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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]Ask most people about crickets and you’ll probably hear that they’re all pretty much the same: just little insects that jump and chirp.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there are actually dozens of different species of field crickets in the U.S. And because they look so similar, the most common way scientists tell them apart is not by the way they look, as with most animals, but instead, with a more subtle clue — by the sounds they make.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I hear an evening chorus, all I hear are the different species,” said David Weissman, a research associate in entomology at the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Weissman has spent the last 45 years working to identify all the species of field crickets west of the Mississippi River. In December, he published his \u003ca href=\"http://entnemdept.ufl.edu/walker/buzz/crickets.htm\">findings\u003c/a> in the journal Zootaxa, identifying 35 species of field crickets in the western states, including 17 new species. California alone hosts 12 species. But many closely resemble the others. So even for one of the nation’s top experts, telling them apart isn’t a simple task.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It turns out song is a good way to differentiate,” Weissman said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Weissman spends countless evenings making recordings of cricket songs around the Western states. He analyzes their chirps like a studio engineer closely mixing a hit soundtrack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I listen for the songs in an area, decide how many different songs that I can distinguish, and then collect males that makes those songs,” he said. “Then once I know which songs a male sings with, and therefore which species he is, I can go back and find physical characters that will usually separate that species from the other species in the immediate area.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The trend began in the 1950s when researchers with early portable tape recorders learned there were far more cricket species than earlier scientists had realized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Weissman isn’t the only one who needs to tell the different species apart. Female crickets need to be able to tell the males of their species apart from the males of other species. That’s because the characteristic, repetitive cricket chirp is really a mating call made by male crickets to attract females.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Most people believe they produce the songs with their legs, like grasshoppers do, but that’s a misconception,” said \u003ca href=\"http://bioacousticssensorybiology.weebly.com/\">Fernando Montealegre-Z\u003c/a>, a professor of sensory biology at the University of Lincoln in the United Kingdom. He’s written numerous articles about how crickets and their relatives, like grasshoppers and katydids, make sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1955686\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_ChirpWings.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1955686\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_ChirpWings.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"405\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A male variable field cricket runs its forewings together to create its song. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Crickets have two sets of wings — delicate hindwings and tough leathery forewings called tegmen that cover the hindwings when folded at rest. The males’ forewings have special structures for producing sounds that females lack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the underside of each of the male cricket’s forewings is a protruding vein that runs from side to side. It’s covered in a row of about 85 to 1,000 microscopic teeth, like the edge of a zipper. The structure, which researchers call a file, is made of chitin, a rigid polymer that makes the exoskeleton of insects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1955688\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_ZoomOnFile.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1955688\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_ZoomOnFile.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"405\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Each of the male field cricket’s two forewings has a vein that runs across the center. The vein has tiny microscopic teeth that stick up called a file. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When it’s time to sing, the male cricket raises both of its wings, with one, typically the right, slightly above the other. It rubs the sharp edge of the lower wing, called a scraper, along the file of the upper wing. The vibrations caused by running the scraper along the file are the source of the cricket’s chirp.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This way of making sound is called stridulation. “It’s like running your thumb down the teeth on a comb,” Montealegre-Z said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1955689\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 713px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_WingsUndersideSlowMotion.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1955689\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_WingsUndersideSlowMotion.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"713\" height=\"395\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A cricket runs the edge of its lower wing across the file on the top wing to create a chirping sound, seen here in slow motion looking forward from the animal’s rear. \u003ccite>(Fernando Montealegre-Z/ University of Lincoln)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Crickets are able to scissor their wings together like this at remarkable speeds. Each wingstroke cycle produces a single pulse of sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, what we hear as a single quick chirp is typically made up of a numerous pulses created by individual wingstrokes. They happen so quickly that they blend together. As crickets age and they wear down their files, they make a raspier sound than younger crickets do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Generally speaking, crickets generate a highly pure tone at about 5 kilohertz, a frequency higher than the highest key on a piano.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re like well-made musical instruments,” Montealegre-Z said. “It’s their ability to create these pure tones. It’s what drew me to study crickets and their relatives.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But crickets don’t chirp only to advertise themselves to mates. If an adult male cricket runs into another adult male, it uses a special rivalry call to try to encourage its competitor to back off. It sounds similar to the mating call but is less rhythmic and more aggressive sounding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1955691\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 713px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_MalesRivalry.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1955691\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_MalesRivalry.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"713\" height=\"395\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two male variable field crickets sound off with their rivalry calls in an attempt to get the other to yield territory. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>If a male cricket does manage to draw the female in close enough to make contact, he will then use a third type of call to woo her. This courtship call is much higher pitched and quieter, like a whisper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s important that female crickets be able to identify males of their same species in order to avoid wasting their time pursuing the wrong male and because when they search for a mate, they are at risk of being eaten by a myriad of predators, including birds and reptiles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Misidentifying cricket songs has also proved perilous for humans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In late 2016, workers at the U.S. embassy in Havana, Cuba, reported hearing an alarming sound. The loud, constant and piercing sound and reports of various ailments, including ear pain, led some to believe that the embassy was under some type of sonic attack. Investigations began to find the source of the sound and the story made its way into the national news headlines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s where Alexander Stubbs came in. As a graduate student in the integrative biology department at UC Berkeley, Stubbs had spent time studying how animals like frogs and crickets communicate in the Caribbean and Central America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a truly piercing trill,” Stubbs said. “It really does sound strange.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stubbs compared the sound from the embassy that he heard in a news broadcast to songs from different species in an academic sound library of different singing animals. He used software to analyze the sound from the embassy and collaborated with Montealegre-Z to confirm his suspicions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The sound heard in the embassy matched the mating call of the Indies short-tailed cricket.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s unbelievably loud, especially in an enclosed space,” Stubbs said. But he wasn’t surprised that others didn’t recognize the song since this species of cricket hadn’t been identified in Cuba before. You can find the details of his findings \u003ca href=\"https://www.biorxiv.org/content/10.1101/510834v1.full\">here\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most people might take the sound of crickets for granted. But listening closely to them helps people become more aware of nature, scientists say.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Crickets are an important part of what we hear at night,” Weissman said. “In most areas of California, you might hear a few owls or coyotes. But in the summertime, crickets will be the major singing animals at night.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Weissman spends countless evenings making recordings of cricket songs around the Western states. He analyzes their chirps like a studio engineer closely mixing a hit soundtrack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I listen for the songs in an area, decide how many different songs that I can distinguish, and then collect males that makes those songs,” he said. “Then once I know which songs a male sings with, and therefore which species he is, I can go back and find physical characters that will usually separate that species from the other species in the immediate area.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The trend began in the 1950s when researchers with early portable tape recorders learned there were far more cricket species than earlier scientists had realized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Weissman isn’t the only one who needs to tell the different species apart. Female crickets need to be able to tell the males of their species apart from the males of other species. That’s because the characteristic, repetitive cricket chirp is really a mating call made by male crickets to attract females.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Most people believe they produce the songs with their legs, like grasshoppers do, but that’s a misconception,” said \u003ca href=\"http://bioacousticssensorybiology.weebly.com/\">Fernando Montealegre-Z\u003c/a>, a professor of sensory biology at the University of Lincoln in the United Kingdom. He’s written numerous articles about how crickets and their relatives, like grasshoppers and katydids, make sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1955686\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_ChirpWings.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1955686\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_ChirpWings.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"405\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A male variable field cricket runs its forewings together to create its song. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Crickets have two sets of wings — delicate hindwings and tough leathery forewings called tegmen that cover the hindwings when folded at rest. The males’ forewings have special structures for producing sounds that females lack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the underside of each of the male cricket’s forewings is a protruding vein that runs from side to side. It’s covered in a row of about 85 to 1,000 microscopic teeth, like the edge of a zipper. The structure, which researchers call a file, is made of chitin, a rigid polymer that makes the exoskeleton of insects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1955688\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_ZoomOnFile.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1955688\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_ZoomOnFile.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"405\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Each of the male field cricket’s two forewings has a vein that runs across the center. The vein has tiny microscopic teeth that stick up called a file. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When it’s time to sing, the male cricket raises both of its wings, with one, typically the right, slightly above the other. It rubs the sharp edge of the lower wing, called a scraper, along the file of the upper wing. The vibrations caused by running the scraper along the file are the source of the cricket’s chirp.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This way of making sound is called stridulation. “It’s like running your thumb down the teeth on a comb,” Montealegre-Z said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1955689\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 713px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_WingsUndersideSlowMotion.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1955689\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_WingsUndersideSlowMotion.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"713\" height=\"395\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A cricket runs the edge of its lower wing across the file on the top wing to create a chirping sound, seen here in slow motion looking forward from the animal’s rear. \u003ccite>(Fernando Montealegre-Z/ University of Lincoln)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Crickets are able to scissor their wings together like this at remarkable speeds. Each wingstroke cycle produces a single pulse of sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, what we hear as a single quick chirp is typically made up of a numerous pulses created by individual wingstrokes. They happen so quickly that they blend together. As crickets age and they wear down their files, they make a raspier sound than younger crickets do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Generally speaking, crickets generate a highly pure tone at about 5 kilohertz, a frequency higher than the highest key on a piano.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re like well-made musical instruments,” Montealegre-Z said. “It’s their ability to create these pure tones. It’s what drew me to study crickets and their relatives.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But crickets don’t chirp only to advertise themselves to mates. If an adult male cricket runs into another adult male, it uses a special rivalry call to try to encourage its competitor to back off. It sounds similar to the mating call but is less rhythmic and more aggressive sounding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1955691\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 713px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_MalesRivalry.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1955691\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2020/01/DL701_Crickets_MalesRivalry.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"713\" height=\"395\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two male variable field crickets sound off with their rivalry calls in an attempt to get the other to yield territory. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>If a male cricket does manage to draw the female in close enough to make contact, he will then use a third type of call to woo her. This courtship call is much higher pitched and quieter, like a whisper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s important that female crickets be able to identify males of their same species in order to avoid wasting their time pursuing the wrong male and because when they search for a mate, they are at risk of being eaten by a myriad of predators, including birds and reptiles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Misidentifying cricket songs has also proved perilous for humans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In late 2016, workers at the U.S. embassy in Havana, Cuba, reported hearing an alarming sound. The loud, constant and piercing sound and reports of various ailments, including ear pain, led some to believe that the embassy was under some type of sonic attack. Investigations began to find the source of the sound and the story made its way into the national news headlines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s where Alexander Stubbs came in. As a graduate student in the integrative biology department at UC Berkeley, Stubbs had spent time studying how animals like frogs and crickets communicate in the Caribbean and Central America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a truly piercing trill,” Stubbs said. “It really does sound strange.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stubbs compared the sound from the embassy that he heard in a news broadcast to songs from different species in an academic sound library of different singing animals. He used software to analyze the sound from the embassy and collaborated with Montealegre-Z to confirm his suspicions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The sound heard in the embassy matched the mating call of the Indies short-tailed cricket.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s unbelievably loud, especially in an enclosed space,” Stubbs said. But he wasn’t surprised that others didn’t recognize the song since this species of cricket hadn’t been identified in Cuba before. You can find the details of his findings \u003ca href=\"https://www.biorxiv.org/content/10.1101/510834v1.full\">here\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most people might take the sound of crickets for granted. But listening closely to them helps people become more aware of nature, scientists say.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Crickets are an important part of what we hear at night,” Weissman said. “In most areas of California, you might hear a few owls or coyotes. But in the summertime, crickets will be the major singing animals at night.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Video: Step Aside Julia Child. For the Perfect Thanksgiving Turkey, Turn to Science",
"headTitle": "Video: Step Aside Julia Child. For the Perfect Thanksgiving Turkey, Turn to Science | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" width=\"560\" height=\"315\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/7v-bshg-yOI\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The only thing worse than watching your Thanksgiving dinner devolve into a heated political debate is a dry, tasteless turkey. But it doesn’t have to be this way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re looking to keep your in-laws happy, fed, and hopefully, away from politics, take a trip back to high school chemistry. Using everyday ingredients from your pantry, you can create a wondrous series of chemical reactions that will tenderize, season and crisp your bird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s how you can use science to transform a pinkish hunk of poultry into your Thanksgiving’s pièce de résistance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>All About the Brine\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Your turkey prep should start two days before the main event — with brining.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Brines are critical for flavor infusion. They are a mixture of salt, seasonings and sometimes liquids — such as water, soy sauce or apple cider vinegar — that submerge or coat the turkey, slowly saturating foods with salty goodness over time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For crispy skin and savory notes, skip the liquid — which The New York Times recently pronounced \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/12/dining/the-rise-and-fall-of-turkey-brining.html\">out of style\u003c/a> — and work with a dry brine. The salt in dry brines causes a series of delectable reactions, the quickest being osmosis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Osmosis occurs when water molecules in a less salty environment move across a semipermeable membrane — in this case, turkey skin — toward a saltier environment (outside of the bird). This process continues until the ratio of salt to water is equally balanced.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, osmosis wicks out water from cells, forming those droplets of moisture that you see on freshly salted meat. Though it may appear that your meat is losing vital liquid, just wait a couple hours. That’s when diffusion kicks in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Diffusion is a slower process, in which salt evenly distributes itself in an environment to create balance. It takes a good chunk of time; salt permeates into meat tissue at a rate of just one millimeter — or about the width of a dime — per hour. After the first few hours, it travels even more slowly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Samin Nosrat, author of “\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Salt-Fat-Acid-Heat-Mastering/dp/1476753830\">Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat\u003c/a>,” points out that as salt pushes into the turkey, it loosens coiled strands of proteins and causes the muscles to swell, pulling surface liquids back in. This prevents proteins from clumping up and squeezing out water molecules. As a result, the proteins get a better grip on moisture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because the meat retains more liquid in the oven, the turkey will come out juicy and tender. This extra moisture also gives nervous chefs a larger margin of error for overcooking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When it comes to measuring salt for your dry brine, you’ll need some simple math. The volume of salt crystals can vary depending on grain size; one cup of smaller-grained table salt could hold more salt crystals than a cup of larger-grained sea salt. Your best bet is to go by weight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As a chef, I would never use volumetric measurements because they’re too unreliable,” said food chemist Chris Young, founder of ChefSteps and coauthor of Modernist Cuisine. You can measure the same salt in the same measuring cup several times, and you’ll find its weight differs by about 5 or 10 percent each time based on how you pack the cup, he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, take a kitchen scale and calculate 1.5 percent of your turkey’s weight in salt. Letting your dry-brined turkey mellow in the fridge for the next 24 to 48 hours will transform a tough bird into a scrumptious, tender delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If your kitchen doesn’t have a weighing device, here’s a nifty trick: Young recommends heavily coating your turkey in salt, letting it sit for an hour and then rinsing off the excess before adding seasonings and refrigerating. The turkey won’t be too salty, because it won’t be exposed to the salt long enough to cure the meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>The Best Roast\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Say you want more than juiciness. You’re looking for crackling skin, bursting with rich, savory flavors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Try amping up the Maillard reaction.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whenever you happily munch on the deep brown crust of a hunk of bread or delight in a juicy steak, you’re indulging in a symphony of flavors created by the Maillard reaction, otherwise known as “nonenzymatic browning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the Maillard reaction, amino acids — the building blocks of proteins — and sugars in the meat break down with time and temperature. They recombine into thousands of new flavor compounds in what chef and author J. Kenji López-Alt calls a “\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Food-Lab-Cooking-Through-Science/dp/0393081087/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1541773777&sr=8-1&keywords=the+food+lab\">cascade of chemical reactions.\u003c/a>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These new compounds are responsible for the enticing aromas and fragrant flavors that emerge after roasting, baking, frying and searing foods. And this reaction really packs a punch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The amazing thing is some of these compounds are formed in infinitesimal amounts, and yet we can still smell it,” Young said. “You put a single droplet of a particular roast flavor of meat into an Olympic sized swimming pool, the water would taste beefy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scientists still struggle to understand the complex mechanisms behind the Maillard reaction. They know the reaction creates compounds like nutty and sweet chemicals called furans and savory chemicals called thiophenes, but they have been unable to nail down how long it takes or which temperature is ideal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The reaction kicks into gear at temperatures above 220 degrees Fahrenheit, the point at which water starts boiling off, leaving behind higher concentrations of proteins and sugars. However, if temperatures exceed 340 degrees for long periods of time, food can undergo pyrolysis — a type of heat-induced decomposition.That creates bitter flavors even before the exterior looks burned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We roast Thanksgiving turkeys at a high temperature over a relatively quick time span to maximize the Maillard reaction. We don’t boil our Thanksgiving turkeys, for example, because we want water to evaporate, leaving a high concentration of sugars and proteins to react. A method like boiling also means that the turkey’s skin wouldn’t dehydrate in the oven, and it would never get crispy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At some point during the cooking process, acidic byproducts interfere with the Maillard reaction, causing it to slow down. Luckily, food chemists like Young and López-Alt have found a nifty trick to overcome this hurdle: baking soda. Baking soda works by increasing the pH level of a batter, mixture or surface to neutralize the acidic by-products.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As food chemist Matt Hartings explained, every amino acid has a side chain made of nitrogen attached to hydrogen ions. As you increase the pH level, one hydrogen ion detaches from the side chain, removing the positive charge. The uncharged nitrogens are now more likely to go through the Maillard reaction, speeding up reaction rates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To bring this reaction to your Thanksgiving masterpiece, dissolve a small amount of baking soda into water and lightly brush it onto the surface of your turkey just before putting it into the oven.. Young recommends using about 1 percent of your turkey’s weight in baking soda.. You can also add some baking powder to your dry brine — although it’s not alkaline enough to significantly raise the pH like baking soda will, its leavening properties will form tiny bubbles in the skin, which will also crisp up nicely in the oven.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Food Chemistry!\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re still skeptical about using dry brines with baking soda (or baking powder), you can experiment with caramelizing onions. Simply divide the cooking onions into two separate piles and add a pinch of salt and baking soda to one half. After a few minutes, the onions with salt and soda should be sweeter and browner than the other half.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" width=\"560\" height=\"315\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/7v-bshg-yOI\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The only thing worse than watching your Thanksgiving dinner devolve into a heated political debate is a dry, tasteless turkey. But it doesn’t have to be this way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re looking to keep your in-laws happy, fed, and hopefully, away from politics, take a trip back to high school chemistry. Using everyday ingredients from your pantry, you can create a wondrous series of chemical reactions that will tenderize, season and crisp your bird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s how you can use science to transform a pinkish hunk of poultry into your Thanksgiving’s pièce de résistance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>All About the Brine\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Your turkey prep should start two days before the main event — with brining.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Brines are critical for flavor infusion. They are a mixture of salt, seasonings and sometimes liquids — such as water, soy sauce or apple cider vinegar — that submerge or coat the turkey, slowly saturating foods with salty goodness over time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For crispy skin and savory notes, skip the liquid — which The New York Times recently pronounced \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/12/dining/the-rise-and-fall-of-turkey-brining.html\">out of style\u003c/a> — and work with a dry brine. The salt in dry brines causes a series of delectable reactions, the quickest being osmosis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Osmosis occurs when water molecules in a less salty environment move across a semipermeable membrane — in this case, turkey skin — toward a saltier environment (outside of the bird). This process continues until the ratio of salt to water is equally balanced.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, osmosis wicks out water from cells, forming those droplets of moisture that you see on freshly salted meat. Though it may appear that your meat is losing vital liquid, just wait a couple hours. That’s when diffusion kicks in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Diffusion is a slower process, in which salt evenly distributes itself in an environment to create balance. It takes a good chunk of time; salt permeates into meat tissue at a rate of just one millimeter — or about the width of a dime — per hour. After the first few hours, it travels even more slowly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Samin Nosrat, author of “\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Salt-Fat-Acid-Heat-Mastering/dp/1476753830\">Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat\u003c/a>,” points out that as salt pushes into the turkey, it loosens coiled strands of proteins and causes the muscles to swell, pulling surface liquids back in. This prevents proteins from clumping up and squeezing out water molecules. As a result, the proteins get a better grip on moisture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because the meat retains more liquid in the oven, the turkey will come out juicy and tender. This extra moisture also gives nervous chefs a larger margin of error for overcooking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When it comes to measuring salt for your dry brine, you’ll need some simple math. The volume of salt crystals can vary depending on grain size; one cup of smaller-grained table salt could hold more salt crystals than a cup of larger-grained sea salt. Your best bet is to go by weight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As a chef, I would never use volumetric measurements because they’re too unreliable,” said food chemist Chris Young, founder of ChefSteps and coauthor of Modernist Cuisine. You can measure the same salt in the same measuring cup several times, and you’ll find its weight differs by about 5 or 10 percent each time based on how you pack the cup, he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, take a kitchen scale and calculate 1.5 percent of your turkey’s weight in salt. Letting your dry-brined turkey mellow in the fridge for the next 24 to 48 hours will transform a tough bird into a scrumptious, tender delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If your kitchen doesn’t have a weighing device, here’s a nifty trick: Young recommends heavily coating your turkey in salt, letting it sit for an hour and then rinsing off the excess before adding seasonings and refrigerating. The turkey won’t be too salty, because it won’t be exposed to the salt long enough to cure the meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>The Best Roast\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Say you want more than juiciness. You’re looking for crackling skin, bursting with rich, savory flavors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Try amping up the Maillard reaction.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whenever you happily munch on the deep brown crust of a hunk of bread or delight in a juicy steak, you’re indulging in a symphony of flavors created by the Maillard reaction, otherwise known as “nonenzymatic browning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the Maillard reaction, amino acids — the building blocks of proteins — and sugars in the meat break down with time and temperature. They recombine into thousands of new flavor compounds in what chef and author J. Kenji López-Alt calls a “\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Food-Lab-Cooking-Through-Science/dp/0393081087/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1541773777&sr=8-1&keywords=the+food+lab\">cascade of chemical reactions.\u003c/a>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These new compounds are responsible for the enticing aromas and fragrant flavors that emerge after roasting, baking, frying and searing foods. And this reaction really packs a punch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The amazing thing is some of these compounds are formed in infinitesimal amounts, and yet we can still smell it,” Young said. “You put a single droplet of a particular roast flavor of meat into an Olympic sized swimming pool, the water would taste beefy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scientists still struggle to understand the complex mechanisms behind the Maillard reaction. They know the reaction creates compounds like nutty and sweet chemicals called furans and savory chemicals called thiophenes, but they have been unable to nail down how long it takes or which temperature is ideal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The reaction kicks into gear at temperatures above 220 degrees Fahrenheit, the point at which water starts boiling off, leaving behind higher concentrations of proteins and sugars. However, if temperatures exceed 340 degrees for long periods of time, food can undergo pyrolysis — a type of heat-induced decomposition.That creates bitter flavors even before the exterior looks burned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We roast Thanksgiving turkeys at a high temperature over a relatively quick time span to maximize the Maillard reaction. We don’t boil our Thanksgiving turkeys, for example, because we want water to evaporate, leaving a high concentration of sugars and proteins to react. A method like boiling also means that the turkey’s skin wouldn’t dehydrate in the oven, and it would never get crispy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At some point during the cooking process, acidic byproducts interfere with the Maillard reaction, causing it to slow down. Luckily, food chemists like Young and López-Alt have found a nifty trick to overcome this hurdle: baking soda. Baking soda works by increasing the pH level of a batter, mixture or surface to neutralize the acidic by-products.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As food chemist Matt Hartings explained, every amino acid has a side chain made of nitrogen attached to hydrogen ions. As you increase the pH level, one hydrogen ion detaches from the side chain, removing the positive charge. The uncharged nitrogens are now more likely to go through the Maillard reaction, speeding up reaction rates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To bring this reaction to your Thanksgiving masterpiece, dissolve a small amount of baking soda into water and lightly brush it onto the surface of your turkey just before putting it into the oven.. Young recommends using about 1 percent of your turkey’s weight in baking soda.. You can also add some baking powder to your dry brine — although it’s not alkaline enough to significantly raise the pH like baking soda will, its leavening properties will form tiny bubbles in the skin, which will also crisp up nicely in the oven.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Food Chemistry!\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’re still skeptical about using dry brines with baking soda (or baking powder), you can experiment with caramelizing onions. Simply divide the cooking onions into two separate piles and add a pinch of salt and baking soda to one half. After a few minutes, the onions with salt and soda should be sweeter and browner than the other half.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "The Curious Webspinner Insect Knits a Cozy Home",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949387\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 590px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1949387 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/2019-10-15-14_19_54.gif\" alt=\"Webspinner silk underneath a log at Guadalupe Oak Grove Park in San Jose, California.\" width=\"590\" height=\"331\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Webspinner silk underneath a log at Guadalupe Oak Grove Park in San Jose, California. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>With the holidays just around the corner, it’s that time of year when you’re ready to burn off Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas cookie calories by heading outdoors for a hike. Maybe you’ve noticed what looks like spider webs woven between weeds along the trail, or poking out from under rocks or draped across logs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But take a closer look – those webs might actually not be spider webs. A lot of them are silken habitats, known as galleries, created by insects called webspinners. While they’re usually underground or sequestered in burrows in fall and winter – you’re more likely to see the insects in early spring or summer – their silk is visible year-round in many parks and open spaces. They’re typically in areas that aren’t too wet or shady, nibbling on lichen, dead leaves and moss underneath their silken canopies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949394\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1949394 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Josh_Films_Silk_on_Log_With_Janice_Edgerly_Rooks-2.jpg\" alt=\"Santa Clara University professor of biology Janice Edgerly-Rooks and Deep Look producer Jenny Oh watch director of photography Josh Cassidy film webspinner silk at Guadalupe Oak Grove Park, San Jose, CA.\" width=\"640\" height=\"427\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Josh_Films_Silk_on_Log_With_Janice_Edgerly_Rooks-2.jpg 640w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Josh_Films_Silk_on_Log_With_Janice_Edgerly_Rooks-2-160x107.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Santa Clara University professor of biology Janice Edgerly-Rooks and Deep Look producer Jenny Oh watch KQED director of photography Josh Cassidy film webspinner silk at Guadalupe Oak Grove Park in San Jose, California. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Edward Rooks)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“There are places where I go hiking where I just know their habitat looks perfect. If I turn over a rock, bam! The silk is there,” said Janice Edgerly-Rooks, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.scu.edu/cas/biology/faculty/edgerly-rooks/\">professor of biology at Santa Clara University\u003c/a> who has been studying webspinners for more than 30 years. “People don’t realize what it is. It’s these beautiful little bluish-tinted tubes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Webspinners, related to walking sticks and praying mantises, produce the finest silk in the animal kingdom. But unlike spiders, which produce silk from spinnerets on the tip of their abdomens, or caterpillars that produce it with salivary glands, webspinners have special silk ejectors on their front feet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Their feet are clothed with silk ejectors, so they look like the Lord of the Rings’ hobbits,” said Edgerly-Rooks. “When they step, hundreds of fibers come out.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949388\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1949388\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"A female webspinner spins silk.\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A female webspinner spins silk. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The extremely narrow silk threads are essential to the webspinners’ survival. The silk serves as the webspinners’ home, umbrella and invisibility cloak, all in one. Webspinners are susceptible to drowning in heavy rains, so the silk shields the insects from water with its amazing waterproof qualities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They can’t handle water. They’re just complete wimps when it comes to getting wet. But the water just slips off. It’s the most incredible thing,” Edgerly-Rooks said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When water hits the silk, drops sit on top, like on the paint of a just-waxed car.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949392\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1949392\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-1020x570.png\" alt=\"A webspinner retreats under a gallery of silk to avoid water. \" width=\"640\" height=\"358\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-1020x570.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-160x89.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-800x447.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-768x429.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-1200x670.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-1920x1073.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A webspinner retreats under a gallery of silk to avoid water. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The silk grabs the water,” she said. “It actually pins it onto the surface. We’ve been watching it with this incredible microscope we have at the lab. We watch the water droplets dry, and it took more than twice as long for a tiny, tiny drop of water to disappear completely. Twice as long as if you put the tiny drop just on the counter.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And while we typically think of silk as a beautiful, luxurious fabric, for the webspinners, it’s their homemade armor that protects them from predators. Since they’re soft-bodied with no other means of defense, they disappear into their habitat while ants and other predators just walk on top, unaware of their prey safely hidden below.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949391\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 590px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949391\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/rose.gif\" alt=\"Water drops on a silk compared to on a rose petal.\" width=\"590\" height=\"331\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Water drops on silk compared to on a rose petal. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Janice Edgerly-Rooks / Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>They can also run away, but they have to run backward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s so funny to watch them walk. They’re totally compromised by having silk come out of their front feet,” said Edgerly-Rooks. “So when they walk forward, they walk on tiptoes just to make sure they don’t engage their silk ejectors. And they do not run forwards.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to her teaching duties, Edgerly-Rooks continues to study and raise webspinners she has collected around the world. She’s even \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/veehbMKjMgw\">composed music\u003c/a> inspired by these creatures’ movements.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And she advises that if you see them in the wild, be careful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They are very fragile insects, so it’s not wise to try to pick them up,” she said. “You can maybe gather some of the silk tubes carefully with them inside the silk. If you put them in a small container, you can get them to run around for you, although some also play dead and are really good at ‘disappearing’ even when we know they are right in front of us.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "To protect herself and her eggs, a female webspinner shoots super-fine silk from her front feet. She weaves the strands to build a shelter that serves as a tent, umbrella and invisibility cloak. But shooting silk from her feet requires her to moonwalk to get around. ",
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"title": "The Curious Webspinner Insect Knits a Cozy Home | KQED",
"description": "To protect herself and her eggs, a female webspinner shoots super-fine silk from her front feet. She weaves the strands to build a shelter that serves as a tent, umbrella and invisibility cloak. But shooting silk from her feet requires her to moonwalk to get around. ",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949387\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 590px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1949387 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/2019-10-15-14_19_54.gif\" alt=\"Webspinner silk underneath a log at Guadalupe Oak Grove Park in San Jose, California.\" width=\"590\" height=\"331\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Webspinner silk underneath a log at Guadalupe Oak Grove Park in San Jose, California. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>With the holidays just around the corner, it’s that time of year when you’re ready to burn off Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas cookie calories by heading outdoors for a hike. Maybe you’ve noticed what looks like spider webs woven between weeds along the trail, or poking out from under rocks or draped across logs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But take a closer look – those webs might actually not be spider webs. A lot of them are silken habitats, known as galleries, created by insects called webspinners. While they’re usually underground or sequestered in burrows in fall and winter – you’re more likely to see the insects in early spring or summer – their silk is visible year-round in many parks and open spaces. They’re typically in areas that aren’t too wet or shady, nibbling on lichen, dead leaves and moss underneath their silken canopies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949394\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1949394 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Josh_Films_Silk_on_Log_With_Janice_Edgerly_Rooks-2.jpg\" alt=\"Santa Clara University professor of biology Janice Edgerly-Rooks and Deep Look producer Jenny Oh watch director of photography Josh Cassidy film webspinner silk at Guadalupe Oak Grove Park, San Jose, CA.\" width=\"640\" height=\"427\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Josh_Films_Silk_on_Log_With_Janice_Edgerly_Rooks-2.jpg 640w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Josh_Films_Silk_on_Log_With_Janice_Edgerly_Rooks-2-160x107.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Santa Clara University professor of biology Janice Edgerly-Rooks and Deep Look producer Jenny Oh watch KQED director of photography Josh Cassidy film webspinner silk at Guadalupe Oak Grove Park in San Jose, California. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Edward Rooks)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“There are places where I go hiking where I just know their habitat looks perfect. If I turn over a rock, bam! The silk is there,” said Janice Edgerly-Rooks, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.scu.edu/cas/biology/faculty/edgerly-rooks/\">professor of biology at Santa Clara University\u003c/a> who has been studying webspinners for more than 30 years. “People don’t realize what it is. It’s these beautiful little bluish-tinted tubes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Webspinners, related to walking sticks and praying mantises, produce the finest silk in the animal kingdom. But unlike spiders, which produce silk from spinnerets on the tip of their abdomens, or caterpillars that produce it with salivary glands, webspinners have special silk ejectors on their front feet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Their feet are clothed with silk ejectors, so they look like the Lord of the Rings’ hobbits,” said Edgerly-Rooks. “When they step, hundreds of fibers come out.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949388\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1949388\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"A female webspinner spins silk.\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL620_webspinner_foot-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A female webspinner spins silk. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The extremely narrow silk threads are essential to the webspinners’ survival. The silk serves as the webspinners’ home, umbrella and invisibility cloak, all in one. Webspinners are susceptible to drowning in heavy rains, so the silk shields the insects from water with its amazing waterproof qualities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They can’t handle water. They’re just complete wimps when it comes to getting wet. But the water just slips off. It’s the most incredible thing,” Edgerly-Rooks said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When water hits the silk, drops sit on top, like on the paint of a just-waxed car.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949392\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1949392\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-1020x570.png\" alt=\"A webspinner retreats under a gallery of silk to avoid water. \" width=\"640\" height=\"358\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-1020x570.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-160x89.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-800x447.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-768x429.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-1200x670.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/Screen-Shot-2019-10-15-at-2.21.25-PM-1920x1073.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A webspinner retreats under a gallery of silk to avoid water. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The silk grabs the water,” she said. “It actually pins it onto the surface. We’ve been watching it with this incredible microscope we have at the lab. We watch the water droplets dry, and it took more than twice as long for a tiny, tiny drop of water to disappear completely. Twice as long as if you put the tiny drop just on the counter.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And while we typically think of silk as a beautiful, luxurious fabric, for the webspinners, it’s their homemade armor that protects them from predators. Since they’re soft-bodied with no other means of defense, they disappear into their habitat while ants and other predators just walk on top, unaware of their prey safely hidden below.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949391\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 590px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949391\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/rose.gif\" alt=\"Water drops on a silk compared to on a rose petal.\" width=\"590\" height=\"331\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Water drops on silk compared to on a rose petal. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Janice Edgerly-Rooks / Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>They can also run away, but they have to run backward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s so funny to watch them walk. They’re totally compromised by having silk come out of their front feet,” said Edgerly-Rooks. “So when they walk forward, they walk on tiptoes just to make sure they don’t engage their silk ejectors. And they do not run forwards.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to her teaching duties, Edgerly-Rooks continues to study and raise webspinners she has collected around the world. She’s even \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/veehbMKjMgw\">composed music\u003c/a> inspired by these creatures’ movements.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And she advises that if you see them in the wild, be careful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They are very fragile insects, so it’s not wise to try to pick them up,” she said. “You can maybe gather some of the silk tubes carefully with them inside the silk. If you put them in a small container, you can get them to run around for you, although some also play dead and are really good at ‘disappearing’ even when we know they are right in front of us.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]Why did the tarantula cross the road? It may sound like the setup of a joke, but it’s a very real question to anyone hoping to catch a glimpse of the annual tarantula migration in southeastern Colorado. Every September, a generation of newly mature male tarantulas leave their underground homes to wander the landscape south of La Junta to look for mates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The local roads, some paved and some dirt, traverse a wide expanse of undeveloped prairie, the ideal place for an unobstructed view of tarantulas on the march. Town residents have even coined the term “tarantula tourism” to describe the annual swarm – of visitors. This year, they came from as far away as Texas and Michigan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tarantulas, which usually fit in the palm of your hand, are not aggressive, and rarely bite unless provoked. The bite itself is no more painful than a papercut.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A decade ago, I started making a dedicated trip,” said Whitney Cranshaw, an entomology professor at Colorado State in Fort Collins. Cranshaw collects a few of the spiders every year to\u003cbr>\nuse in his freshman classes. “It’s always a hit,” he added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lucky males will find females, who remain near their dens the whole lives, and possibly mate, fulfilling the evolutionary goal of passing on their genes. But this so‐called “migration” is\u003cbr>\na one‐way trip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1950589\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1950589\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"Newly-mature Texas brown tarantulas (Aphonopelma hentzi) cross a rural road in southeastern Colorado, in search of potential mates.\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Newly-mature Texas brown tarantulas (Aphonopelma hentzi) cross a rural road in southeastern Colorado, in search of potential mates. \u003ccite>(Kevin Collins)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The lifespan of a male, once they reach adulthood, is pretty short,” said Brent Hendrixson, an arachnologist from Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi, who researches the spiders.\u003cbr>\nAlmost all will be dead by the end of November.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They only have a few months left until it starts getting cold down there. Winter temperatures, exposure, or predators eventually wear them out,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Among the many risks for these itinerant tarantulas, besides running out of time and becoming roadkill, are the local tarantula hawks. The two‐inch long, blue‐and‐gold wasps pounce on the unsuspecting arachnid travelers, hit them with a paralyzing sting, then drag them off to their lairs. Once there, the female wasp lays an egg on the spider that eventually hatches into a larva.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1950591\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1950591\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"This tarantula has been stung and paralyzed by one of its natural predators - the Tarantula hawk wasp (Pepsis sp.).\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This tarantula has been stung and paralyzed by one of its natural predators – the Tarantula hawk wasp (Pepsis sp.). \u003ccite>(Kevin Collins)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The larva burrows inside him to feast and grow before emerging from his body, Alien‐like, as an adult.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though the tarantulas seem to be going in a straight line, their actual path is not so linear. “There’s no rhyme or reason to the direction,” said Hendrixson, “They’re moving around randomly in their environment and coming across some sort of cue – probably silk – on the ground.” Though the final trigger is not entirely understood, males tend to court once they\u003cbr>\ncome within a few feet of a female’s den.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If a male does survive long enough to find a den, he courts the female singing‐telegram style, first “knocking” at the entrance by tapping the ground with his front mouth parts, called pedipalps. He must rely on vibration to communicate his intentions, since tarantulas are mostly blind. If the larger and more dangerous female comes out to investigate, they face off at the\u003cbr>\nden entrance. She may reply with drumming of her own to indicate that she’s receptive ‐‐ or she might try to eat him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he’s come prepared. When male tarantulas reach maturity, right before they set out on their quest, they develop a special set of clasps on their front legs called “tibial hooks.” Tibial hooks serve a single purpose: to fasten underneath the female’s fangs during courtship, allowing him to keep danger at arm’s length, so to speak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1950594\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1950594\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"Mature male tarantulas develop a special set of clasps on their front legs called “tibial hooks.” Tibial hooks serve a single purpose: to fasten underneath the female’s fangs during courtship.\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mature male tarantulas develop a special set of clasps on their front legs called “tibial hooks.” Tibial hooks serve a single purpose: to fasten underneath the female’s fangs during courtship. \u003ccite>(Kevin Collins)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>With the clasps locked in, he tips her body upright to expose her underbelly before he passes her his sperm. “It’s literally hooking up,” Hendrixson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even when the deed is done, she may still think he’s prey, so he breaks the hook‐to‐fang contact and runs for his life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tarantula migration isn’t limited to this one area of Colorado. The species inhabits a swath of western territory that stretches all the way to Louisiana. In fact, the species is known colloquially as the “Texas brown tarantula,” though its common name varies from place to\u003cbr>\nplace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most males never even find a female den in the short time they have, according to Hendrixson. As the season draws to a close, the tarantulas run out of gas. “By early November, they’re pretty ratty looking,” said Hendrixson, who’s observed dozens of migrations in his career. “They literally wear themselves to pieces by the end of the breeding season.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The spiders Cranshaw collects fare slightly better. “The mature males I collect typically die by December, which is longer than they survive outdoors,” he said. He gives them to students to care for as pets. “It helps generate healthy discussions about spiders.”\u003cbr>\n.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Every fall, male tarantulas leave home for good with one thing on their minds: sex. But before these spiders can make the ultimate connection, they have to survive the perils of the open road...which include their potential mates.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Why did the tarantula cross the road? It may sound like the setup of a joke, but it’s a very real question to anyone hoping to catch a glimpse of the annual tarantula migration in southeastern Colorado. Every September, a generation of newly mature male tarantulas leave their underground homes to wander the landscape south of La Junta to look for mates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The local roads, some paved and some dirt, traverse a wide expanse of undeveloped prairie, the ideal place for an unobstructed view of tarantulas on the march. Town residents have even coined the term “tarantula tourism” to describe the annual swarm – of visitors. This year, they came from as far away as Texas and Michigan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tarantulas, which usually fit in the palm of your hand, are not aggressive, and rarely bite unless provoked. The bite itself is no more painful than a papercut.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A decade ago, I started making a dedicated trip,” said Whitney Cranshaw, an entomology professor at Colorado State in Fort Collins. Cranshaw collects a few of the spiders every year to\u003cbr>\nuse in his freshman classes. “It’s always a hit,” he added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lucky males will find females, who remain near their dens the whole lives, and possibly mate, fulfilling the evolutionary goal of passing on their genes. But this so‐called “migration” is\u003cbr>\na one‐way trip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1950589\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1950589\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"Newly-mature Texas brown tarantulas (Aphonopelma hentzi) cross a rural road in southeastern Colorado, in search of potential mates.\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Newly-mature Texas brown tarantulas (Aphonopelma hentzi) cross a rural road in southeastern Colorado, in search of potential mates. \u003ccite>(Kevin Collins)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The lifespan of a male, once they reach adulthood, is pretty short,” said Brent Hendrixson, an arachnologist from Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi, who researches the spiders.\u003cbr>\nAlmost all will be dead by the end of November.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They only have a few months left until it starts getting cold down there. Winter temperatures, exposure, or predators eventually wear them out,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Among the many risks for these itinerant tarantulas, besides running out of time and becoming roadkill, are the local tarantula hawks. The two‐inch long, blue‐and‐gold wasps pounce on the unsuspecting arachnid travelers, hit them with a paralyzing sting, then drag them off to their lairs. Once there, the female wasp lays an egg on the spider that eventually hatches into a larva.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1950591\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1950591\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"This tarantula has been stung and paralyzed by one of its natural predators - the Tarantula hawk wasp (Pepsis sp.).\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tarantula_hawk-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This tarantula has been stung and paralyzed by one of its natural predators – the Tarantula hawk wasp (Pepsis sp.). \u003ccite>(Kevin Collins)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The larva burrows inside him to feast and grow before emerging from his body, Alien‐like, as an adult.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though the tarantulas seem to be going in a straight line, their actual path is not so linear. “There’s no rhyme or reason to the direction,” said Hendrixson, “They’re moving around randomly in their environment and coming across some sort of cue – probably silk – on the ground.” Though the final trigger is not entirely understood, males tend to court once they\u003cbr>\ncome within a few feet of a female’s den.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If a male does survive long enough to find a den, he courts the female singing‐telegram style, first “knocking” at the entrance by tapping the ground with his front mouth parts, called pedipalps. He must rely on vibration to communicate his intentions, since tarantulas are mostly blind. If the larger and more dangerous female comes out to investigate, they face off at the\u003cbr>\nden entrance. She may reply with drumming of her own to indicate that she’s receptive ‐‐ or she might try to eat him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he’s come prepared. When male tarantulas reach maturity, right before they set out on their quest, they develop a special set of clasps on their front legs called “tibial hooks.” Tibial hooks serve a single purpose: to fasten underneath the female’s fangs during courtship, allowing him to keep danger at arm’s length, so to speak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1950594\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1950594\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-800x450.jpg\" alt=\"Mature male tarantulas develop a special set of clasps on their front legs called “tibial hooks.” Tibial hooks serve a single purpose: to fasten underneath the female’s fangs during courtship.\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/11/DL619_tibial_hook_XCU-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mature male tarantulas develop a special set of clasps on their front legs called “tibial hooks.” Tibial hooks serve a single purpose: to fasten underneath the female’s fangs during courtship. \u003ccite>(Kevin Collins)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>With the clasps locked in, he tips her body upright to expose her underbelly before he passes her his sperm. “It’s literally hooking up,” Hendrixson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even when the deed is done, she may still think he’s prey, so he breaks the hook‐to‐fang contact and runs for his life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tarantula migration isn’t limited to this one area of Colorado. The species inhabits a swath of western territory that stretches all the way to Louisiana. In fact, the species is known colloquially as the “Texas brown tarantula,” though its common name varies from place to\u003cbr>\nplace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most males never even find a female den in the short time they have, according to Hendrixson. As the season draws to a close, the tarantulas run out of gas. “By early November, they’re pretty ratty looking,” said Hendrixson, who’s observed dozens of migrations in his career. “They literally wear themselves to pieces by the end of the breeding season.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The spiders Cranshaw collects fare slightly better. “The mature males I collect typically die by December, which is longer than they survive outdoors,” he said. He gives them to students to care for as pets. “It helps generate healthy discussions about spiders.”\u003cbr>\n.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "This Killer Fungus Turns Flies into Zombies",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]Some of the scariest monsters are the ones that grow inside another being and take over its body. Think of the movie “Alien,” where the reptile-like space creature pulsates and grows inside its victim, then explodes out of his chest in a terrifying climax.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That monster might be fictional, but scientists are studying a fungus that’s horrifyingly real — at least for the flies it invades, turns into a zombie-like state and kills in order to reproduce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oh, it’s a nightmare for the flies,” said entomologist \u003ca href=\"https://entomology.ucr.edu/people/bradley-mullens\">Brad Mullens\u003c/a>, who retired from UC Riverside after studying the fungus for 20 years. “If their little brains could comprehend it, they would live in fear.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The fungus is known by its scientific name, \u003cem>Entomophthora muscae\u003c/em>, which means “fly destroyer.” It lives off houseflies and fruit flies, among others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a crazy system,” said \u003ca href=\"https://oeb.harvard.edu/people/carolyn-elya\">Carolyn Elya\u003c/a>, a researcher at Harvard. While getting her Ph.D. at UC Berkeley, she described what a fungus infection looks like in fruit flies and she continues to study their interaction. “The fungus only kills at dusk,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949556\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FUNGUS_OOZES_FROM_DEAD_FRUIT_FLY_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949556\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FUNGUS_OOZES_FROM_DEAD_FRUIT_FLY_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">White fungus emerges from a dead fruit fly’s abdomen. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Like a killer puppeteer, the fungus follows a precise clock.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the first few days after picking up a fungal spore, an infected fruit fly seems normal. But inside its body, the fungus is growing, taking over the fly’s brain and central nervous system and feeding on its fat body, the tissue where insects store nutrients and energy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At dusk on the fourth or fifth day, the fruit fly stops flying and starts behaving erratically, for example climbing up and down the toothpicks that Elya puts into the vials where she keeps the infected insects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then the fly climbs to the top of the toothpick, a behavior Elya and other scientists refer to as “summiting.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949570\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_INFECTED_FRUIT_FLY_ON_TOP_OF_TOOTHPICK-e1571448549706.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949570\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_INFECTED_FRUIT_FLY_ON_TOP_OF_TOOTHPICK-e1571448549706.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An infected fruit fly climbs to the top of a toothpick shortly before dying, a behavior scientists call “summiting.” \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Maybe the fungus is tapping into the flies’ gravitactic circuitry — neurons that make them climb,” Elya said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In an unusual twist, the fly then extends its mouthpart down, and some liquid drips out and glues the fly to the surface it’s standing on. Researchers believe the droplets are made up of fungus, though Elya said it’s not clear whether the fungus is inherently adhesive or makes itself sticky so that the fly gets stuck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949569\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_INFECTED_FLY_MOUTHPART_STUCK_TO_TOOTHPICK-e1571696818207.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_INFECTED_FLY_MOUTHPART_STUCK_TO_TOOTHPICK-e1571696818207.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949569\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An infected fruit fly extends its mouthpart towards the tip of a toothpick it climbed up. Liquid on their mouthparts glues infected flies to the surface they’re standing on. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Over the next 10 or so minutes, the fly’s wings ascend in small bursts until they’re pointing straight up. Sometimes this happens more quickly. And then it dies frozen in this lifelike pose.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949558\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_WINGS_SHOOT_UP_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949558\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_WINGS_SHOOT_UP_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An infected fruit fly’s wings shoot up shortly before it dies. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Soon after, white spongy fungus oozes out of its abdomen. When the fungus has all come out, the fly looks as if a cotton ball had grown over its lower body. This white goo is made up of hundreds of tiny lollipop-shaped protrusions called conidiophores, which each launch a microscopic bell-shaped spore at high speed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949571\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FUNGUS_OOZES_FROM_DEAD_FRUIT_FLY_ECU-e1571448520928.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FUNGUS_OOZES_FROM_DEAD_FRUIT_FLY_ECU-e1571448520928.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949571\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The fungus pushes through the soft cuticle in between the fly’s exoskeleton to shoot out its reproductive spores. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>These spores are the next generation of fungus. They need to get into another fly to grow. But why would a healthy fly hang out around a dead one? Mullens found that in dairy and poultry farms, infected houseflies died at dusk on the cool end of the barn — the fungus prefers lower temperatures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the morning, living flies would warm themselves in the first rays of sun, which fall right where the flies died the night before. The fungus had spent all night shooting out spores. Come morning, those spores started shooting out secondary spores that infected the living flies that had come to warm up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The precision of the fungus’ clock was “very neat,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949555\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FLIES_RUN_NEAR_FUNGUS-INFECTED_FRUIT_FLY_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949555\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FLIES_RUN_NEAR_FUNGUS-INFECTED_FRUIT_FLY_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">These flies are in the wrong place at the wrong time: They could get infected with spores shooting out from the infected dead fly. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Scientists believe that getting the fly to point its wings up helps the fungus spread its spores. If the fly climbed high enough, the spores might be dispersed by the wind. And there’s an added bonus for the fungus in keeping the fly’s wings up. In houseflies, scientists have observed males mating with infected female cadavers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think the fat females are especially attractive for the males,” said Mullens. Those males carry off some spores and spread them around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In nature, \u003cem>Entomophthora muscae\u003c/em> can be lethal to large groups of flies in the fall, when the cooler temperatures that the fungus prefers have started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But don’t worry — the fungus doesn’t hurt humans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s very unlikely that a similar fungus could zombify people,” said Elya. “Not only do we run much warmer than an average fly, we can control our bodily temperature to kill invaders. We also have an adaptive immune system, which is good at amplifying responses to specific invaders.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mullens and other researchers tried to figure out how the fungus might be put to use as a biological control for flies in homes and farms. But the spores are short-lived, fragile and difficult to grow in the lab, which has made it impossible to bottle them up and use them as an insecticide. And a housefly lives about as long as it takes the fungus to incubate anyway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949573\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_DEAD_FRUIT_FLIES_W_FUNGUS_OOZING-e1571448430693.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949573\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_DEAD_FRUIT_FLIES_W_FUNGUS_OOZING-e1571448430693.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Could this fungus kill the pesky flies in your kitchen? Researchers have tried to harness the fungus as a biological control, but its spores — which have coated this petri dish in a lab at Harvard — are short-lived and fragile. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“There’s a lot more efficient ways to kill flies, and faster,” said Mullens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, researchers are imagining ways to put this fly-killer to work for humans. One possible scenario would be to plant the cadavers of fungus-covered flies in a farm while they’re still spewing spores and attracting living flies to them with foul-smelling bait.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now that’s a horror-movie plot if there ever was one.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "This Killer Fungus Turns Flies into Zombies | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Some of the scariest monsters are the ones that grow inside another being and take over its body. Think of the movie “Alien,” where the reptile-like space creature pulsates and grows inside its victim, then explodes out of his chest in a terrifying climax.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That monster might be fictional, but scientists are studying a fungus that’s horrifyingly real — at least for the flies it invades, turns into a zombie-like state and kills in order to reproduce.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oh, it’s a nightmare for the flies,” said entomologist \u003ca href=\"https://entomology.ucr.edu/people/bradley-mullens\">Brad Mullens\u003c/a>, who retired from UC Riverside after studying the fungus for 20 years. “If their little brains could comprehend it, they would live in fear.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The fungus is known by its scientific name, \u003cem>Entomophthora muscae\u003c/em>, which means “fly destroyer.” It lives off houseflies and fruit flies, among others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a crazy system,” said \u003ca href=\"https://oeb.harvard.edu/people/carolyn-elya\">Carolyn Elya\u003c/a>, a researcher at Harvard. While getting her Ph.D. at UC Berkeley, she described what a fungus infection looks like in fruit flies and she continues to study their interaction. “The fungus only kills at dusk,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949556\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FUNGUS_OOZES_FROM_DEAD_FRUIT_FLY_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949556\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FUNGUS_OOZES_FROM_DEAD_FRUIT_FLY_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">White fungus emerges from a dead fruit fly’s abdomen. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Like a killer puppeteer, the fungus follows a precise clock.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the first few days after picking up a fungal spore, an infected fruit fly seems normal. But inside its body, the fungus is growing, taking over the fly’s brain and central nervous system and feeding on its fat body, the tissue where insects store nutrients and energy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At dusk on the fourth or fifth day, the fruit fly stops flying and starts behaving erratically, for example climbing up and down the toothpicks that Elya puts into the vials where she keeps the infected insects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then the fly climbs to the top of the toothpick, a behavior Elya and other scientists refer to as “summiting.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949570\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_INFECTED_FRUIT_FLY_ON_TOP_OF_TOOTHPICK-e1571448549706.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949570\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_INFECTED_FRUIT_FLY_ON_TOP_OF_TOOTHPICK-e1571448549706.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An infected fruit fly climbs to the top of a toothpick shortly before dying, a behavior scientists call “summiting.” \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Maybe the fungus is tapping into the flies’ gravitactic circuitry — neurons that make them climb,” Elya said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In an unusual twist, the fly then extends its mouthpart down, and some liquid drips out and glues the fly to the surface it’s standing on. Researchers believe the droplets are made up of fungus, though Elya said it’s not clear whether the fungus is inherently adhesive or makes itself sticky so that the fly gets stuck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949569\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_INFECTED_FLY_MOUTHPART_STUCK_TO_TOOTHPICK-e1571696818207.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_INFECTED_FLY_MOUTHPART_STUCK_TO_TOOTHPICK-e1571696818207.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949569\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An infected fruit fly extends its mouthpart towards the tip of a toothpick it climbed up. Liquid on their mouthparts glues infected flies to the surface they’re standing on. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Over the next 10 or so minutes, the fly’s wings ascend in small bursts until they’re pointing straight up. Sometimes this happens more quickly. And then it dies frozen in this lifelike pose.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949558\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_WINGS_SHOOT_UP_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949558\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_WINGS_SHOOT_UP_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An infected fruit fly’s wings shoot up shortly before it dies. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Soon after, white spongy fungus oozes out of its abdomen. When the fungus has all come out, the fly looks as if a cotton ball had grown over its lower body. This white goo is made up of hundreds of tiny lollipop-shaped protrusions called conidiophores, which each launch a microscopic bell-shaped spore at high speed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949571\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FUNGUS_OOZES_FROM_DEAD_FRUIT_FLY_ECU-e1571448520928.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FUNGUS_OOZES_FROM_DEAD_FRUIT_FLY_ECU-e1571448520928.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949571\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The fungus pushes through the soft cuticle in between the fly’s exoskeleton to shoot out its reproductive spores. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>These spores are the next generation of fungus. They need to get into another fly to grow. But why would a healthy fly hang out around a dead one? Mullens found that in dairy and poultry farms, infected houseflies died at dusk on the cool end of the barn — the fungus prefers lower temperatures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the morning, living flies would warm themselves in the first rays of sun, which fall right where the flies died the night before. The fungus had spent all night shooting out spores. Come morning, those spores started shooting out secondary spores that infected the living flies that had come to warm up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The precision of the fungus’ clock was “very neat,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949555\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FLIES_RUN_NEAR_FUNGUS-INFECTED_FRUIT_FLY_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949555\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_FLIES_RUN_NEAR_FUNGUS-INFECTED_FRUIT_FLY_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">These flies are in the wrong place at the wrong time: They could get infected with spores shooting out from the infected dead fly. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Scientists believe that getting the fly to point its wings up helps the fungus spread its spores. If the fly climbed high enough, the spores might be dispersed by the wind. And there’s an added bonus for the fungus in keeping the fly’s wings up. In houseflies, scientists have observed males mating with infected female cadavers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think the fat females are especially attractive for the males,” said Mullens. Those males carry off some spores and spread them around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In nature, \u003cem>Entomophthora muscae\u003c/em> can be lethal to large groups of flies in the fall, when the cooler temperatures that the fungus prefers have started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But don’t worry — the fungus doesn’t hurt humans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s very unlikely that a similar fungus could zombify people,” said Elya. “Not only do we run much warmer than an average fly, we can control our bodily temperature to kill invaders. We also have an adaptive immune system, which is good at amplifying responses to specific invaders.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mullens and other researchers tried to figure out how the fungus might be put to use as a biological control for flies in homes and farms. But the spores are short-lived, fragile and difficult to grow in the lab, which has made it impossible to bottle them up and use them as an insecticide. And a housefly lives about as long as it takes the fungus to incubate anyway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1949573\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_DEAD_FRUIT_FLIES_W_FUNGUS_OOZING-e1571448430693.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1949573\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL_618ZombieFruitFlies_DEAD_FRUIT_FLIES_W_FUNGUS_OOZING-e1571448430693.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Could this fungus kill the pesky flies in your kitchen? Researchers have tried to harness the fungus as a biological control, but its spores — which have coated this petri dish in a lab at Harvard — are short-lived and fragile. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“There’s a lot more efficient ways to kill flies, and faster,” said Mullens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, researchers are imagining ways to put this fly-killer to work for humans. One possible scenario would be to plant the cadavers of fungus-covered flies in a farm while they’re still spewing spores and attracting living flies to them with foul-smelling bait.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now that’s a horror-movie plot if there ever was one.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]You’ll have to look closely to spot a giant Malaysian leaf insect when it’s nibbling on the leaves of a guava or mango tree. These herbivores blend in seamlessly with their surroundings because they look exactly like their favorite food: fruit leaves. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1948422\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1948422 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-800x914.jpg\" alt=\"A giant Malaysian leaf insect\" width=\"800\" height=\"914\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-800x914.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-160x183.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-768x877.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-1020x1165.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-1051x1200.jpg 1051w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663.jpg 1367w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A giant Malaysian leaf insect at the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco, California. \u003ccite>(Jenny Oh/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But you can definitely see these fascinating creatures at the\u003ca href=\"https://www.calacademy.org\"> California Academy of Sciences\u003c/a>, located in the heart of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, through the spring of 2022. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>An ongoing interactive exhibit,”\u003ca href=\"https://www.calacademy.org/exhibits/color-of-life\">Color of Life,\u003c/a>“explores the role of color in the natural world. It’s filled with a variety of critters, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.calacademy.org/explore-science/gouldian-finch\">Gouldian finches\u003c/a>,\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/Bk6XgVVnDED/\"> green tree pythons\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://amphibiaweb.org/cgi/amphib_query?where-genus=Hyperolius&where-species=riggenbachi\">Riggenbach’s reed frogs\u003c/a> and, of course,\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/BV8jrHSlKVx/\"> giant leaf insects.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Evolution is really amazing,” said Patrick Lee, one of the museum’s animal care managers who oversees the care and feeding of 38,000 live animals.”It’s allowed this species to use \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crypsis\">cryptic mimicry\u003c/a> as their anti-predation strategy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Cryptic mimicry” might sound like a magic trick. But it’s the ability of animals to conceal themselves. Also known as camouflage, the feature allows the leaf insects to use two different techniques: crypsis and protective resemblance. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Crypsis refers to an insect’s color and how much it looks like its habitat, while protective resemblance describes insects that resemble a natural object such as a stick, stone or, in this case, a large leaf.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like large leaves, the leaf insects usually stay very, very still to avoid attracting any predators’ attention. Moving can be the most critical mistake this insect can make. But if they must move, they move very slowly — or use a clever strategy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1948438\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 590px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL617_nymph.gif\" alt=\"young giant Malaysian leaf insect nymph\" width=\"590\" height=\"331\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1948438\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A young giant Malaysian leaf insect nymph swaying back and forth like a leaf blowing in the wind. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“If these insects are caught in a breeze, they’ll even sway back and forth along with the surrounding foliage to enhance their disguise,” Lee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But giant leaf insects don’t start off looking like fresh green leaves. Their appearance adapts over time to match their surroundings, so their camouflage is ever-evolving, like their living natural habitat. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Females remain hidden in the trees and drop eggs to the forest floor. The eggs look like small brown seeds that blend in well with the decaying leaf litter. After the nymphs emerge within two or three weeks, they remain brown and scurry around, perhaps mimicking tropical ants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While some amateur entomologists try to raise them privately, you can’t buy them commercially in the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re not available as pets and are regulated by the \u003ca href=\"https://www.aphis.usda.gov/aphis/home/\">USDA\u003c/a>,” Lee said. “You must have a permit in order to display and house this species.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1948431\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-1020x765.jpeg\" alt=\"giant leaf insect nymph\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1948431\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-1020x765.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-800x600.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-768x576.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-1200x900.jpeg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-1920x1440.jpeg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962.jpeg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A newly hatched young giant leaf insect nymph at the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco, CA. \u003ccite>(Patrick Lee/California Academy of Sciences)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Lee breeds them. About two dozen eggs hatch every four to five months. The young insects live in the museum’s special USDA insect-rearing room. This ensures the museum has a healthy community of insects to display to the public and to keep a backup population on hand. In the past, if the museum has had extra eggs or young nymphs, staff members have sent them to other zoos and aquariums throughout the country. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The main challenge in keeping them alive is having a steady supply of good blackberry leaves readily available to eat, Lee said. Otherwise, “they may nibble on their roommate – which incidentally resembles a leaf,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In order to prevent “accidental cannibalism,” only a few are kept together at one time. Nymphs are raised individually in small plastic containers, while the adults are housed together in tall terrariums. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While most of the time there are plenty of local blackberry leaves available for meals, it becomes more challenging in warmer months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“During the summer, when blackberry bushes die due to the heat, it becomes a bit more difficult to gather fresh leaves in Golden Gate Park,” Lee said. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He also keeps the insects’ habitats at a high humidity, so that they’ll successfully molt, or shed their exoskeletons, as they mature.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once they’ve turned green — which usually takes a week from the point they’ve hatched from the eggs — they ascend into the trees to match their leafy environment. They simulate the leaves’ appearance with their wide, flat bodies and specific traits like their texture, spots and “veins.” And as they grow older, they get bigger and even develop frayed brown edges to resemble damaged leaves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947838\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947838 size-large\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-1020x765.jpg\" alt=\"Patrick Lee, an Animal Care Manager at the California Academy of Sciences, smiles in front of the green tree python featured in the museum's "Color of Life" exhibit.\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-1200x900.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-1920x1440.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Patrick Lee, an animal care manager at the California Academy of Sciences, smiles in front of the green tree python featured in the museum’s “Color of Life” exhibit. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Patrick Lee/California Academy of Sciences)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Lee maintains a busy schedule. Along with checking in with all of the animals that are a part of the “Color of Life” exhibit, he’s also in charge of the museum’s large freshwater fish habitats and “ambassador animals,” or education animals, that are a part of the museum’s interpretive programs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But even with this heavy workload, Lee said he finds his job incredibly rewarding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s nothing like coming to work every day,” he said, “to a facility and a collection of live animals that you truly love.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>You’ll have to look closely to spot a giant Malaysian leaf insect when it’s nibbling on the leaves of a guava or mango tree. These herbivores blend in seamlessly with their surroundings because they look exactly like their favorite food: fruit leaves. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1948422\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1948422 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-800x914.jpg\" alt=\"A giant Malaysian leaf insect\" width=\"800\" height=\"914\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-800x914.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-160x183.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-768x877.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-1020x1165.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663-1051x1200.jpg 1051w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_4398-e1570041089663.jpg 1367w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A giant Malaysian leaf insect at the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco, California. \u003ccite>(Jenny Oh/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But you can definitely see these fascinating creatures at the\u003ca href=\"https://www.calacademy.org\"> California Academy of Sciences\u003c/a>, located in the heart of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, through the spring of 2022. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>An ongoing interactive exhibit,”\u003ca href=\"https://www.calacademy.org/exhibits/color-of-life\">Color of Life,\u003c/a>“explores the role of color in the natural world. It’s filled with a variety of critters, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.calacademy.org/explore-science/gouldian-finch\">Gouldian finches\u003c/a>,\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/Bk6XgVVnDED/\"> green tree pythons\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://amphibiaweb.org/cgi/amphib_query?where-genus=Hyperolius&where-species=riggenbachi\">Riggenbach’s reed frogs\u003c/a> and, of course,\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/BV8jrHSlKVx/\"> giant leaf insects.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Evolution is really amazing,” said Patrick Lee, one of the museum’s animal care managers who oversees the care and feeding of 38,000 live animals.”It’s allowed this species to use \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crypsis\">cryptic mimicry\u003c/a> as their anti-predation strategy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Cryptic mimicry” might sound like a magic trick. But it’s the ability of animals to conceal themselves. Also known as camouflage, the feature allows the leaf insects to use two different techniques: crypsis and protective resemblance. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Crypsis refers to an insect’s color and how much it looks like its habitat, while protective resemblance describes insects that resemble a natural object such as a stick, stone or, in this case, a large leaf.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like large leaves, the leaf insects usually stay very, very still to avoid attracting any predators’ attention. Moving can be the most critical mistake this insect can make. But if they must move, they move very slowly — or use a clever strategy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1948438\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 590px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/DL617_nymph.gif\" alt=\"young giant Malaysian leaf insect nymph\" width=\"590\" height=\"331\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1948438\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A young giant Malaysian leaf insect nymph swaying back and forth like a leaf blowing in the wind. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“If these insects are caught in a breeze, they’ll even sway back and forth along with the surrounding foliage to enhance their disguise,” Lee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But giant leaf insects don’t start off looking like fresh green leaves. Their appearance adapts over time to match their surroundings, so their camouflage is ever-evolving, like their living natural habitat. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Females remain hidden in the trees and drop eggs to the forest floor. The eggs look like small brown seeds that blend in well with the decaying leaf litter. After the nymphs emerge within two or three weeks, they remain brown and scurry around, perhaps mimicking tropical ants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While some amateur entomologists try to raise them privately, you can’t buy them commercially in the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re not available as pets and are regulated by the \u003ca href=\"https://www.aphis.usda.gov/aphis/home/\">USDA\u003c/a>,” Lee said. “You must have a permit in order to display and house this species.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1948431\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-1020x765.jpeg\" alt=\"giant leaf insect nymph\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1948431\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-1020x765.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-800x600.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-768x576.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-1200x900.jpeg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962-1920x1440.jpeg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/10/IMG_0962.jpeg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A newly hatched young giant leaf insect nymph at the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco, CA. \u003ccite>(Patrick Lee/California Academy of Sciences)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Lee breeds them. About two dozen eggs hatch every four to five months. The young insects live in the museum’s special USDA insect-rearing room. This ensures the museum has a healthy community of insects to display to the public and to keep a backup population on hand. In the past, if the museum has had extra eggs or young nymphs, staff members have sent them to other zoos and aquariums throughout the country. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The main challenge in keeping them alive is having a steady supply of good blackberry leaves readily available to eat, Lee said. Otherwise, “they may nibble on their roommate – which incidentally resembles a leaf,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In order to prevent “accidental cannibalism,” only a few are kept together at one time. Nymphs are raised individually in small plastic containers, while the adults are housed together in tall terrariums. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While most of the time there are plenty of local blackberry leaves available for meals, it becomes more challenging in warmer months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“During the summer, when blackberry bushes die due to the heat, it becomes a bit more difficult to gather fresh leaves in Golden Gate Park,” Lee said. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He also keeps the insects’ habitats at a high humidity, so that they’ll successfully molt, or shed their exoskeletons, as they mature.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once they’ve turned green — which usually takes a week from the point they’ve hatched from the eggs — they ascend into the trees to match their leafy environment. They simulate the leaves’ appearance with their wide, flat bodies and specific traits like their texture, spots and “veins.” And as they grow older, they get bigger and even develop frayed brown edges to resemble damaged leaves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947838\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947838 size-large\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-1020x765.jpg\" alt=\"Patrick Lee, an Animal Care Manager at the California Academy of Sciences, smiles in front of the green tree python featured in the museum's "Color of Life" exhibit.\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-1200x900.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE-1920x1440.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/PAT_LEE.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Patrick Lee, an animal care manager at the California Academy of Sciences, smiles in front of the green tree python featured in the museum’s “Color of Life” exhibit. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Patrick Lee/California Academy of Sciences)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Lee maintains a busy schedule. Along with checking in with all of the animals that are a part of the “Color of Life” exhibit, he’s also in charge of the museum’s large freshwater fish habitats and “ambassador animals,” or education animals, that are a part of the museum’s interpretive programs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But even with this heavy workload, Lee said he finds his job incredibly rewarding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s nothing like coming to work every day,” he said, “to a facility and a collection of live animals that you truly love.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]A miniature drama is playing out on the forest floor in California’s preeminent mountain range, the Sierra Nevada, at this time of year. As the sun sets, look closely and you might see a stream of red ants frantically climbing over leaves and rocks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They aren’t looking for food. They’re looking for other ants. They’re kidnappers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s hard to know who you’re rooting for in this situation,” says Kelsey Scheckel, a graduate student at UC Berkeley who studies kidnapper ants. “You’re just excited to be a bystander.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On this late summer afternoon, Scheckel stares intently over the landscape at the Sagehen Creek Field Station, part of the University of California’s Natural Reserve System, near Truckee, California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947461\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1947461\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-1020x765.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-1200x900.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-1920x1440.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Graduate student Kelsey Scheckel and postdoctoral fellow Elizabeth Cash wait for a kidnapper ant raid to begin at Sagehen Creek Field Station. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The first thing we do is try to find a colony with two very different-looking species cohabitating,” Scheckel says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That type of coexistence is pretty rare. As soon as we find that, we can get excited.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After they locate a nest, Scheckel and other researchers plant a tiny flag so they can return to study the ants’ behavior day after day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The nest can be underground or in decaying wood. The researchers wait, using binoculars to look from a distance for the first signs of a raid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the last rays of sunlight trickle through the trees, the researchers spot a few red ants venturing out from the nest. They’re scouts, on the search for the nest of a different species of ant nearby. One of their favorite targets is a species of all-black ant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The red scout ants fan out and scour the forest floor. If one of them finds a suitable victim’s nest, it dashes back to its home nest to rouse the kidnappers to prepare for a raid. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947462\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_RaidRock.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947462\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_RaidRock.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kidnapper ants charge toward a neighboring ant’s nest at the start of a raid. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It’s a very busy, kind of messy collection of ants at their entrance at first, until a few of the scouts start the raid and everyone follows,” says Scheckel, who is part of Neil Tsutsui’s Lab, which focuses on the evolution, ecology and behavior of social insects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the assault begins, the kidnappers stream out and scurry en masse toward the victims’ nest. It’s an impressive sight. The stream of bright red ants can be hundreds, even thousands strong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It looks like a highway of ants,” Scheckel says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The black ants seem to know what’s coming. They rush to block the entrances to their nest with dirt, pebbles and tiny sticks. But it’s all for naught.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947463\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_RaidDigging.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947463\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_RaidDigging.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kidnapper ants dig their way into their target’s nest. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The kidnappers arrive and start digging. They excavate the blockage, piling the debris outside the entrance hole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The black ants try to defend their nest, but they’re overwhelmed by the sheer number of the raiders. Some of the black ants put up a fight, and some try to flee, but many seem to simply panic in the face of the onslaught.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The kidnapper ants create this big mass at the entrance, almost like in a zombie movie,” says Scheckel. “It’s a very chaotic scene.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947469\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_Stealing-Pupae.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947469 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_Stealing-Pupae.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kidnapper ants emerge from a Formica ant nest holding the stolen young, called pupae. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It doesn’t take long for the kidnappers to break into the nest. Once they’re inside, they go straight for the black ants’ young.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They target the black ants’ pupae, the last developmental stage before juvenile ants become adults.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The kidnappers emerge with these tiny white pupae that are about the size of a grain of rice, but maybe a little bit more plump,” says Scheckel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947470\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_PolyergusCarryingPupa.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947470 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_PolyergusCarryingPupa.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A kidnapper ant returns to its nest with a stolen pupa in its mandibles. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Some of the pupae are still in their protective silken cocoons. Others that are more mature have had their cocoons removed and look like translucent white ants curled up and motionless.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The kidnappers hold the pupae in their long-hooked jaws, called mandibles. The mandibles seem perfectly shaped to grasp the helpless juveniles without damaging them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The kidnapper ants’ jaws are really good for holding the pupae,” Scheckel says. “But they also happen to be very good in battle as well. Because they have pointy tips, they’re really good at piercing the exoskeleton of their rivals in a fight.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The kidnappers scamper back to their home nest holding their stolen prizes high.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As quickly as it started, the raid is over. But the story isn’t done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947471\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_StealingPupae_wide.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947471\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_StealingPupae_wide.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kidnapper ants carry pupae back to their nest. \u003ccite>(Elizabeth Cash/UC Berkeley)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Ants live in a chemical world,” explains Scheckel. “They primarily use their sense of smell for navigating their environment.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Ants don’t have noses like we do,” she continues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To learn about the world around them, ants constantly tap their antennae — which are full of tiny holes — on every surface they come across. The behavior is called antennation. Ants antennate to find food and to tell their nest mates apart from strangers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ants also create their own odors. Each nest has its own specific smell, which is a combination of chemicals made by the ants themselves mixed with those from their food and surroundings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You can kind of think about it like going over to your friend’s house growing up,” Scheckel says. “You just walked in and that was kind of the smell of their home. You never forget it. That’s what ants have. It’s kind of a colony signature.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ants collect odors in glands located at the corner of their mouths. They’re like tiny sacs full of chemicals that come from everything the ant comes in contact with. When they groom themselves, they cover themselves in their colony’s signature “perfume.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When a young ant emerges from its cocoon, it starts with a blank canvas. “It’s basically naked of smells,” Scheckel says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So when the raid hits, the young ant has no way to know it’s been kidnapped. It can’t tell that it’s being held captive and not in its home nest with its sisters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The kidnappers trick the stolen ant into thinking it belongs in this new nest by grooming it from top to bottom with the chemicals stored in those glands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947472\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_GroomingPupa.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947472 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_GroomingPupa.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A kidnapper ant grooms a young captive ant, coating it in the kidnappers’ nest signature smell. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“They’re essentially bathing the stolen ants in the kidnappers’ nest odors,” says Scheckel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The young ants think they are home. It’s a form of chemical brainwashing. That’s why the kidnappers choose to steal pupae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Adults are kind of already set in their ways, so it would be difficult to change their mind about what their identity is,” Scheckel says. “They are not as malleable.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When they arrive in their new home, the newly enslaved ants get to work maintaining the nest, caring for the young and even leaving the nest to forage for food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unlike their captors, the kidnapped ants’ jaws are perfectly shaped for foraging and are serrated for processing food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside the nest, a hungry kidnapper will approach a captive with its mandibles wide-open and its head tilted up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s kind of like a begging position,” explains Scheckel. “Almost like a baby bird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947473\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_trophallaxis.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947473 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_trophallaxis.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A captive ants regurgitates food into its captor’s mouth. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The kidnapper ants completely rely on the captive ants to feed them. Their pointy, curved jaws lack the serrations that would allow them to chew their own food. Without their slaves, the kidnappers would starve. For that reason they’re considered “obligate” kidnappers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The two ants will meet mouth to mouth in a kissing pose. The captive ant regurgitates food directly into the kidnapper’s mouth. It’s a process called trophallaxis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s an incredibly altruistic behavior that is only reserved for nest mates,” says Scheckel. “So it’s very unusual to see members of different species doing that with one another. That’s what makes it so unique in the parasitic system.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scheckel and her colleagues study these types of relationships in insects. In these unusual ants, the kidnappers are considered parasites and the ants they kidnap are called hosts. It’s an unusual system because the parasite brings the host into its own home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re not bloodsucking, but they’re definitely resource-sucking,” explains Scheckel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to any workers that die defending their nest from the invaders, the host species loses the next generation of its workers. Those that remain in the colony may struggle to get enough food to survive the winters when they’re snowed in and can’t leave their nest to forage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While quite familiar with the red kidnapper ants, Scheckel puts most of her attention on studying another species of kidnapper ant. Instead of being entirely red-colored, the species she studies has red heads and thoraxes, and black abdomens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947475\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1947475\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-1920x1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Facultative kidnapper ants (Formica aserva) on a pile of stolen pupae. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The members of this red-and-black species have grinding mandibles and can feed themselves. But they still kidnap other species’ pupae and raise them as workers in a similar way to the all-red obligate kidnappers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These “facultative” kidnappers represent an evolutionary halfway point between free-living ants and obligate kidnappers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By studying these species, Kelsey and her colleagues say they hope to learn more about how kidnapping came to exist in these incredibly social insects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Studying ants isn’t without its risks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The danger is mostly getting bitten many, many times, and swarmed by very angry ants,” says Scheckel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These species don’t sting, but are able to spray formic acid from their backside that can even cause minor chemical burns.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But for Scheckel the pain is worth it to study such a complex social animal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I can roll over a log and see an entire world,” she says. “And in the ants’ case, an entire society and community living right there at my fingertips.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Laura Shields contributed reporting. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Kidnapper ants raid other ant species' colonies, abduct their young and take them back to their nest. When the enslaved babies grow up, the kidnappers trick them into serving their captors — hunting, cleaning the nest, even chewing up their food for them. ",
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"title": "Kidnapper Ants Steal Other Ants' Babies — And Brainwash Them | KQED",
"description": "Kidnapper ants raid other ant species' colonies, abduct their young and take them back to their nest. When the enslaved babies grow up, the kidnappers trick them into serving their captors — hunting, cleaning the nest, even chewing up their food for them. ",
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"headline": "Kidnapper Ants Steal Other Ants' Babies — And Brainwash Them",
"datePublished": "2019-09-24T04:47:44-07:00",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>A miniature drama is playing out on the forest floor in California’s preeminent mountain range, the Sierra Nevada, at this time of year. As the sun sets, look closely and you might see a stream of red ants frantically climbing over leaves and rocks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They aren’t looking for food. They’re looking for other ants. They’re kidnappers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s hard to know who you’re rooting for in this situation,” says Kelsey Scheckel, a graduate student at UC Berkeley who studies kidnapper ants. “You’re just excited to be a bystander.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On this late summer afternoon, Scheckel stares intently over the landscape at the Sagehen Creek Field Station, part of the University of California’s Natural Reserve System, near Truckee, California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947461\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1947461\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-1020x765.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-1200x900.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash-1920x1440.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_KelseyScheckel_ElizabethCash.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Graduate student Kelsey Scheckel and postdoctoral fellow Elizabeth Cash wait for a kidnapper ant raid to begin at Sagehen Creek Field Station. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The first thing we do is try to find a colony with two very different-looking species cohabitating,” Scheckel says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That type of coexistence is pretty rare. As soon as we find that, we can get excited.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After they locate a nest, Scheckel and other researchers plant a tiny flag so they can return to study the ants’ behavior day after day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The nest can be underground or in decaying wood. The researchers wait, using binoculars to look from a distance for the first signs of a raid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the last rays of sunlight trickle through the trees, the researchers spot a few red ants venturing out from the nest. They’re scouts, on the search for the nest of a different species of ant nearby. One of their favorite targets is a species of all-black ant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The red scout ants fan out and scour the forest floor. If one of them finds a suitable victim’s nest, it dashes back to its home nest to rouse the kidnappers to prepare for a raid. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947462\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_RaidRock.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947462\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_RaidRock.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kidnapper ants charge toward a neighboring ant’s nest at the start of a raid. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It’s a very busy, kind of messy collection of ants at their entrance at first, until a few of the scouts start the raid and everyone follows,” says Scheckel, who is part of Neil Tsutsui’s Lab, which focuses on the evolution, ecology and behavior of social insects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the assault begins, the kidnappers stream out and scurry en masse toward the victims’ nest. It’s an impressive sight. The stream of bright red ants can be hundreds, even thousands strong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It looks like a highway of ants,” Scheckel says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The black ants seem to know what’s coming. They rush to block the entrances to their nest with dirt, pebbles and tiny sticks. But it’s all for naught.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947463\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_RaidDigging.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947463\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_RaidDigging.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kidnapper ants dig their way into their target’s nest. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The kidnappers arrive and start digging. They excavate the blockage, piling the debris outside the entrance hole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The black ants try to defend their nest, but they’re overwhelmed by the sheer number of the raiders. Some of the black ants put up a fight, and some try to flee, but many seem to simply panic in the face of the onslaught.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The kidnapper ants create this big mass at the entrance, almost like in a zombie movie,” says Scheckel. “It’s a very chaotic scene.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947469\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_Stealing-Pupae.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947469 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_Stealing-Pupae.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kidnapper ants emerge from a Formica ant nest holding the stolen young, called pupae. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It doesn’t take long for the kidnappers to break into the nest. Once they’re inside, they go straight for the black ants’ young.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They target the black ants’ pupae, the last developmental stage before juvenile ants become adults.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The kidnappers emerge with these tiny white pupae that are about the size of a grain of rice, but maybe a little bit more plump,” says Scheckel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947470\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_PolyergusCarryingPupa.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947470 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_PolyergusCarryingPupa.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A kidnapper ant returns to its nest with a stolen pupa in its mandibles. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Some of the pupae are still in their protective silken cocoons. Others that are more mature have had their cocoons removed and look like translucent white ants curled up and motionless.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The kidnappers hold the pupae in their long-hooked jaws, called mandibles. The mandibles seem perfectly shaped to grasp the helpless juveniles without damaging them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The kidnapper ants’ jaws are really good for holding the pupae,” Scheckel says. “But they also happen to be very good in battle as well. Because they have pointy tips, they’re really good at piercing the exoskeleton of their rivals in a fight.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The kidnappers scamper back to their home nest holding their stolen prizes high.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As quickly as it started, the raid is over. But the story isn’t done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947471\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_StealingPupae_wide.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947471\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_StealingPupae_wide.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kidnapper ants carry pupae back to their nest. \u003ccite>(Elizabeth Cash/UC Berkeley)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Ants live in a chemical world,” explains Scheckel. “They primarily use their sense of smell for navigating their environment.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Ants don’t have noses like we do,” she continues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To learn about the world around them, ants constantly tap their antennae — which are full of tiny holes — on every surface they come across. The behavior is called antennation. Ants antennate to find food and to tell their nest mates apart from strangers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ants also create their own odors. Each nest has its own specific smell, which is a combination of chemicals made by the ants themselves mixed with those from their food and surroundings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You can kind of think about it like going over to your friend’s house growing up,” Scheckel says. “You just walked in and that was kind of the smell of their home. You never forget it. That’s what ants have. It’s kind of a colony signature.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ants collect odors in glands located at the corner of their mouths. They’re like tiny sacs full of chemicals that come from everything the ant comes in contact with. When they groom themselves, they cover themselves in their colony’s signature “perfume.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When a young ant emerges from its cocoon, it starts with a blank canvas. “It’s basically naked of smells,” Scheckel says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So when the raid hits, the young ant has no way to know it’s been kidnapped. It can’t tell that it’s being held captive and not in its home nest with its sisters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The kidnappers trick the stolen ant into thinking it belongs in this new nest by grooming it from top to bottom with the chemicals stored in those glands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947472\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_GroomingPupa.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947472 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_GroomingPupa.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A kidnapper ant grooms a young captive ant, coating it in the kidnappers’ nest signature smell. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“They’re essentially bathing the stolen ants in the kidnappers’ nest odors,” says Scheckel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The young ants think they are home. It’s a form of chemical brainwashing. That’s why the kidnappers choose to steal pupae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Adults are kind of already set in their ways, so it would be difficult to change their mind about what their identity is,” Scheckel says. “They are not as malleable.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When they arrive in their new home, the newly enslaved ants get to work maintaining the nest, caring for the young and even leaving the nest to forage for food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unlike their captors, the kidnapped ants’ jaws are perfectly shaped for foraging and are serrated for processing food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside the nest, a hungry kidnapper will approach a captive with its mandibles wide-open and its head tilted up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s kind of like a begging position,” explains Scheckel. “Almost like a baby bird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947473\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_trophallaxis.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-1947473 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_trophallaxis.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A captive ants regurgitates food into its captor’s mouth. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The kidnapper ants completely rely on the captive ants to feed them. Their pointy, curved jaws lack the serrations that would allow them to chew their own food. Without their slaves, the kidnappers would starve. For that reason they’re considered “obligate” kidnappers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The two ants will meet mouth to mouth in a kissing pose. The captive ant regurgitates food directly into the kidnapper’s mouth. It’s a process called trophallaxis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s an incredibly altruistic behavior that is only reserved for nest mates,” says Scheckel. “So it’s very unusual to see members of different species doing that with one another. That’s what makes it so unique in the parasitic system.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scheckel and her colleagues study these types of relationships in insects. In these unusual ants, the kidnappers are considered parasites and the ants they kidnap are called hosts. It’s an unusual system because the parasite brings the host into its own home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re not bloodsucking, but they’re definitely resource-sucking,” explains Scheckel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to any workers that die defending their nest from the invaders, the host species loses the next generation of its workers. Those that remain in the colony may struggle to get enough food to survive the winters when they’re snowed in and can’t leave their nest to forage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While quite familiar with the red kidnapper ants, Scheckel puts most of her attention on studying another species of kidnapper ant. Instead of being entirely red-colored, the species she studies has red heads and thoraxes, and black abdomens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947475\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1947475\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae-1920x1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL616_KidnapperAnts_FormicaAserva_Facultative-Kidnappers_pupae.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Facultative kidnapper ants (Formica aserva) on a pile of stolen pupae. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The members of this red-and-black species have grinding mandibles and can feed themselves. But they still kidnap other species’ pupae and raise them as workers in a similar way to the all-red obligate kidnappers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These “facultative” kidnappers represent an evolutionary halfway point between free-living ants and obligate kidnappers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By studying these species, Kelsey and her colleagues say they hope to learn more about how kidnapping came to exist in these incredibly social insects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Studying ants isn’t without its risks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The danger is mostly getting bitten many, many times, and swarmed by very angry ants,” says Scheckel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These species don’t sting, but are able to spray formic acid from their backside that can even cause minor chemical burns.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But for Scheckel the pain is worth it to study such a complex social animal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I can roll over a log and see an entire world,” she says. “And in the ants’ case, an entire society and community living right there at my fingertips.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Laura Shields contributed reporting. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "this-bee-gets-punched-by-flowers-for-your-ice-cream",
"title": "This Bee Gets Punched by Flowers for Your Ice Cream",
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"headTitle": "This Bee Gets Punched by Flowers for Your Ice Cream | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]Sure, cows are important. But next time you eat ice cream, thank a bee. Without them, there would be no cones, milkshakes or sundaes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every summer, alfalfa leafcutting bees pollinate alfalfa in an intricate process that gets them thwacked by the flowers when they release the pollen that allows the plants to make seeds. The bees’ hard work came to fruition last week when growers in California’s Kings, Fresno and Imperial counties finished harvesting the alfalfa seeds that will be grown to make nutritious hay for dairy cows.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947154\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_LANDS_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947154\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_LANDS_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An alfalfa leafcutting bee lands on a cluster of alfalfa flowers in a field in Fresno County, California. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The bees’ work “is ice cream in the making,” said Shannon Mueller, who helped introduce the pollinators to California in the early 1990s and recently retired as director of the University of California Cooperative Extension in Fresno and Madera counties. “A vast majority of the forage goes to dairy cows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alfalfa hay is also fed to beef cattle, sheep, goats and horses. California is the top alfalfa hay and dairy producer in the U.S., as well as the country’s top alfalfa seed grower. This year’s crop of approximately 18 million pounds of seeds will be sold in California and Arizona and to countries such as Saudi Arabia, Mexico and Argentina, which have similar climates to the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947155\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_AT_NEST_HOLE_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947155\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_AT_NEST_HOLE_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An alfalfa leafcutting bee peeks out from her nest hole in a field in Fresno County. Farmers provide the bees with nesting holes in Styrofoam boards. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Alfalfa leafcutting bees are second only to honeybees in their value as crop pollinators, said biologist Theresa Pitts-Singer, who studies the bees at the U.S. Department of Agriculture in Logan, Utah. And when it comes to pollinating alfalfa, they leave honeybees in the dust.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is how it works.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To produce alfalfa seeds, farmers let their plants grow until they bloom. They need help pollinating the tiny purple flowers, so that the female and male parts of the flower can come together and produce fertile seeds. That’s where the grayish, easygoing alfalfa leafcutting bees come in. Seed growers in California release the bees – known simply as cutters – in June and they work hard for a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alfalfa’s flowers keep their reproductive organs hidden away inside a boat-shaped bottom petal called the keel petal, which is held closed by a thin membrane that creates a spring mechanism.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947156\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947156\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-1200x675.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alfalfa flowers hide their reproductive organs in a boat-shaped keel petal sealed by a thin membrane. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Cutter bees come up to the flower looking for nectar and pollen to feed on. When they land on the flower, the membrane holding the keel petal breaks and the long reproductive structure pops right up and smacks the upper petal or the bee, releasing its yellow pollen. This process is called “tripping the flower.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947161\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_TRIPPING_THE_BLOOM_Edwards_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947161\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_TRIPPING_THE_BLOOM_Edwards_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">When an alfalfa flower is tripped, a column holding its reproductive organs pops up and pollen sprays out as it hits the upper petal. \u003ccite>(Joan Edwards and Nora Mitchell/Williams College)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the flower is tripped, pollen falls on its female reproductive organ and fertilizes it; bees also carry pollen away on their hairy bodies and help fertilize other flowers. In a few weeks, each flower turns into a curly pod with seven to 10 seeds growing inside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cutters were “game changers” in the alfalfa seed business because they’re much better at pollinating alfalfa than honeybees are, Mueller said. Cutters trip 80 percent of flowers they visit, compared to honeybees, which only trip about 10 percent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Honeybees don’t like to be flipped in the face, but it doesn’t bother the leafcutter bees,” said Chuck Deatherage, a grower who uses both kinds of bees to pollinate about 1,000 acres of alfalfa seed fields that he farms with two business partners in the Fresno area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Honeybees sip nectar from the side of the flower rather than from the front, where they would trigger the keel petal, said Pitts-Singer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947168\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947168\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-1200x675.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A honeybee drinks nectar from an alfalfa flower. Honeybees avoid getting thwacked by the blooms by sticking their mouthpart into the side of the flower, rather than the front. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And honeybees will visit alfalfa flowers that have already been tripped by cutters; by doing this they help spread pollen around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The honeybees follow the leafcutters to get the nectar,” said Deatherage. “That’s my theory.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because they work well together, growers release both honeybees and cutters. In an alfalfa seed field, you might see 10 to 20 honeybees and 20 to 50 cutters in a 3-foot radius, he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Deatherage buys the bees in Styrofoam nests and keeps them refrigerated for most of the year so that they don’t fully develop. As his alfalfa fields get near to blooming, he warms up the developing bees in their nests to close to 85 degrees. When they start hatching two to three weeks later, he stacks the boards into rectangular structures that sit inside trailers in the alfalfa fields and have the appearance of bee apartment buildings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947172\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEES_FLY_AT_NEST_BOX_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947172\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEES_FLY_AT_NEST_BOX_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alfalfa leafcutting bees fly at the entrance to a nest box. The patterns and textures on the box help them find their way back after collecting leaves and pollen. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Alfalfa leafcutting bees are solitary — each female builds its own nest. But unlike other solitary bees that like to work in isolation, cutters don’t mind working side by side with other bees, said Mueller.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947170\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947170\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-1200x675.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nest boxes made up of Styrofoam boards rest on a trailer in an alfalfa field in Fresno County. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This is to our advantage,” she said. “We can put large populations of leafcutter bees together in the field.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The bees carefully cut out discs of alfalfa leaves or other leaves or petals they can find nearby. They fly with the piece curled up under their abdomen, held between their legs, to a nest hole in one of the Styrofoam boards and maneuver their way in. But it’s tricky.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947171\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_ENTERS_NEST_HOLE_W_LEAF_PIECE_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947171\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_ENTERS_NEST_HOLE_W_LEAF_PIECE_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tucked between its legs, an alfalfa leafcutting bee carries a leaf piece into its nest. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“You’ll see piles of debris in front of the nest opening where they’ve dropped a leaf piece,” said Mueller. “I used to think, ‘Oh, all the work that went into all these dropped leaf pieces.’ ”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside its nest hole, the bee shapes several leaf pieces into a cell, where she lays a single egg on a ball of pollen she has collected.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947159\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947159\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-1200x675.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A bee has shaped leaf pieces into two cells of its nest. The cells are connected by overlapping leaf bits. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They look like a medicine capsule made of leaf pieces,” said Mueller, “and inside each of those capsules there is a developing bee.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Next time you eat a cone or sundae, thank an alfalfa leafcutting bee.",
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"title": "This Bee Gets Punched by Flowers for Your Ice Cream | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Sure, cows are important. But next time you eat ice cream, thank a bee. Without them, there would be no cones, milkshakes or sundaes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every summer, alfalfa leafcutting bees pollinate alfalfa in an intricate process that gets them thwacked by the flowers when they release the pollen that allows the plants to make seeds. The bees’ hard work came to fruition last week when growers in California’s Kings, Fresno and Imperial counties finished harvesting the alfalfa seeds that will be grown to make nutritious hay for dairy cows.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947154\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_LANDS_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947154\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_LANDS_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An alfalfa leafcutting bee lands on a cluster of alfalfa flowers in a field in Fresno County, California. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The bees’ work “is ice cream in the making,” said Shannon Mueller, who helped introduce the pollinators to California in the early 1990s and recently retired as director of the University of California Cooperative Extension in Fresno and Madera counties. “A vast majority of the forage goes to dairy cows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alfalfa hay is also fed to beef cattle, sheep, goats and horses. California is the top alfalfa hay and dairy producer in the U.S., as well as the country’s top alfalfa seed grower. This year’s crop of approximately 18 million pounds of seeds will be sold in California and Arizona and to countries such as Saudi Arabia, Mexico and Argentina, which have similar climates to the state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947155\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_AT_NEST_HOLE_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947155\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_AT_NEST_HOLE_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An alfalfa leafcutting bee peeks out from her nest hole in a field in Fresno County. Farmers provide the bees with nesting holes in Styrofoam boards. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Alfalfa leafcutting bees are second only to honeybees in their value as crop pollinators, said biologist Theresa Pitts-Singer, who studies the bees at the U.S. Department of Agriculture in Logan, Utah. And when it comes to pollinating alfalfa, they leave honeybees in the dust.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is how it works.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To produce alfalfa seeds, farmers let their plants grow until they bloom. They need help pollinating the tiny purple flowers, so that the female and male parts of the flower can come together and produce fertile seeds. That’s where the grayish, easygoing alfalfa leafcutting bees come in. Seed growers in California release the bees – known simply as cutters – in June and they work hard for a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alfalfa’s flowers keep their reproductive organs hidden away inside a boat-shaped bottom petal called the keel petal, which is held closed by a thin membrane that creates a spring mechanism.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947156\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947156\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_KEEL_PETAL_1080-1200x675.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alfalfa flowers hide their reproductive organs in a boat-shaped keel petal sealed by a thin membrane. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Cutter bees come up to the flower looking for nectar and pollen to feed on. When they land on the flower, the membrane holding the keel petal breaks and the long reproductive structure pops right up and smacks the upper petal or the bee, releasing its yellow pollen. This process is called “tripping the flower.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947161\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_TRIPPING_THE_BLOOM_Edwards_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947161\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_TRIPPING_THE_BLOOM_Edwards_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">When an alfalfa flower is tripped, a column holding its reproductive organs pops up and pollen sprays out as it hits the upper petal. \u003ccite>(Joan Edwards and Nora Mitchell/Williams College)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the flower is tripped, pollen falls on its female reproductive organ and fertilizes it; bees also carry pollen away on their hairy bodies and help fertilize other flowers. In a few weeks, each flower turns into a curly pod with seven to 10 seeds growing inside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cutters were “game changers” in the alfalfa seed business because they’re much better at pollinating alfalfa than honeybees are, Mueller said. Cutters trip 80 percent of flowers they visit, compared to honeybees, which only trip about 10 percent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Honeybees don’t like to be flipped in the face, but it doesn’t bother the leafcutter bees,” said Chuck Deatherage, a grower who uses both kinds of bees to pollinate about 1,000 acres of alfalfa seed fields that he farms with two business partners in the Fresno area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Honeybees sip nectar from the side of the flower rather than from the front, where they would trigger the keel petal, said Pitts-Singer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947168\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947168\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615-AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_HONEY_BEE_ON_ALFALFA_FLOWER2_1080-1200x675.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A honeybee drinks nectar from an alfalfa flower. Honeybees avoid getting thwacked by the blooms by sticking their mouthpart into the side of the flower, rather than the front. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And honeybees will visit alfalfa flowers that have already been tripped by cutters; by doing this they help spread pollen around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The honeybees follow the leafcutters to get the nectar,” said Deatherage. “That’s my theory.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because they work well together, growers release both honeybees and cutters. In an alfalfa seed field, you might see 10 to 20 honeybees and 20 to 50 cutters in a 3-foot radius, he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Deatherage buys the bees in Styrofoam nests and keeps them refrigerated for most of the year so that they don’t fully develop. As his alfalfa fields get near to blooming, he warms up the developing bees in their nests to close to 85 degrees. When they start hatching two to three weeks later, he stacks the boards into rectangular structures that sit inside trailers in the alfalfa fields and have the appearance of bee apartment buildings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947172\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEES_FLY_AT_NEST_BOX_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947172\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEES_FLY_AT_NEST_BOX_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Alfalfa leafcutting bees fly at the entrance to a nest box. The patterns and textures on the box help them find their way back after collecting leaves and pollen. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Alfalfa leafcutting bees are solitary — each female builds its own nest. But unlike other solitary bees that like to work in isolation, cutters don’t mind working side by side with other bees, said Mueller.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947170\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947170\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_BEE_BOXES_ON_TRAILER_1080-1200x675.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nest boxes made up of Styrofoam boards rest on a trailer in an alfalfa field in Fresno County. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This is to our advantage,” she said. “We can put large populations of leafcutter bees together in the field.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The bees carefully cut out discs of alfalfa leaves or other leaves or petals they can find nearby. They fly with the piece curled up under their abdomen, held between their legs, to a nest hole in one of the Styrofoam boards and maneuver their way in. But it’s tricky.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947171\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_ENTERS_NEST_HOLE_W_LEAF_PIECE_500.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947171\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_ALFALFA_LEAFCUTTING_BEE_ENTERS_NEST_HOLE_W_LEAF_PIECE_500.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tucked between its legs, an alfalfa leafcutting bee carries a leaf piece into its nest. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“You’ll see piles of debris in front of the nest opening where they’ve dropped a leaf piece,” said Mueller. “I used to think, ‘Oh, all the work that went into all these dropped leaf pieces.’ ”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside its nest hole, the bee shapes several leaf pieces into a cell, where she lays a single egg on a ball of pollen she has collected.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1947159\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1947159\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/09/DL_615AlfalfaLeafcuttingBees_NEST_MADE_OF_LEAVES_1080-1200x675.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A bee has shaped leaf pieces into two cells of its nest. The cells are connected by overlapping leaf bits. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They look like a medicine capsule made of leaf pieces,” said Mueller, “and inside each of those capsules there is a developing bee.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Here's Why Peregrine Falcons Are the Top Guns of the Sky",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">UC Berkeley is known for a lot of things, from Nobel Prizes to football games at Memorial Stadium and top-flight students.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But lately, two campus residents have been getting a lot of attention: A pair of peregrine falcons have been wintering on the school’s \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://visit.berkeley.edu/campus-tourscampanile-tour/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">iconic Campanile clock tower\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The two raptors, named Annie and Grinnell — after \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://mvz.berkeley.edu/Annie.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">the founder\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://mvz.berkeley.edu/Grinnell.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">first director\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> of UC Berkeley’s \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://mvz.berkeley.edu/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Museum of Vertebrate Zoology — \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">laid eggs and hatched chicks atop the famous campus landmark for the first time in 2017.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1944039\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1944039\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-800x452.png\" alt=\"peregrine falcons\" width=\"800\" height=\"452\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-800x452.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-768x434.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-1020x576.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-1200x678.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons.png 1280w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cade and Carson, two peregrine falcons who recently hatched on UC Berkeley’s famed clock tower. \u003ccite>(Cal Falcons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For the third time, they became proud parents this spring. Two male chicks, Carson and Cade, hatched on April 24 and flew for the first time on June 3. They’ve now graduated from the 307-foot-tall landmark into the wider world, experts say.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> “In early July, they were still in the nest area, flying on and off the Campanile, and fed by their parents as they learned to hunt and fend for themselves,” said Mary Malec, a volunteer with the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ebparks.org/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">East Bay Regional Park District\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.parksconservancy.org/programs/golden-gate-raptor-observatory\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Golden Gate Raptor Observatory\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in Sausalito. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They’ve now dispersed and will eventually establish their own nesting territories.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A team of six people from the park district, raptor observatory, UC’s \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://mvz.berkeley.edu/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Museum of Vertebrate Zoology\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://www.iws.org/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Institute for Wildlife Studies\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> has been working closely to monitor the birds over the years.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They’ve helped to improve the falcons’ nesting site and arranged to band them for tracking. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Through their ongoing efforts to study the peregrines, researchers now know that one of Annie and Grinnell’s chicks, Lawrencium, has been spotted miles away in the Marin Headlands and on Alcatraz Island. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This team also organized a fundraising campaign to purchase web cameras, which they later installed and continue to oversee, sharing live videos and photos with the public through several \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cal_falcons/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">social media channels\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. And the falcons, nicknamed the “Cal Falcons,” have social media accounts on \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/CalFalconCam/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Facebook\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaJuC-rxVAQ\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">YouTube\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaJuC-rxVAQ\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Instagram\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1944040\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1944040\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-800x600.jpeg\" alt=\"sean peterson and lynn schofield\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-800x600.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-768x576.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-1020x765.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-1200x900.jpeg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield.jpeg 1280w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sean Peterson and Lynn Schofield with a Cooper’s hawk that they trapped while volunteering with the Golden Gate Raptor Observatory. \u003ccite>(Sean Peterson)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“The excitement of all the Cal Falcons fans experiencing every moment together was truly rewarding,” said Sean Peterson, a Ph.D. student at UC and volunteer with the raptor observatory. “We had an employee from a vulnerable women’s/children’s shelter telling us that they had the stream playing at the shelter and multiple elementary school classrooms writing in with their name suggestions. It was so much fun to see how engaged the community was.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The researchers also are documenting other types of data, such as cataloging prey remains found on the nest ledge and seen via camera, which provides researchers with an idea of their hunting range. And the cameras allow them to observe and record the falcons’ behavior. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“This entire nesting season has been so much fun,” said Peterson. “There was this constant sense of discovery this year because we’d never been able to see anything at the nest before. Being able to watch the chicks practice flying on the balcony and how attentive the parents were was really amazing. As a biologist, I was riveted all spring.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While known for being the world’s fastest bird — peregrines have been clocked at diving more than 200 mph — these majestic birds were at risk for going extinct 50 years ago. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Widespread use of pesticides such as \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DDT\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">DDT\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> decimated native populations of peregrine falcons. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By 1970, \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">California’s peregrine population had dwindled to only two known nesting pairs statewide. The federal government banned DDT in 1972. And successful restoration efforts spearheaded by organizations like \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.peregrinefund.org/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Peregrine Fund\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> helped revive their numbers. By 1999, they were removed from the federal \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.fws.gov/endangered/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Endangered Species List\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Recent surveys estimate that there are now 300 to 350 nesting pairs in California and more than 2,400 pairs nationwide.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1944038\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1944038\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-800x450.png\" alt=\"peregrine falcons\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-1200x675.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3.png 1280w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cade and Carson playfully engaging with each other as siblings do. \u003ccite>(Cal Falcons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I think one of the most important things that Cal Falcons has done is bring a sense of the wild back to everyday life,” said Peterson. “It’s very easy to get lost in our own human world and forget that we’re still a part of a complex web of nature all around us, even in the largest cities. I think these falcons really helped people take notice of the wildlife living in their own backyards. Every single person I’ve talked to about the falcons has been incredibly excited about them. It has been a tremendous gift to play a part in sharing that excitement with everyone.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Peregrine falcons catch other birds mid-flight by diving at more than 200 mph. To do it, they need some high-precision gear: special eyesight, talons and aerodynamics that can't be beat.",
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"title": "Here's Why Peregrine Falcons Are the Top Guns of the Sky | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">UC Berkeley is known for a lot of things, from Nobel Prizes to football games at Memorial Stadium and top-flight students.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">But lately, two campus residents have been getting a lot of attention: A pair of peregrine falcons have been wintering on the school’s \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://visit.berkeley.edu/campus-tourscampanile-tour/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">iconic Campanile clock tower\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The two raptors, named Annie and Grinnell — after \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://mvz.berkeley.edu/Annie.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">the founder\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://mvz.berkeley.edu/Grinnell.html\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">first director\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> of UC Berkeley’s \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://mvz.berkeley.edu/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Museum of Vertebrate Zoology — \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">laid eggs and hatched chicks atop the famous campus landmark for the first time in 2017.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1944039\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1944039\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-800x452.png\" alt=\"peregrine falcons\" width=\"800\" height=\"452\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-800x452.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-768x434.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-1020x576.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons-1200x678.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons.png 1280w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cade and Carson, two peregrine falcons who recently hatched on UC Berkeley’s famed clock tower. \u003ccite>(Cal Falcons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">For the third time, they became proud parents this spring. Two male chicks, Carson and Cade, hatched on April 24 and flew for the first time on June 3. They’ve now graduated from the 307-foot-tall landmark into the wider world, experts say.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> “In early July, they were still in the nest area, flying on and off the Campanile, and fed by their parents as they learned to hunt and fend for themselves,” said Mary Malec, a volunteer with the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ebparks.org/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">East Bay Regional Park District\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.parksconservancy.org/programs/golden-gate-raptor-observatory\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Golden Gate Raptor Observatory\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> in Sausalito. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They’ve now dispersed and will eventually establish their own nesting territories.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A team of six people from the park district, raptor observatory, UC’s \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://mvz.berkeley.edu/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Museum of Vertebrate Zoology\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"http://www.iws.org/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Institute for Wildlife Studies\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> has been working closely to monitor the birds over the years.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">They’ve helped to improve the falcons’ nesting site and arranged to band them for tracking. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Through their ongoing efforts to study the peregrines, researchers now know that one of Annie and Grinnell’s chicks, Lawrencium, has been spotted miles away in the Marin Headlands and on Alcatraz Island. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This team also organized a fundraising campaign to purchase web cameras, which they later installed and continue to oversee, sharing live videos and photos with the public through several \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cal_falcons/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">social media channels\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. And the falcons, nicknamed the “Cal Falcons,” have social media accounts on \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/CalFalconCam/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Facebook\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaJuC-rxVAQ\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">YouTube\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> and \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaJuC-rxVAQ\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Instagram\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1944040\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1944040\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-800x600.jpeg\" alt=\"sean peterson and lynn schofield\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-800x600.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-768x576.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-1020x765.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield-1200x900.jpeg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Sean_Peterson_Lynn_Schofield.jpeg 1280w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sean Peterson and Lynn Schofield with a Cooper’s hawk that they trapped while volunteering with the Golden Gate Raptor Observatory. \u003ccite>(Sean Peterson)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“The excitement of all the Cal Falcons fans experiencing every moment together was truly rewarding,” said Sean Peterson, a Ph.D. student at UC and volunteer with the raptor observatory. “We had an employee from a vulnerable women’s/children’s shelter telling us that they had the stream playing at the shelter and multiple elementary school classrooms writing in with their name suggestions. It was so much fun to see how engaged the community was.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The researchers also are documenting other types of data, such as cataloging prey remains found on the nest ledge and seen via camera, which provides researchers with an idea of their hunting range. And the cameras allow them to observe and record the falcons’ behavior. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“This entire nesting season has been so much fun,” said Peterson. “There was this constant sense of discovery this year because we’d never been able to see anything at the nest before. Being able to watch the chicks practice flying on the balcony and how attentive the parents were was really amazing. As a biologist, I was riveted all spring.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">While known for being the world’s fastest bird — peregrines have been clocked at diving more than 200 mph — these majestic birds were at risk for going extinct 50 years ago. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Widespread use of pesticides such as \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DDT\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">DDT\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> decimated native populations of peregrine falcons. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">By 1970, \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">California’s peregrine population had dwindled to only two known nesting pairs statewide. The federal government banned DDT in 1972. And successful restoration efforts spearheaded by organizations like \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.peregrinefund.org/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Peregrine Fund\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> helped revive their numbers. By 1999, they were removed from the federal \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.fws.gov/endangered/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Endangered Species List\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Recent surveys estimate that there are now 300 to 350 nesting pairs in California and more than 2,400 pairs nationwide.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1944038\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1944038\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-800x450.png\" alt=\"peregrine falcons\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3-1200x675.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/06/Cade_Carson_Peregrine_Falcons_3.png 1280w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cade and Carson playfully engaging with each other as siblings do. \u003ccite>(Cal Falcons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">“I think one of the most important things that Cal Falcons has done is bring a sense of the wild back to everyday life,” said Peterson. “It’s very easy to get lost in our own human world and forget that we’re still a part of a complex web of nature all around us, even in the largest cities. I think these falcons really helped people take notice of the wildlife living in their own backyards. Every single person I’ve talked to about the falcons has been incredibly excited about them. It has been a tremendous gift to play a part in sharing that excitement with everyone.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UtjlbI_dIYI]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cockroaches are gross to lots of people. But not to a group of robotic engineers that’s part of partnership between UC Berkeley and \u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">Tsinghua\u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">–\u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">Berkeley\u003c/a> \u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">Shenzhen\u003c/a> \u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">Institute.\u003c/a> Where other folks are disgusted, they’re inspired. In fact, their latest robot is built in the form of a roach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Most of the robots at this particular small scale are very fragile. If you step on them, you pretty much destroy the robot,” said Liwei Lin, a professor of mechanical engineering at UC Berkeley and senior author of the \u003ca href=\"https://robotics.sciencemag.org/content/4/32/eaax1594\">study\u003c/a> describing the robot, in a press release.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But not robo-roach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A cockroach is a very strong insect,” said Junwen Zhong, a member of the team. “A cockroach can survive in a lot of critical environments. They are fast and flexible, and they are very difficult to kill. Even when you step on it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The roach robot weighs less than a tenth of a gram and still works after an attempted squish by someone weighing up to around 130 pounds. It also moves 20 times its body length in a single second.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So How Does It Work? \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The robot is constructed with a special material that expands and contracts with the application of electricity. (In engineer-speak, the material is piezoelectric, Zhong said, encased in an elastic polymer.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The shape of the robot’s body is important; it’s curved and paper thin, with legs. That design, coupled with the special material, enables the robot to move rapidly back and forth when electricity is applied.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The robot bends and straightens, and because of the elastic coating, its contortions are harnessed, propelling it forward. The result is that it skitters around in what Zhong describes as a “leapfrogging” motion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You may be wondering: Why did the team build this, exactly?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Zhong says he hopes engineers can use the small, flexible robots to aid in the response to natural disasters. After an earthquake, for example, he thinks the resilient robot can help find survivors amongst the rubble and debris, accessing places that humans and larger, less roach-like robots can’t.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The team also hopes to attach a small sensor to the robot that can detect the presence of gas and toxic chemicals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“After a disaster, there are many places that are too dangerous for people to search,” Zhong said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Insights from the robot research were published in a recent \u003ca href=\"https://robotics.sciencemag.org/content/4/32/eaax1594\">paper\u003c/a> from the the journal \u003cem>Science Robotics\u003c/em>. There’s also a lot of great information about the roach-inspired robot in the UC Berkeley \u003ca href=\"https://news.berkeley.edu/2019/07/31/you-cant-squash-this-roach-inspired-robot/\">news release\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/UtjlbI_dIYI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/UtjlbI_dIYI'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cockroaches are gross to lots of people. But not to a group of robotic engineers that’s part of partnership between UC Berkeley and \u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">Tsinghua\u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">–\u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">Berkeley\u003c/a> \u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">Shenzhen\u003c/a> \u003ca href=\"https://tbsi.berkeley.edu/\">Institute.\u003c/a> Where other folks are disgusted, they’re inspired. In fact, their latest robot is built in the form of a roach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Most of the robots at this particular small scale are very fragile. If you step on them, you pretty much destroy the robot,” said Liwei Lin, a professor of mechanical engineering at UC Berkeley and senior author of the \u003ca href=\"https://robotics.sciencemag.org/content/4/32/eaax1594\">study\u003c/a> describing the robot, in a press release.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But not robo-roach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A cockroach is a very strong insect,” said Junwen Zhong, a member of the team. “A cockroach can survive in a lot of critical environments. They are fast and flexible, and they are very difficult to kill. Even when you step on it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The roach robot weighs less than a tenth of a gram and still works after an attempted squish by someone weighing up to around 130 pounds. It also moves 20 times its body length in a single second.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>So How Does It Work? \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The robot is constructed with a special material that expands and contracts with the application of electricity. (In engineer-speak, the material is piezoelectric, Zhong said, encased in an elastic polymer.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The shape of the robot’s body is important; it’s curved and paper thin, with legs. That design, coupled with the special material, enables the robot to move rapidly back and forth when electricity is applied.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The robot bends and straightens, and because of the elastic coating, its contortions are harnessed, propelling it forward. The result is that it skitters around in what Zhong describes as a “leapfrogging” motion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You may be wondering: Why did the team build this, exactly?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Zhong says he hopes engineers can use the small, flexible robots to aid in the response to natural disasters. After an earthquake, for example, he thinks the resilient robot can help find survivors amongst the rubble and debris, accessing places that humans and larger, less roach-like robots can’t.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The team also hopes to attach a small sensor to the robot that can detect the presence of gas and toxic chemicals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“After a disaster, there are many places that are too dangerous for people to search,” Zhong said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Insights from the robot research were published in a recent \u003ca href=\"https://robotics.sciencemag.org/content/4/32/eaax1594\">paper\u003c/a> from the the journal \u003cem>Science Robotics\u003c/em>. There’s also a lot of great information about the roach-inspired robot in the UC Berkeley \u003ca href=\"https://news.berkeley.edu/2019/07/31/you-cant-squash-this-roach-inspired-robot/\">news release\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>[dl_subscribe]It’s summertime. The season for hiking and adventures outdoors. You might see a rattlesnake out on the trail. Don’t freak out. Most of what we think we know about rattlesnakes is off base. Here are a few of the most common misconceptions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>1. Rattlesnakes are aggressive animals that are looking for trouble.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s no surprise that people and snakes end up having more interactions as the temperatures rise during the summer. The warm weather that brings out hikers also brings out coldblooded rattlesnakes eager to sun themselves. But even though they crave the sun, rattlesnakes do their best to avoid the spotlight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattlesnakes are ambush predators, relying on staying hidden to get close to their prey. Their patterns and coloration help them blend into their surroundings. They don’t sport the bright colors that some venomous snakes use as a warning to predators.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That means that many people don’t realize they’re approaching a hidden rattlesnake until it’s too late. They’d rather avoid a fight if possible. Fortunately, rattlesnakes have an unmistakable warning, a loud buzz made to startle any aggressor and hopefully avoid having to bite.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you hear the rattlesnake’s distinctive rattle, here’s what to do: First, stop moving! You want to figure out which direction the sound is coming from. Once you do, slowly back away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DO NOT APPROACH OR TRY TO TOUCH A RATTLESNAKE!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you do get bitten, immobilize the area and avoid overly exerting yourself. Immediately seek medical attention. You may need to be treated with antivenom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DO NOT try to suck the venom out using your mouth or a suction device.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DO NOT try to capture the snake and stay clear of dead rattlesnakes, especially the head.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945695\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_step.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1945695\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_step.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Rattlesnakes may strike even without rattling first. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>2. Rattlesnake rattles work like a maraca with little bits shaking around inside.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The rattlesnake’s rattle is actually made up of loosely interlocking segments made of keratin, the same strong fibrous protein in your fingernails. Each segment is held in place by the one in front and behind it, but the individual segments can move a bit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945700\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1945700\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-1920x1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A cross section of a rattlesnake rattle with a single segment highlighted to show how it interlocks with its neighboring segments. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The snake uses special high-performance muscles to shake its tail, sending undulating waves down the length of the rattle. The segments are loose, so they click against each other. It happens so fast that all you hear is a buzz and all you see is a blur.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://userweb.ucs.louisiana.edu/~brm2286/research.htm\">Brad Moon\u003c/a>, a biologist at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, studies those shaker muscles. Using high-speed cameras, Moon recorded rattlesnakes shaking their tails 50 to 100 times every second. Since they’re coldblooded, rattlesnakes shake their rattles faster at higher temperatures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These rattling muscles, they’re just super-athletic,” Moon said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s one of the fastest sustained muscular contractions in the natural world — right up there with a hummingbird’s beating wings.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Plus those specialized muscles allow the rattle to shake for up to two hours without stopping.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945702\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_shake.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1945702\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_shake.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The segments that make up a rattlesnake’s rattle click against each other, seen here using high-speed video. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>3. It’s better to be bitten by a juvenile rattlesnake than a full-grown adult.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It may be true that juvenile rattlesnakes can be more likely to strike and less able to control how much venom they release in a single bite. Their venom also can be, drop for drop, more dangerous because of the different prey that juvenile snakes eat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it’s still more dangerous to receive a bite from an adult rattlesnake. Adults possess much more venom, making the bites more dangerous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattlesnake venom is a cocktail of different toxins, including chemicals that disrupt nerve signals and digestive enzymes that liquefy flesh. Antivenom is able to counteract those toxins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945704\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_tongue_label.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1945704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_tongue_label.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Snakes flick their tongues to sample chemicals from their surroundings. When a rattlesnake retracts its tongue, it brings those samples to a special organ in the top of its mouth called the vomeronasal organ, or Jacobson’s organ. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>4. You can tell how old a rattlesnake is by the number of segments on its rattle.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattlesnakes get a new segment each time they shed their skin. Unlike the rest of the skin, the section that covers the very end of the rattle doesn’t fall off. Because of its grooved shape, it doesn’t release from the new segment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945707\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1945707\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-1920x1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Individual segments from a rattlesnake’s rattle, separated to show the grooved shape, which allows them to interlock loosely. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“You can tell a lot about a rattlesnake’s life from looking at its rattle,” said \u003ca href=\"https://perl.calpoly.edu/research\">Emily Taylor\u003c/a>, a biologist at California Polytechnic State University.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How often a rattlesnake sheds, she explained, depends more on how much it’s had to eat, rather than how old it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In California, rattlesnakes often shed about twice a year when they’re young. But that can rise to three or four times if there is plenty of prey available. That number typically slows down to once or twice a year when they reach adulthood\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So, you can’t tell its age,” Taylor said, “because you don’t know how many times it shed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Plus, rattles often break off in the wild, sometimes after attacks by other predators or other times when they are damaged by a life of slithering over harsh, often rocky terrain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattles that have been broken in the past often appear thick at the end, while rattles that have gone undamaged will taper to a point. It’s more common to see long tapered rattles in captive rattlesnakes than in wild ones.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945709\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1945709\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-1920x1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Rattlesnake rattles that taper to a point usually mean that the rattle has never lost a segment due to damage. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>5. Rattlesnakes are solitary killers.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most people think of rattlesnakes as hunters out on their own with only a single impulse in life — to kill. But rattlesnakes can be very social with each other, and can actually be caring parents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So they all hang out by themselves,” Taylor said. “But they’ll get together during mating season. We noticed that female rattlesnakes tend to hang out with one another.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Taylor has observed males and females spending time together in the time leading up to the mating season, which she thinks may be related to mate guarding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even more surprising is that female rattlesnakes tend to hang out together when they are pregnant, and potentially give birth together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattlesnakes don’t lay eggs. Instead they give birth to live young.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Sometimes we call them danger noodles, affectionately,” Taylor said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mother rattlesnakes look after their young for a period after their birth until their first shed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Taylor has even seen several mother rattlesnakes share a den together with their young.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Rattlesnakes are good mothers,” she said. “They stay with their babies, and they protect them, and they care for them, and they defend them.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It’s summertime. The season for hiking and adventures outdoors. You might see a rattlesnake out on the trail. Don’t freak out. Most of what we think we know about rattlesnakes is off base. Here are a few of the most common misconceptions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>1. Rattlesnakes are aggressive animals that are looking for trouble.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s no surprise that people and snakes end up having more interactions as the temperatures rise during the summer. The warm weather that brings out hikers also brings out coldblooded rattlesnakes eager to sun themselves. But even though they crave the sun, rattlesnakes do their best to avoid the spotlight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattlesnakes are ambush predators, relying on staying hidden to get close to their prey. Their patterns and coloration help them blend into their surroundings. They don’t sport the bright colors that some venomous snakes use as a warning to predators.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That means that many people don’t realize they’re approaching a hidden rattlesnake until it’s too late. They’d rather avoid a fight if possible. Fortunately, rattlesnakes have an unmistakable warning, a loud buzz made to startle any aggressor and hopefully avoid having to bite.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you hear the rattlesnake’s distinctive rattle, here’s what to do: First, stop moving! You want to figure out which direction the sound is coming from. Once you do, slowly back away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DO NOT APPROACH OR TRY TO TOUCH A RATTLESNAKE!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you do get bitten, immobilize the area and avoid overly exerting yourself. Immediately seek medical attention. You may need to be treated with antivenom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DO NOT try to suck the venom out using your mouth or a suction device.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DO NOT try to capture the snake and stay clear of dead rattlesnakes, especially the head.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945695\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_step.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1945695\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_step.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Rattlesnakes may strike even without rattling first. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>2. Rattlesnake rattles work like a maraca with little bits shaking around inside.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The rattlesnake’s rattle is actually made up of loosely interlocking segments made of keratin, the same strong fibrous protein in your fingernails. Each segment is held in place by the one in front and behind it, but the individual segments can move a bit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945700\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1945700\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes-1920x1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A cross section of a rattlesnake rattle with a single segment highlighted to show how it interlocks with its neighboring segments. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The snake uses special high-performance muscles to shake its tail, sending undulating waves down the length of the rattle. The segments are loose, so they click against each other. It happens so fast that all you hear is a buzz and all you see is a blur.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://userweb.ucs.louisiana.edu/~brm2286/research.htm\">Brad Moon\u003c/a>, a biologist at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, studies those shaker muscles. Using high-speed cameras, Moon recorded rattlesnakes shaking their tails 50 to 100 times every second. Since they’re coldblooded, rattlesnakes shake their rattles faster at higher temperatures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These rattling muscles, they’re just super-athletic,” Moon said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s one of the fastest sustained muscular contractions in the natural world — right up there with a hummingbird’s beating wings.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Plus those specialized muscles allow the rattle to shake for up to two hours without stopping.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945702\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_shake.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1945702\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_shake.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The segments that make up a rattlesnake’s rattle click against each other, seen here using high-speed video. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>3. It’s better to be bitten by a juvenile rattlesnake than a full-grown adult.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It may be true that juvenile rattlesnakes can be more likely to strike and less able to control how much venom they release in a single bite. Their venom also can be, drop for drop, more dangerous because of the different prey that juvenile snakes eat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it’s still more dangerous to receive a bite from an adult rattlesnake. Adults possess much more venom, making the bites more dangerous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattlesnake venom is a cocktail of different toxins, including chemicals that disrupt nerve signals and digestive enzymes that liquefy flesh. Antivenom is able to counteract those toxins.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945704\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_tongue_label.gif\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-1945704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnake_tongue_label.gif\" alt=\"\" width=\"500\" height=\"281\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Snakes flick their tongues to sample chemicals from their surroundings. When a rattlesnake retracts its tongue, it brings those samples to a special organ in the top of its mouth called the vomeronasal organ, or Jacobson’s organ. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>4. You can tell how old a rattlesnake is by the number of segments on its rattle.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattlesnakes get a new segment each time they shed their skin. Unlike the rest of the skin, the section that covers the very end of the rattle doesn’t fall off. Because of its grooved shape, it doesn’t release from the new segment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945707\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1945707\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated-1920x1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_segments_seperated.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Individual segments from a rattlesnake’s rattle, separated to show the grooved shape, which allows them to interlock loosely. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“You can tell a lot about a rattlesnake’s life from looking at its rattle,” said \u003ca href=\"https://perl.calpoly.edu/research\">Emily Taylor\u003c/a>, a biologist at California Polytechnic State University.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How often a rattlesnake sheds, she explained, depends more on how much it’s had to eat, rather than how old it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In California, rattlesnakes often shed about twice a year when they’re young. But that can rise to three or four times if there is plenty of prey available. That number typically slows down to once or twice a year when they reach adulthood\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So, you can’t tell its age,” Taylor said, “because you don’t know how many times it shed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Plus, rattles often break off in the wild, sometimes after attacks by other predators or other times when they are damaged by a life of slithering over harsh, often rocky terrain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattles that have been broken in the past often appear thick at the end, while rattles that have gone undamaged will taper to a point. It’s more common to see long tapered rattles in captive rattlesnakes than in wild ones.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945709\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-large wp-image-1945709\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-1020x574.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short-1920x1080.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/DL613_Rattlesnakes_rattle_short.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Rattlesnake rattles that taper to a point usually mean that the rattle has never lost a segment due to damage. \u003ccite>(Josh Cassidy/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>5. Rattlesnakes are solitary killers.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most people think of rattlesnakes as hunters out on their own with only a single impulse in life — to kill. But rattlesnakes can be very social with each other, and can actually be caring parents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So they all hang out by themselves,” Taylor said. “But they’ll get together during mating season. We noticed that female rattlesnakes tend to hang out with one another.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Taylor has observed males and females spending time together in the time leading up to the mating season, which she thinks may be related to mate guarding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even more surprising is that female rattlesnakes tend to hang out together when they are pregnant, and potentially give birth together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rattlesnakes don’t lay eggs. Instead they give birth to live young.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Sometimes we call them danger noodles, affectionately,” Taylor said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mother rattlesnakes look after their young for a period after their birth until their first shed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Taylor has even seen several mother rattlesnakes share a den together with their young.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Rattlesnakes are good mothers,” she said. “They stay with their babies, and they protect them, and they care for them, and they defend them.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Underwater Video Shows Violent Shaking During 7.1M SoCal Earthquake",
"headTitle": "Underwater Video Shows Violent Shaking During 7.1M SoCal Earthquake | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://www.nps.gov/media/video/embed.htm?id=10BFE6E0-E94E-2768-0BCBA5F0756EA110\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On Friday, July 5th, at 8:20 pm, a 7.1 magnitude earthquake\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11759142/6-4-magnitude-desert-earthquake-shakes-wide-area-in-southern-california\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\"> rocked\u003c/a> a wide area of Southern California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The quake struck outside of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11759431/this-town-cant-handle-any-more-ridgecrest-residents-reflect-after-back-to-back-earthquakes\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Ridgecrest\u003c/a>, but it was also felt about 150 miles to the east, at Devils Hole, a detached 40-acre area of Death Valley National Park that is across the California border in Nevada. That shaking is shown in a remarkable \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/media/video/view.htm?id=10BFE6E0-E94E-2768-0BCBA5F0756EA110\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">video\u003c/a> released by the National Park Service.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The clip shows water violently sloshing around, rising and falling 10 to 15 feet, according to a park estimate. The video captures two angles, one looking into the cave and the other underwater inside it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Devils Hole is a part of the desert uplands and spring-fed oases that make up the Ash Meadows complex, a national wildlife refuge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is not the first time that a distant earthquake has been felt inside Devils Hole, a water-filled limestone cave.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In January 2018, a magnitude 7.9 earthquake in the Gulf of Alaska shook the cave from about 2,000 miles away, as did a similar sized \u003ca href=\"https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/thousands-dead-in-china-earthquake/\">quake\u003c/a> that rocked western China in 2008.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a really unique place in its relationship to earthquakes,” said Kevin Wilson, the park’s aquatic ecologist and manager of Devils Hole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Water in Devils Hole is incredibly deep—so deep, divers have not been able to reach the bottom and the exact depth remains unknown, Wilson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even at great distances, earthquakes affect Devils Hole because they force groundwater up into the cave, a phenomenon known as seismic seiche.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945142\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1945142\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide.jpg 960w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A male Devils Hole pupfish swims over algae. Approximate size is about an inch. \u003ccite>(NPS photo by Brett Seymour)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Devils Hole is a window into the groundwater,” Wilson said. “The earthquakes displace the water, so it will rise up quickly and then drop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, Wilson said that the underwater shaking and frothy white water spilling out of the cave’s mouth were “unlike anything I’ve seen here in my career,” Wilson said. “The 7.1 quake walloped Devils Hole.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The water inside the cave is the native environment of the Devils Hole Pupfish, a critically endangered species.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Park officials train cameras on the area to monitor the fish remotely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a statement posted with the video, the park says that fish were luckily spared. “The fish seem to be in good condition with spawning behavior occurring,” they wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "A video posted by the National Park Service shows violent shaking underwater at Devils Hole in Death Valley. ",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://www.nps.gov/media/video/embed.htm?id=10BFE6E0-E94E-2768-0BCBA5F0756EA110\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On Friday, July 5th, at 8:20 pm, a 7.1 magnitude earthquake\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11759142/6-4-magnitude-desert-earthquake-shakes-wide-area-in-southern-california\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\"> rocked\u003c/a> a wide area of Southern California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The quake struck outside of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11759431/this-town-cant-handle-any-more-ridgecrest-residents-reflect-after-back-to-back-earthquakes\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Ridgecrest\u003c/a>, but it was also felt about 150 miles to the east, at Devils Hole, a detached 40-acre area of Death Valley National Park that is across the California border in Nevada. That shaking is shown in a remarkable \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/media/video/view.htm?id=10BFE6E0-E94E-2768-0BCBA5F0756EA110\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">video\u003c/a> released by the National Park Service.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The clip shows water violently sloshing around, rising and falling 10 to 15 feet, according to a park estimate. The video captures two angles, one looking into the cave and the other underwater inside it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Devils Hole is a part of the desert uplands and spring-fed oases that make up the Ash Meadows complex, a national wildlife refuge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is not the first time that a distant earthquake has been felt inside Devils Hole, a water-filled limestone cave.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In January 2018, a magnitude 7.9 earthquake in the Gulf of Alaska shook the cave from about 2,000 miles away, as did a similar sized \u003ca href=\"https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/thousands-dead-in-china-earthquake/\">quake\u003c/a> that rocked western China in 2008.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a really unique place in its relationship to earthquakes,” said Kevin Wilson, the park’s aquatic ecologist and manager of Devils Hole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Water in Devils Hole is incredibly deep—so deep, divers have not been able to reach the bottom and the exact depth remains unknown, Wilson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even at great distances, earthquakes affect Devils Hole because they force groundwater up into the cave, a phenomenon known as seismic seiche.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_1945142\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-1945142\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/science/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/35/2019/07/Male_DH_Pupfish-960-pixels-wide.jpg 960w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A male Devils Hole pupfish swims over algae. Approximate size is about an inch. \u003ccite>(NPS photo by Brett Seymour)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Devils Hole is a window into the groundwater,” Wilson said. “The earthquakes displace the water, so it will rise up quickly and then drop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, Wilson said that the underwater shaking and frothy white water spilling out of the cave’s mouth were “unlike anything I’ve seen here in my career,” Wilson said. “The 7.1 quake walloped Devils Hole.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The water inside the cave is the native environment of the Devils Hole Pupfish, a critically endangered species.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Park officials train cameras on the area to monitor the fish remotely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In a statement posted with the video, the park says that fish were luckily spared. “The fish seem to be in good condition with spawning behavior occurring,” they wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"info": "KQED’s new podcast, Bay Curious, gets to the bottom of the mysteries — both profound and peculiar — that give the Bay Area its unique identity. And we’ll do it with your help! You ask the questions. You decide what Bay Curious investigates. And you join us on the journey to find the answers.",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Bay-Curious-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/news/series/baycurious",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 3
},
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}
},
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"id": "bbc-world-service",
"title": "BBC World Service",
"info": "The day's top stories from BBC News compiled twice daily in the week, once at weekends.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9pm-10pm, TUE-FRI 1am-2am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/BBC-World-Service-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/live:bbc_world_service",
"meta": {
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"source": "BBC World Service"
},
"link": "/radio/program/bbc-world-service",
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"rss": "https://podcasts.files.bbci.co.uk/p02nq0gn.rss"
}
},
"californiareport": {
"id": "californiareport",
"title": "The California Report",
"tagline": "California, day by day",
"info": "KQED’s statewide radio news program providing daily coverage of issues, trends and public policy decisions.",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-California-Report-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareport",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 8
},
"link": "/californiareport",
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}
},
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"title": "The California Report Magazine",
"tagline": "Your state, your stories",
"info": "Every week, The California Report Magazine takes you on a road trip for the ears: to visit the places and meet the people who make California unique. The in-depth storytelling podcast from the California Report.",
"airtime": "FRI 4:30pm-5pm, 6:30pm-7pm, 11pm-11:30pm",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareportmagazine",
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"order": 10
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM3NjkwNjk1OTAz",
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},
"city-arts": {
"id": "city-arts",
"title": "City Arts & Lectures",
"info": "A one-hour radio program to hear celebrated writers, artists and thinkers address contemporary ideas and values, often discussing the creative process. Please note: tapes or transcripts are not available",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/05/cityartsandlecture-300x300.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.cityarts.net/",
"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
"subscribe": {
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/City-Arts-and-Lectures-p692/",
"rss": "https://www.cityarts.net/feed/"
}
},
"closealltabs": {
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"info": "Close All Tabs breaks down how digital culture shapes our world through thoughtful insights and irreverent humor.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/closealltabs",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 1
},
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"id": "code-switch-life-kit",
"title": "Code Switch / Life Kit",
"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"meta": {
"site": "radio",
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},
"link": "/radio/program/code-switch-life-kit",
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},
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
"airtime": "THU 10pm, FRI 1am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
"link": "/radio/program/commonwealth-club",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/commonwealth-club-of-california-podcast/id976334034?mt=2",
"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5jb21tb253ZWFsdGhjbHViLm9yZy9hdWRpby9wb2RjYXN0L3dlZWtseS54bWw",
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},
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"id": "forum",
"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9am-11am, 10pm-11pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED Forum with Mina Kim and Alexis Madrigal",
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"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 9
},
"link": "/forum",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM5NTU3MzgxNjMz",
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"freakonomics-radio": {
"id": "freakonomics-radio",
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"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/freakonomicsRadio.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://freakonomics.com/",
"airtime": "SUN 1am-2am, SAT 3pm-4pm",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/freakonomics-radio/id354668519",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/podcasts/WNYC-Podcasts/Freakonomics-Radio-p272293/",
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},
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"id": "fresh-air",
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"link": "/radio/program/fresh-air",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=214089682&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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},
"hidden-brain": {
"id": "hidden-brain",
"title": "Hidden Brain",
"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
},
"link": "/radio/program/hidden-brain",
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},
"how-i-built-this": {
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"title": "How I Built This with Guy Raz",
"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/howIBuiltThis.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510313/how-i-built-this",
"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
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"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/how-i-built-this-with-guy-raz/id1150510297?mt=2",
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},
"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
"title": "Hyphenación",
"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"order": 15
},
"link": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-Political-Mind-of-Jerry-Brown-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 18
},
"link": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
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}
},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
}
},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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"rss": "https://feeds.publicradio.org/public_feeds/marketplace-pm/rss/rss"
}
},
"masters-of-scale": {
"id": "masters-of-scale",
"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WaitWhat"
},
"link": "/radio/program/masters-of-scale",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "http://mastersofscale.app.link/",
"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
"npr": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/464615685/mind-shift-podcast",
"stitcher": "https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/kqed/stories-teachers-share",
"spotify": "https://open.spotify.com/show/0MxSpNYZKNprFLCl7eEtyx"
}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3am-9am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Morning-Edition-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/programs/morning-edition/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/morning-edition"
},
"onourwatch": {
"id": "onourwatch",
"title": "On Our Watch",
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