Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment最新文献

It is both an honor and a privilege to be selected as the next Editor-in-Chief of Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment, which will be starting its 22nd year of publication in 2024. The journal is an amazing legacy of Sue Silver, whose creative energy and leadership helped to establish and define the journal for many years. I will be taking over this role from Rich Wallace, who further increased the journal's impact while streamlining its many moving parts. I guess that means I am batting third. I hope I don't strike out. During their stints as Editors-in-Chief, Sue and Rich were full-time employees of the Ecological Society of America (ESA). In my case, I will be the first Editor-in-Chief (EiC) of Frontiers with a full-time academic job. Fortunately for me, Rich remains with ESA as the Director of Publishing, so I can bug him whenever I need to.

According to some dictionary I found online, impulse is “a strong and unreflective urge or desire to act”. Unreflective may best define my impulse to apply for the EiC job. I impulsively applied for the EiC position because I believed I had the experience necessary to do the job. In December 2023 I completed two terms (six years) of service as EiC of BioScience, the journal published by the American Institute of Biological Sciences (AIBS). At the time I was thrown into the deep end of the pool because the previous editor left somewhat suddenly to take on editorial duties elsewhere. I had a lot to learn, and fast. Fortunately, I had fantastic help and guidance from the Senior Editor of BioScience along with a very strong supporting network of AIBS staff. As EiC of BioScience I interacted with and provided guidance to authors, met regularly with journal staff to stay on task, developed and communicated with Editorial Board members, encouraged submissions, and oversaw recruitment of special features. Furthermore, I worked hard to expand and diversify the Editorial Board both internationally and through recruiting members of underrepresented groups in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM). In addition, I increased the gender equity of the Editorial Board. I plan to bring this experience to Frontiers.

Frontiers and BioScience have much in common regarding content and operation. Both are broadly interdisciplinary journals that publish content strongly aimed at management and application. Also, both journals use the ScholarOne manuscript-handling software to challenge authors. I really enjoyed working for AIBS, and at the end of my six years I especially enjoyed the lack of emails in my inbox each morning. In the case of BioScience, I was also the first academic EiC following a series of editors who were full-time employees of AIBS. I'm starting to get the feeling that I represent a cost-savings to scientific societies.

I have been an active member of ESA throughout my career. As Chair of the ESA Publicatio

As keystone structures in urban ecosystems, trees are critical to addressing many of the current livability, health, and environmental challenges facing cities. Every day, trees are removed from urban landscapes as part of routine management. These tree removals are an opportunity for implementing manipulative experiments to directly measure the social and ecological functions of trees. Here we review the kinds of tree removals that commonly occur in cities, assess the relevant opportunities that arise for research–practice partnerships, and discuss the challenges posed when implementing experiments of this nature. We argue that experimental studies on the routine removal of urban trees will improve and expand the mechanistic understanding of how trees support biodiversity and human well-being in cities beyond current knowledge, which is largely based on correlative studies. Finally, we highlight the opportunity for experiments to be co-designed by scientists and urban land managers, and how “learning while doing” can generate tangible research impacts and improve urban forest decision making.

Prescribed fire is an important management tool for restoring fire-adapted ecosystems and mitigating the risk of high-severity wildfire in the North American Mediterranean climate zone (NAMCZ), much of which was historically characterized by frequent low- to moderate-severity fire. For over a century, policies that excluded fire, curtailed Indigenous cultural burning, and prioritized timber harvesting have, in combination with anthropogenic climate warming, driven large-scale, high-severity fires that are wreaking ecological and socioeconomic havoc. Despite its recognized need, the use of prescribed fire at appropriate scale has been slow to occur. We describe some of the principal obstacles to increasing the application of prescribed fire in the NAMCZ and suggest four strategies for policy makers and high-level managers to overcome them: (1) redoubling federal and state agency commitment and rewarding assertive leadership, (2) increasing funding for prevention-focused management (as opposed to suppression), (3) building capacity through cooperation, and (4) expanding monitoring to inform burn strategies and adaptive management.

In June 2022 during the Tsuyu, a month-long season of persistent light rain unique to East Asia, I observed Diphylleia grayi flowers taking on a fantastic glass-like appearance in Nagano, Japan. Endemic to Japan and Sakhalin but distributed mostly in central Japan, the species is known informally as the “skeleton flower” outside of Japan. In dry weather, the petals of the skeleton flower appear white because light is diffusely reflected by numerous air-filled gaps in their cellular structure. When these gaps become filled with rain, however, the petals become transparent – a phenomenon that has attracted the attention of materials scientists (ACS Appl Mater Interfaces 2018; doi.org/10.1021/acsami.8b12490). Notably, the petals do not become transparent immediately after rain begins to fall; rather, light rain must fall continuously for about one day. Also, even after the weather clears, the petals remain temporarily transparent, until they dry.

Three Diphylleia species are known. In addition to D grayi, the familiar skeleton flower, Diphylleia sinensis occurs in central China, and Diphylleia cymosa is found in the southern Appalachian Mountains of the southeastern US (J Arnold Arbor 1984; doi.org/10.5962/p.36691). However, it is not known whether the flower petals of these two species also become transparent during rainy weather. If transparent petals are unique to D grayi, they may be an adaptation to the Tsuyu. What ecological function might the transparent petals have? Do flowers with transparent petals provide signals for pollinating insects? Is it possible to discern whether insect pollinators are more or less likely to visit flowers with transparent petals versus those with white petals, despite the potentially confounding presence of rain?

The parasitoid wasp Hymenoepimecis bicolor (Ichneumonidae) is able to manipulate the web-building behavior of its host, the golden silk orb-weaver Trichonephila clavipes (Araneidae). The host spider constructs a modified and complex web, which serves not only as a stable platform to suspend the wasp larva's cocoon but also as a barrier against hyperparasitoids and potential predators. Before depositing an egg on the host spider's abdomen, the H bicolor female immobilizes the spider by inserting its ovipositor – and releasing paralyzing substances – into the spider's mouth. Selecting a host of the proper size is essential: too small a spider may provide an insufficient source of food for the developing larva, whereas too large a spider may pose a serious risk during host interception and immobilization.

The attacking and subduing behaviors of polysphinctine wasps are not well known but may involve sophisticated sequences, including pulling a thread of the intended host's web with the foreleg, imitating struggling prey, to attract the spider (Entomol Sci 2009; doi.org/10.1111/j.1479-8298.2009.00338.x) and waiting for an opportunity to attack while resting on the web's non-viscid barrier threads (Naturwissenschaften 2007; doi.org/10.1007/s00114-006-0177-z). The above-described direct attack behavior of H bicolor, however, is preceded by a short period in which the wasp hovers around the potential host. Would it be possible for the female wasp to correctly evaluate the risks and quality of their potential hosts with just a quick visual inspection? Are chemical cues involved in host selection?

On the stairway in a rather nice hotel where I stayed once in Thailand, a prominent plaque insisted: No durians. Bananas, fine; papaya, no problem; rambutan, knock yourself out. But the spiky, foot-long products of Durio spp (commonly Durio zibethinus)? Absolutely not! Yet durian flesh is widely regarded as exquisite (Figure 1). So why ban it? The renowned English naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace can answer that: “When brought into a house the smell is often so offensive that some persons can never bear to taste it” (The Malay Archipelago 1869; 1: 117, London: Macmillan & Co). Sadly, the above plaque offered no solution to the evolutionary conundrum of why a fruit, ostensibly seeking the dispersal of its seeds through its wonderful taste, should reek enough to ward potential helpers away.

That durians stink is uncontested. Writers have described them as smelling like everything from rotten onions to raw sewage, and the experience of eating the flesh as ranging from consuming carrion in custard to ingesting raspberry blancmange in a lavatory, and even to kissing a corpse (https://tinyurl.com/zu6r56uu). Getting beyond the stench is hard, but it brings its reward, as Wallace himself noted: “This was my own case when I first tried it in Malacca, but in Borneo I found a ripe fruit on the ground, and, eating it out of doors, I at once became a confirmed durian eater”.

The how part of the durian's funk has more recently been clarified. Analyses have revealed the fruit to produce over 40 odor-active compounds, many reminiscent of onions (raw, rotten, and roasted), along with others that conjure up the aromas of skunk, cabbage, and sulfur, tempered with soup-seasoning and caramel (J Agric Food Chem 2012; 60: 11253–62). And as durians get riper they get smellier, producing ever more ethionine, which enzymes then convert into the fruits’ signature “stink bomb”: ethanethiol (J Agric Food Chem 2020; 68: 10397–402). Even in minute quantities humans can detect its malodorous, garlicky-cabbage whiff (and given our paltry olfactory powers, that really does say something about ethanethiol!). But where is the evolutionary advantage in all this?

It's a tricky one. Some might argue that the colors, scents, sizes, tastes, and shapes of fruits have evolved to match the abilities of the animals that disperse them; clearly it's little help being too big for an intended bird's beak, or being red if a target primate can’t distinguish that color. But others might disagree, arguing that fruits are commonly eaten by many disperser species; just how could they match the needs (including the aromatic requisites) of all of them? So what about durians? Is their odor a useless, counterproductive byproduct as it might appear to be, or could it be a very useful signal that worked out because some potential dispersers, more inquisitive or more desperate for food, found, like W

While growing up in the forests and fields of northeastern Pennsylvania, I spent time with some of the best homegrown naturalists in the country. Anglers, hunters, and trackers taught me firsthand how to look at nature, as they themselves had been instructed by previous generations – and I was gifted with taxonomic keys for identifying plants and wildlife, which sparked what would be a lifelong desire to understand the natural world. It was not until after I left rural Pennsylvania and found my way into higher educational spaces when my “formal” introduction to ecology started.

But while I continued on an ecologist's path I began to repeatedly ask myself an important question: “Do I belong here?” The further I became involved in my research and schooling, the more I felt the need to adopt scholarly language, at the expense of being able to speak to the community of naturalists in the forests and fields where I grew up. As I pursued my degrees, I delved deeper into ecology until it was all I could see. It was not until after graduating with my master's degree, when I began work at a small nonprofit land trust, that I realized I had become disconnected from the sense of wonder that had first drawn me to this discipline. Bogged down by the constant news of habitat loss due to development, the loss of protections for sensitive ecosystems, and the brutality of climate-change-driven disasters, I questioned the impact of my efforts. If I were to key myself out in my professional landscape, I would not know where I belonged.

I have met many scientists pursuing critical ecological questions who feel either separated from the impacts of their work or unwelcome in decision-making circles where their voices are desperately needed. Ecologists are trained to identify, to question, and to probe relationships in nature, but how many of us learn the ways to share that information with a wide public audience? How can we bridge the divide between the rigors of scientific research and the broad discussions of policy or application of theory to the natural places we love? In my experience, the answer is straightforward: first listen, understand the social context, then share.

In my transition from academia to a nonprofit I was forced to reckon with a painful reality: my degrees in science are effectively in a language that the people in my local community do not speak. Only by recentering on my community's needs was I able to understand where my work was necessary: helping residents in local watersheds build emotional connections with their neighboring streams. These people did not feel passionate about the population dynamics of stream insects or patterns in eel migrations; instead, they cared about the danger of their homes flooding and the safety of their children from potentially polluted waters. It is my responsibility to meet community members where they live and ensure they feel welcome where discussions about water resources are ta

Several arthropod species, including caterpillars and spiders, commonly construct leaf-based shelters in the form of rolls, tents, and tiers for protection from predators and extreme physical conditions, affording them safety during development and reproduction. By building such shelters, these organisms qualify as ecosystem engineers (Neotrop Entomol 2016; doi.org/10.1007/s13744-015-0348-8), indirectly facilitating arthropod diversity on host plants (Arthropod-Plant Interact 2019; doi.org/10.1007/s11829-018-9661-6).

In the Cerrado Rupestre vegetation of southeastern Brazil (Nat Conserv -Bulgaria 2022; doi.org/10.3897/natureconservation.49.89237), we observed a gall-forming species of nematode that also induces a plant's gall-infested leaves to roll – the first recorded case, to the best of our knowledge (Ecol Entomol 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993). The microscopic (600 μm) nematode Ditylenchus gallaeformans induces galls on the shrub Miconia ligustroides. As the galls develop over time, they cause the undersides of the leaves to curl, forming rolls roughly 20 mm in diameter (top). The interiors of the rolled leaves with attached galls are frequently colonized by many arthropod species, especially spiders, which deposit thick layers of silk to envelop and protect their egg sacs (bottom). As compared to host plants with intact (unmodified) leaves, host plants with gall-induced rolled leaves, which remain on the plants for approximately eight months, are associated with higher arthropod abundance and diversity (Ecol Entomol 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993).

By diverting nutrients to feed the nematode larvae within them, the galls directly damage the host plants. At the same time, however, the galls may indirectly protect host plants from herbivory, given that the spiders that take refuge in these rolled structures repel sap-sucking and chewing insects (Ecol Entomol 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993). Does gall presence have a net positive or negative effect on host plants? In addition, could galls accelerate the decomposition rates of the fallen infected leaves?

Flagship species are an important tool for mobilizing support for conservation. Here, we extend this concept to include individual organisms, whose characteristics, fates, and connections to people can garner public attention, attract conservation support, and spur activism. Flagship individuals typically share a similar suite of characteristics, including (1) species-level traits associated with charisma; (2) individual traits that are unique or distinctive; (3) a high degree of exposure to humans; and (4) a known, noteworthy life history or fate. The interplay between these characteristics and human agency establishes unique connections between flagship individuals and people, and generates widespread media attention. We discuss how the selection and promotion of flagship individuals can inspire empathy and, ultimately, conservation action. Finally, we identify the limitations of the flagship individual approach, while arguing that, if carefully and strategically implemented, it has the potential to produce substantial benefits for conservation policy and practice.

New investments in conservation are needed to halt and reverse the rapid and extensive changes to ecosystems driven by growing human demands for natural resources. A major barrier is matching viable financing solutions to conservation projects. Recent conservation finance studies catalog available financing options but do not provide adequate guidance on which financing pathways are suitable for a particular conservation project. Studies in the natural capital literature identify activities that best serve the conservator's objectives but typically fail to address the question of how to pay for them. We attempt to bridge these literature sources by providing a framework for identifying the specific conditions that must be satisfied by a project in order for an existing financing mechanism to be viable. Notably, our framework quickly reveals financing approaches that can be eliminated. We demonstrate the utility of this approach through conservation case studies on establishment of native forests, coral reef restoration, oyster restoration, and island biosecurity.