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National Observer
09-05-2025
- Science
- National Observer
‘De-extinction' isn't real, but the conservation questions it raises are
This story was originally published by High Country News and appears here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration What was the dire wolf? Like many species lost before living memory and known only from remains, the 1854 discovery of a jawbone from this extinct North American predator was more suggestion than revelation. 'Certain naturalists may regard the fossil as an indication of a variety only of the Canis lupus,' or gray wolf, wrote paleontologist Joseph Leidy, describing what he tentatively called Canis primaevus. ' (Of) the correctness of such a view,' he added, 'I shall not attempt to decide.' In early April, 169 years after Leidy's cautious account, the venture-capital-funded startup Colossal Biosciences showed no such hesitation in announcing the species' purported resurrection in its laboratory. 'For the first time in human history, (we have) successfully restored a once-eradicated species through the science of de-extinction,' its website boasted. The company had used gene-editing technology to create three wolf pups that, according to its scientists, recreate some of the physical characteristics of the long-gone species. After an initial flurry of favorable press, the skeptics weighed in. Biologists argued that a handful of genetic changes to a cloned gray wolf — a species from which the dire wolf diverged 5 million years ago — did not add up to 'de-exinction.' 'The three animals produced by Colossal are not dire wolves. Nor are they proxies of the dire wolf,' the members of the International Union for Conservation of Nature's Canid Specialist Group concluded. Even if the company had recreated something much closer to the species, said critics, the production of a handful of individuals destined for life in captivity would be far from an ecologically meaningful accomplishment. Can an animal whose prey, habitat and climate no longer exist ever really flourish again? Interior Secretary Doug Burgum — who, as South Dakota governor, oversaw a $3 million grant to Colossal — praised the company, however, and used its dubious success to attack the Endangered Species Act. 'Since the dawn of our nation, it has been innovation — not regulation — that has spawned American greatness,' Burgum posted on X. '(De-extinction) can serve as a bedrock for modern species conservation.' Burgum's interest comes at a perilous time for the Endangered Species Act, which is currently in the crosshairs of the second Trump administration. A January executive order sought to resurrect the 'God Squad,' a committee empowered to overrule the law when species protections prevent development. More recently, the Fish and Wildlife Service and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration proposed redefining the law's definition of 'harm' to species so that it no longer includes habitat loss. The impact on vulnerable species and ecosystems remains uncertain. What is clearer is that gene editing and Colossal's so-called de-extinction technology pose new ethical and philosophical challenges to one of our bedrock environmental laws. What we call 'species' are an attempt to fit the complex, untidy reality of nature into convenient categories, and biologists frequently use new data (or new interpretations of existing data) to redefine where one species ends and another begins. Recognizing this, the Endangered Species Act was originally written to apply to 'any distinct population segment of any species of vertebrate fish or wildlife which interbreeds when mature,' intentionally vague language meant to allow agency scientists and managers to adapt to evolving science. Species definitions become even more complicated when individuals from two such 'distinct population segments' interbreed and produce hybrids. Hybrids are natural phenomena, but if their interbreeding continues unchecked, they can become threats to the integrity of their parent species. Unsurprisingly, Fish and Wildlife has struggled to clarify if and how the Endangered Species Act applies to hybrids, and its policies remain ambiguous. In a future where gene editing is increasingly prominent in biodiversity conservation — and companies like Colossal might create chimeric organisms with traits of endangered species but no direct connection with their inspiration — the risks of such ambiguity are growing. Would the release of a tankful of desert pupfish lookalikes meet the recovery goals for the species, one of the world's most endangered fish? Would the propagation of transgenic, disease-resistant whitebark pines counteract the loss of their original lineage to the blister rust that now plagues the species? For now, the Endangered Species Act and the policies that shape its interpretation have little to say on the subject. These questions are difficult because they are as much philosophical as biological and legal. There is something instructive in Joseph Leidy's uncertainty: The messiness of biological diversity can be readily exploited by bad-faith actors like Burgum, but the processes responsible for it cannot be so easily faked. Species, however they are defined, are the dynamic products of biological evolution, rooted in landscapes and ecological communities. In a future where agencies can once again work to strengthen rather than weaken the Endangered Species Act, policies on hybrid and transgenic organisms should prioritize this fundamental generative force — not by the outright rejection of genetic modification as a conservation tool but by recognizing the central importance of unbroken chains of ancestry and kinship, produced over centuries and millennia by self-willed organisms. By this standard, Colossal's dire wolf project is a failure.
Yahoo
26-04-2025
- Science
- Yahoo
News about the environment abounds. What will make more people read it?
The public's main source for information about the environment and climate change comes from the news, but not enough people are reading it. That was the challenge discussed by a group of journalists on April 25 at the Society of Environmental Journalists Conference, an event in Tempe intended to improve the accuracy and quality of environmental reporting. Paige Vega, a climate editor at Vox, said making coverage appealing to a general national audience requires defining that audience, which is 'the curious and overwhelmed.' Appealing to people's emotional vulnerability is necessary to get people to listen, especially in a political climate where audiences may be desensitized. People are waiting to be surprised, she said. She said it also is 'effective to tap into that sense of disgust or sense of betrayal or something … that evokes strong emotions in your reader. I think that is the real key to unlocking the story.' Maintaining a conversational tone is another way to grab readers, especially about an issue that requires urgency. 'We just try to talk to people on the level that they're on,' Vega said. 'And part of that is we know our audience isn't always a bunch of biodiversity nerds or people who are really in the know about how ecosystems work. So we're trying to reach people who can just kind of be harmed in unexpected ways.' Readers also tend to be drawn to issues they feel strongly about. 'People are really interested in the ethical dilemma,' said Michelle Nijhuis, a contributing editor for High Country News. Eleri Mosier is a senior at Arizona State University, and is part of a student newsroom led by The Arizona Republic. Coverage of the Society of Environmental Journalists conference is supported by Arizona State University's Cronkite School of Journalism, the University of Arizona. the Arizona Media Association and the Nina Mason Pulliam Charitable Trust. These stories are published open-source for other news outlets and organizations to share and republish, with credit and links to This article originally appeared on Arizona Republic: What's the best way to get more people to read environmental news?
Vox
21-04-2025
- Business
- Vox
Our climate progress is not doomed
is the climate editor of Vox. She has written and edited at the intersection of climate change, community and conservation for outlets including High Country News, The Guardian, The Atlantic, and Capital B News among others. Donald Trump made his energy plans pretty clear during the campaign: more fossil fuels, fewer environmental protections, and a full-on retreat from global climate cooperation. Nearly 100 days into his second administration, he has moved with dizzying speed to fulfill those promises. On Day 1, he pulled the US out of the Paris climate agreement, making it the only country to walk away from the global pact to limit warming (again). His administration slashed or froze funding for clean energy development — particularly wind — that Congress had already approved. At the same time, Trump has aggressively pushed fossil fuel expansion, declaring a national 'energy emergency' to ram through oil and gas projects, and has even proposed reversing the Environmental Protection Agency's foundational finding that greenhouse gas emissions are dangerous — a move that would rip the legal underpinnings out from decades of climate law. Related A foundational climate regulation is under threat But here's the thing: As damaging as Trump's actions have been, the climate fight isn't over — far from it. Trump's actions might delay our efforts to confront climate change, but the reality is that progress might actually be unstoppable. We've reached a hopeful inflection point where the economics and technology of clean energy have gathered enough momentum that not even the politics of 2025 can halt it. Hence the name of Vox's new package: Escape Velocity. Simply put, clean energy is no longer just the right thing to develop — it's good business. Wind and solar? Among the cheapest sources of electricity in the world. Batteries and electric cars? Getting better and more accessible by the year. That doesn't mean the fossil fuel industry isn't still powerful — it is. And fossil fuel subsidies are alive and well. But the progress we've made isn't the kind you can't reverse with a single election. The energy economy is transitioning. Technology is advancing. The market is shifting. Our politics might feel stuck, but in many important ways, we continue to move forward. And that matters, because every fraction of a degree of warming that we can avoid means lives saved, futures preserved, and more natural disasters averted. This year is the halfway point of this century to 2050, the year stamped on so many of the world's most critical climate targets. It's a good time to ask whether the energy transition is moving fast enough to help us get there — and what hard-won progress is likely to outlast even the most determined opposition? With Escape Velocity, the Vox climate team set out to answer those questions. We looked at the unexpected places where progress is still happening, the tech that's quietly changing everything, and the tectonic shifts that have changed the economic calculus of a warming world. The climate fight was never going to be easy. Trump in many ways will make it harder. But contrary to the headlines, it has not been lost. And in many ways that matter, it's being won.
Yahoo
05-04-2025
- General
- Yahoo
How Alaska Native youth are protecting the land for the future
Lyndsey Brollini and Meghan Sullivan High Country News Alaska Native youth are living through a pivotal time, bearing witness to the dramatic impacts of climate change that have occurred during their lifetimes: rapidly melting permafrost, warming oceans and declining salmon runs. Subsistence living, which is critical to Alaska Native culture and rural food security, has suffered in turn, whether it involves Iñupiaq whale hunts, Gwich'in caribou harvest or Tlingit salmon fishing. The threat to a shared way of life is uniting many Indigenous people across the state, calling them to protect Alaska Native homelands and cultural continuity. In light of this, many Alaska Native youth are dedicating their careers to protecting the environment and bringing Indigenous knowledge into mainstream spaces, including environmental science, policy work, increased tribal co-management and conservation initiatives. High Country News talked to four young Alaska Native women from different parts of the state who are working in climate advocacy, from community organizing to fishery sciences. Siqiniq Jazmyn Lee Vent, Koyukon Athabascan and Iñupiaq, has attended Ambler Road meetings for half her life. Vent, who is 24, went to her first meeting at 12 years old. At that time, the Ambler Road project — which would build a 211-mile-long highway to a mining project through sensitive habitat — was in the beginning stages, and different road maps were still being considered. 'I remember that, in our hall, a bunch of our elders [were] sitting in the meeting, and even though they might have not known exactly what was going on in those early stages of the proposed development, they knew that it was really important to show up and speak out against it,' Vent said. 'So I really try to carry that with me.' Vent co-founded No Ambler Road in 2023 to amplify the voices that oppose the proposed road, which could harm caribou migration patterns and habitat along with salmon spawning streams. For Vent and many others working on No Ambler Road, the project is much too risky, given that caribou populations are declining in Alaska and across the Arctic, and people can't fish in the Yukon River. 'I really envision a future where Alaska Native people have title to our land and are able to engage in these decision-making processes that directly impact our livelihoods.' Projects like these are often at the whims of the current administration. Last year, the Biden administration rejected the Ambler Road project, citing the harmful impacts it could have on the environment. But the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers never fully revoked the project's permit, and Alaska's congressional delegation and Gov. Michael Dunleavy support building the road, while President Donald Trump has long been enthusiastic about resource extraction in Alaska. Vent wants the federal government to uphold the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act (ANILCA) and its obligation to sustain subsistence hunting and fishing. Most of all, though, Vent wants Alaska Native people to be centered in these decisions and for companies, politicians and governments to leave their homeland alone. 'People might think this is crazy,' Vent said, 'but I really envision a future where Alaska Native people have title to our land and are able to engage in these decision-making processes that directly impact our livelihoods.' Anaan'arar Sophie Swope (Yup'ik) founded the Mother Kuskokwim nonprofit three years ago at 24 in her hometown of Bethel, Alaska. Previously, she was the self-governance director for Orutsararmiut Traditional Native Council, which was in consultation with federal agencies about the Donlin Gold Mine project. If built, it would be one of the largest open-pit gold mines in the world — and it would be located dangerously close to salmon spawning tributaries in the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta (Y-K Delta). 'I noticed the energy was low,' Swope said. 'I kind of stood up and was like, 'Hey guys, this stuff is really important, and we have to really fight to take care of all of our natural resources. Because it's all that we have, and it creates who we are.'' It was a key experience that inspired her to found Mother Kuskokwim. Swope now works full-time on fighting the Donlin Gold Mine, a project that is supported by her own Native corporation, Calista Corporation, despite its potential impact on salmon populations. She helped organize a lawsuit against the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, arguing that its environmental impact statement was insufficient — a lawsuit the group recently won. 'This stuff is really important, and we have to really fight to take care of all of our natural resources. Because it's all that we have, and it creates who we are.'' If chemicals from the mine get into rivers and food, it would be devastating for people in the Y-K Delta, who already suffer from extremely low salmon runs. And Swope doesn't want future generations to have to worry about toxicity in their food or having a large tailings dam nearby. 'One day, I will have children, and hopefully I'll have grandchildren, too,' Swope said. 'I want them to have the same access to these resources that our DNA was literally created to thrive off of.' Her elders taught her how to find her own voice. Now she wants younger generations to realize that they can and should use their voices when their way of life is threatened — and that they, too, have an obligation to take care of this place for future generations. 'Our time here on this Earth is very short,' Swope said. 'We were gifted all of the things that we have by our ancestors, and we're only borrowing this space on earth from the future generations.' Malia Towne, who is Haida and Tlingit, grew up subsistence fishing every summer on her family's traditional lands near Ketchikan, Alaska. As the years went by, they watched as the salmon population that their community had relied on for centuries began to fluctuate and decline. 'It made me realize that something needed to be done,' said Towne. Towne's Tlingit values drove her to work in fishing sustainability. 'Everything is circular within traditional values,' she said. 'What I do today affects tomorrow. It's the whole reason I got into this work, because I want to be able to continue practicing what my ancestors practiced and want future generations to be able to do the same.' Now a senior at Northern Arizona University, Towne, who is 20, studies environmental science, hoping to help ensure healthy fishing populations within Alaska. Last summer, she worked at the Alaska Longline Fishermen's Association, a nonprofit that promotes sustainable fishing practices and flourishing coastal communities. Her goal is to protect subsistence salmon harvesting and create more access for subsistence fishers, many of whom are Alaska Native. 'Everything is circular within traditional values. What I do today affects tomorrow.' 'My mom says it's genetic,' joked Towne. Her grandfather worked in fishing sustainability, and her sister does as well. 'It's in our blood.' Towne aims to create policies that prevent environmental damage from happening in the first place, as opposed to laws that merely slap Band-Aids on serious injuries that have already occurred. These policies would incorporate an Indigenous approach to conservation, protecting the environment while still allowing for sustainable harvesting and resource use. Towne cited the recent movement to list the king salmon as endangered. 'It's something that needs to be protected, but you shouldn't cut off all access, because that hurts more people,' she said. 'It's incredibly detrimental to subsistence fishers.' After graduating, Towne plans to return to Alaska and continue working on fishing sustainability, ideally in tribal co-management. She hopes that the policies she works on today will help salmon populations thrive for generations to come. 'What we do now is important, whether or not it's recognized or appreciated today,' she said. 'It will be appreciated eventually. Eventually, we'll be thankful for it.' Mackenzie Englishoe's great-grandparents taught her to live off the land, using Gwichya Gwich'in knowledge that had been passed down for centuries. Englishoe's great-grandparents, who experienced the dramatic changes caused by colonization, dedicated their lives to ensuring that her generation would be able to continue living the Gwich'in way of life. 'Our relationship to the land, it's physical, mental, emotional and spiritual,' said Englishoe, who was raised between the remote Chandalar Lake in the Brooks Range, and Gwichyaa Zhee (Fort Yukon), a village of roughly 500 people on the Yukon River. 'When I think about the future, I cannot — I will not — live in a future that does not have that, or where I'm not able to provide that for my family.' Englishoe, 21, is living during another time of change. Using the traditional knowledge her great-grandparents taught her, she works on climate crisis issues that impact villages in Interior Alaska: fostering healthy caribou and moose populations, protecting Indigenous land rights and water and improving wildfire management. She's been particularly involved in efforts to combat king salmon's decline in the Yukon River, advocating for closing salmon fishing in Area M near the Aleutian Islands and ending bottom trawling. 'When I think about the future, I cannot — I will not — live in a future that does not have that, or where I'm not able to provide that for my family.' 'Seeing the king salmon decline over time has really broken me,' she said. 'And then seeing people who do not have this connection to the salmon, people who are not from these lands, making decisions about it, and a lack of action from them. … It's just broken me.' Last March, Englishoe was elected the emerging leaders chair for the Tanana Chiefs Conference, representing 42 Alaska Native communities in the Interior Region through her role as youth advisor. She wants young Alaska Natives to know that they're capable of making change and that they deserve to have a seat at the table. 'Indigenous people, we do this work out of a place of love. For our community, for future generations, but also for people who are not Native,' she said. Everything is connected, she explained, from the salmon to the bears to entire food systems beyond Alaska. 'So we're trying to protect everybody, out of love.' We welcome reader letters. Email High Country News at editor@ or submit a letter to the editor. See our letters to the editor policy. This article appeared in the April 2025 print edition of the magazine with the headline 'Young with heart.'
Yahoo
04-04-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
How Trump's funding freeze for Indigenous food programs may violate treaty law
Taylar Dawn Stagner Grist This story was produced by Grist and co-published with High Country News. Jill Falcon Ramaker couldn't believe what she was hearing on the video call. All $5 million of her and her colleagues' food sovereignty grants were frozen. She watched the faces of her colleagues drop. Ramaker is Turtle Mountain Anishinaabe and the director of Buffalo Nations Food Sovereignty at Montana State University — a program that supports Indigenous foodways in the Rocky Mountains and trains food systems professionals — and is supported by the United States Department of Agriculture, or USDA. 'The funding that we had for training and infrastructure, leading to raising our own foods that are healthy and not highly processed and culturally appropriate, has stopped,' Ramaker said. 'We don't have any information on when, or if, it will resume.' In his first two months in office, President Donald Trump has signed over 100 executive orders, many specifically targeting grants for termination that engage with diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives and climate-related projects associated with the Inflation Reduction Act. Climate change destroys the places and practices central to Indigenous peoples in the United States, and is exacerbated by droughts and floods that also affect foods essential to Native cultures. Food sovereignty programs play a crucial role in fighting the effects of climate change by creating access to locally grown fruits, vegetables, and animal products. 'It feels like we're just getting started in so many ways,' Ramaker said. The funding freeze from the USDA is sending shockwaves throughout the nation's agriculture sector, but their effect on tribal food initiatives raises even larger questions about what the federal government's commitments are to Indigenous nations. That commitment, known as the federal Indian trust responsibility, is a legally enforceable obligation by the federal government to protect Indigenous lands, assets, resources, and rights. It is grounded in treaties made with Indigenous nations in exchange for the vast tracts of land that allowed America to expand westward. 'That general trust responsibility I think absolutely encompasses food sovereignty and tribes' ability to cultivate their lands,' said Diné attorney Heather Tanana at the University of California Irvine. As the U.S. gained territory in the 19th century, Indigenous nations were largely successful at resisting incursions by settlers. Because tribes were typically more powerful, militarily, than American forces, federal officials turned to peace treaties with tribes. Often, these treaties signed away large areas of territory but reserved certain areas for tribal use, now known as federal Indian reservations, in exchange for guarantees like medical aid, protection, and food. Some tribes specifically negotiated to preserve traditional food practices in their treaty rights. Examples include the right to hunt in the Fort Bridger Treaty for tribes in the Mountain West, the right to fish in the Medicine Creek Treaty in the Pacific Northwest, and the right to gather plant medicines. 'It would be odd not to consider the federal responsibility of including food security along with water access and healthcare services,' Tanana said. But the United States has failed to uphold those obligations, taking land and then ignoring legal responsibilities, including provisions for food and sustenance. Hunting, fishing, and gathering rights weren't upheld and in the mid-1800s, rations designed to replace traditional foods that were delivered to reservations were 'low cost and shelf-stable,' while many arrived to reservations rotten. Combined with federal policies that prevented tribal citizens from leaving their reservations to hunt and gather, malnutrition was widespread. For instance, a quarter of those on the Blackfoot reservation in Montana died of starvation in the winter of 1884. In 1974, the USDA began its Food Distribution Program on Indian Reservations. The monthly package of foods like flour, beef, and coffee, colloquially known as 'commodities' or 'commods,' was meant to provide Indigenous households with breads, fats, and sugars. But many of the foods provided by the USDA were, and remain, low in nutritional value, contributing to high rates of obesity-related diseases and other health issues. In 2023, around 50,000 Indigenous people per month accessed the program. 'That's what we are trying to address with Buffalo Nations,' Jill Falcon Ramaker said. 'Our communities have gone through a lot.' Montana's reservations continue to be hit hard by a lack of healthy foods, and roughly 25 percent of Indigenous people face food insecurity. Last year, the Biden administration announced new initiatives aimed at strengthening tribal food sovereignty. This included funding meat processing facilities, support for Indigenous children's nutrition in schools, and food and agriculture internships for those in higher education. The administration's goal was to directly address the adverse effects of climate change on Indigenous peoples, as tribes are often 'disadvantaged communities that are marginalized by underinvestment and overburdened by pollution.' However, it's unclear just how many programs the Biden administration funded or how much money went to those efforts. A request to the USDA for a list of food sovereignty grants was not answered. 'USDA is reviewing the programs for which payments have been on hold to ensure they align with the Department's goals and priorities,' a spokesperson said in an email statement. 'Secretary Rollins understands that farmers and ranchers, and other grant-funded entities that serve them, have made decisions based on these funding opportunities, and that some have been waiting on payments during this government-wide review. She is working to make determinations as quickly as possible.' Earlier this month, the Pueblo of Iseta, Prairie Band Potawatomi Nation, and Cheyenne Arapaho Tribes along with five Indigenous students sued the Trump administration for violation of trust and treaty responsibilities after cutting funding to the Bureau of Indian Education. The cuts resulted in staff reductions at tribal colleges like Haskell Indian Nations University and Southwestern Polytechnic Institute, and the lawsuit alleges that the move is a violation of federal trust obligations. 'Tribes have not historically had a good experience hearing from the government,' said Carly Griffith Hotvedt, an attorney and director of the Indigenous Food and Agriculture Initiative and member of the Cherokee Nation. 'That doesn't always work out for us.' Hotvedt added the way the Trump administration is playing Whac-a-Mole with funding tribal food programs will continue to erode the little trust Indian country has in the federal government. In Montana, Jill Ramaker said Buffalo Nations had planned to build a food laboratory in partnership with local tribes. The project would have developed infrastructure and research for plains Indigenous food systems. That plan is now permanently on hold for the foreseeable future. 'We are used to and good at adapting,' said Ramaker. 'But it's going to come at a tremendous cost in our communities.'
