecessor of today’s digital networks. Building telegraph networks was a huge undertaking. The first transatlantic cable was completed in 1858, spanning more than 4,000km between North America and Europe. The first transatlantic submarine cables made possible rapid communication between the United States and Europe. This 1857 map shows their paths. Korff Brothers, CC BY-NC-ND Australia followed closely behind. European colonists created the first telegraph lines in the 1850s between Melbourne and Williamstown. By 1872, the Overland Telegraph Line between Adelaide and Darwin had been completed. From Darwin, the message could reach the world. There are clear differences between the telegraph and today’s AI systems. But there are also clear parallels. In our time, fibre optic cables retrace many routes of the now obsolete submarine telegraph cables. Virtually all (99%) of the world’s internet traffic travels through deep sea cables. These cables carry everything from Google searches to ChatGPT interactions, transmitting data close to the speed of light from your device to faraway data centres and back. Historical accounts describe the telegraph variously as a divine gift, a human-made wonder, and a networked global intelligence, far from the material reality. These descriptions are not far off the way AI is talked about today. Grounded in extraction In the 19th century, the telegraph was commonly thought of as an emblem of progress and technological innovation. But these systems had other stories embedded, such as the logic of colonialism. One reason European powers set out to colonise the globe was to extract resources from colonies for their own use. The same extractive logic can be seen in the telegraph, a system whose self-evident technological progress won out over environmental and social costs. If you look closely at a slice of telegraph cable in a museum or at historic sites where submarine telegraph cables made landfall, you’ll see something interesting. The telegraph was a technological marvel – but it came at considerable cost. Pictured is an 1856 sample of the first submarine telegraph cable linking Newfoundland and Nova Scotia in Canada. Jemimah Widdicombe, CC BY-NC-ND Wrapped around the wires is a mixture of tarred yarn and gutta percha. Cable companies used this naturally occurring latex to insulate telegraph wires from the harsh conditions on the sea floor. To meet soaring demand, colonial powers such as Britain and the Netherlands accelerated harvesting in their colonies across Southeast Asia. Rainforests were felled for plantations and Indigenous peoples forced to harvest the latex. European colonial powers drove intensified production of gutta-percha despite the environmental and social cost. Pictured: Kayan people in Borneo harvesting the milky latex around 1910. Wikimedia, CC BY-NC-ND Australia’s telegraph came at real cost, as First Nations truth telling projects and interdisciplinary researchers have shown. The Overland Telegraph Line needed large amounts of water to power batteries and sustain human operators and their animals at repeater stations. The demand for water contributed to loss of life, forced dispossession and the pollution of waterways. The legacy of these effects are still experienced today. Echoes of this colonial logic can be seen in today’s AI systems. The focus today is on technological advancement, regardless of energy and environmental costs. Within five years, the International Energy Agency estimates the world’s data centres could require more electricity than all of Japan. AI is far more thirsty than the telegraph. Data centres produce a great deal of heat, and water has to be used to keep the servers cool. Researchers estimate that by 2027, AI usage will require between 4.2 and 6.6 billion cubic metres of water – about the same volume used by Denmark annually. With the rise of generative AI, both Microsoft and Google have significantly increased their water consumption. Manufacturing the specialised processors needed to train AI models has resulted in dirty mining, deforestation and toxic waste. As AI scholar Kate Crawford has argued, AI must be understood as a system that is: embodied and material, made from natural resources, fuel, human labour, infrastructures, logistics, histories and classifications. The same was true of the telegraph. Huge new data centres are being built to service the growth in AI and the wider internet. Pictured: a new Google data centre in the United Kingdom. Richard Newstead/Getty Planning for the future Telegraph companies and the imperial networks behind them accepted environmental extraction and social exploitation as the price of technological progress. Today’s tech giants are following a similar approach, racing to release ever more powerful models while obscuring the far reaching environmental consequences of their technologies. As governments work to improve regulation and accountability, they must go further to enforce ethical standards, mandate transparent disclosure of energy and environmental impacts and support low impact projects. Without decisive action, AI risks becoming another chapter in the long history of technologies trading human and environmental wellbeing for technological “progress”. The lesson from the telegraph is clear: we must refuse to accept exploitation as the cost of innovation. Jemimah Widdicombe works for the National Communication Museum (NCM) as Senior Curator.

Suggested Viewing

Join us to forge
a sustainable future

Our team is always growing.
Become a partner, volunteer, sponsor, or intern today.
Let us know how you would like to get involved!

CONTACT US

sign up for our mailing list to stay informed on the latest films and environmental headlines.

Subscribers receive a free day pass for streaming Cinema Verde.
Thank you! Your submission has been received!
Oops! Something went wrong while submitting the form.