As a veterinarian who studies infectious diseases in cats, I’ve been repeatedly asked whether Australia’s outbreak of the H5 bird flu poses a risk to pets. The short answer is yes.

As this lethal virus continues to infect more mammals, poultry farmers and backyard chook owners remain on high alert. But outbreaks overseas suggest pets – particularly cats – can also contract H5 bird flu and develop severe disease.

To date, Australia has not recorded any cases of the deadly H5 bird flu in pets and the risk to most cats and dogs remains very low. But if infection does happen, the consequences can be serious.

As a nation of pet owners – with 7.7 million Australian households sharing their homes with a pet – we must understand how cats and dogs may become infected, what signs to watch for and which practical measures can reduce exposure to H5 bird flu.

Not just birds

Cats and dogs can catch bird flu in four main ways:

• direct contact with infected wildlife

• being in places where infected wildlife have been

• eating or drinking infected animal products

• coming into contact with the virus at home, including via clothing, shoes or equipment.

H5 bird flu outbreaks abroad – including in Poland, South Korea and Belgium – suggest infected cats can deteriorate rapidly and often die within days of exposure. Dogs can also become infected but appear less vulnerable to severe sickness. Many develop only mild symptoms or none at all.

Currently, no vaccinations are available for pets, and there is limited data on whether existing influenza antivirals could be a safe and effective treatment for cats and dogs.

This means prevention is the most effective tool we have.

How would I know if my pet is infected?

The early signs of H5 bird flu infection resemble those of many common animal diseases.

Infected pets may initially look unwell, develop a fever, become lethargic and go off their food. Common respiratory signs include coughing, difficulty breathing and discharge from the eyes or nose.

In cats, H5 bird flu can quickly progress and lead to serious neurological symptoms such as tremors, seizures or sudden blindness.

If your pet develops any of these symptoms, don’t arrive at your veterinary clinic unannounced. Call ahead and discuss your concerns with a vet, telling them if your pet has recently had contact with wild birds, wildlife or raw animal products. This will allow your vet to assess your pet’s level of risk and determine the safest way to examine them.

If your vet suspects your pet may have bird flu, they may conduct an initial assessment outside the hospital and implement additional infection control measures, such as wearing protective clothing and caring for your pet separately from other animals. They may also consult with the government veterinarian coordinating the bird flu response in your area.

If directed to do so by the government veterinarian, your vet may collect samples – most commonly respiratory swabs similar to COVID tests – to determine whether H5 bird flu could be involved. Currently, there is no in-house test that veterinary clinics can perform, so samples must be sent to a dedicated government laboratory for analysis.

What you can do

Here are four practical steps owners can take to help keep their pets safe.

1. Avoid contact with wildlife

Leashing dogs and keeping cats indoors where possible will stop them from touching, scavenging or hunting infected wildlife. This also prevents pets from hunting healthy native wildlife, which need all the help they can get as this virus spreads.

2. Stay away from contaminated environments

H5 bird flu can be present in bird droppings, feathers, carcasses and contaminated water. Depending on environmental conditions, the virus can survive for days or even weeks. To protect your pet, bring food and water bowls inside when not in use and cover outdoor cat enclosures with roofing or tarp to keep contaminated bird droppings out. You can also shift bird baths and feeders from areas your pet frequents or remove them altogether.

3. Steer clear of raw animal products

H5 bird flu is likely to spread into poultry or other farmed animals, making raw animal products a potential source of infection.

Most feline cases overseas occurred when cats ate raw foods – including raw meat, unpasteurised dairy products and improperly processed pet food – later found to be contaminated with the virus. Owners should avoid feeding their pets such products. And it’s worth noting, freezing or freeze-drying food does not reliably kill or inactivate avian influenza viruses.

4. Don’t bring the virus home

To avoid accidentally infecting your pet, it’s important to boost hygiene measures. This is especially true if you work with birds, wildlife or farmed poultry.

Only handle sick or injured wildlife if you are trained to do so. If you do have contact with them, wash your hands thoroughly, disinfect any equipment and change clothing and footwear before returning home.

For most Australian pets, the risk of getting H5 bird flu is extremely low. Taking some simple precautions can help keep it that way.

If you encounter sick or dead wildlife, remember to “avoid, record and report” any sightings to the Emergency Animal Disease Hotline on 1800 675 888. You can stay informed about where H5 bird flu has been detected by regularly checking the Australian government’s bird flu website and detection map.

Sally Coggins, Postdoctoral Research Fellow (Diseases and Treatment of Cats), University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Warmer weather has arrived and mosquitoes will be buzzing about before you know it. As El Niño is expected to bring an early start to summer heat, it’s likely mosquitoes will make their presence felt earlier than usual.

The threat of mosquitoes depositing flesh-eating bacteria has been restricted to a few parts of the country. But while rare, research shows it is now showing up in more areas – including in backyards in Melbourne’s inner city.

So what exactly is Buruli ulcer, where is it now found, and how can you prevent it? Here’s what we know so far, and what researchers are currently developing to protect against the bacteria in future.

What are Buruli ulcers?

Buruli ulcer is a skin infection resulting from the bacterium Mycobacterium ulcerans.

It starts as small and often painless inflammation after a mosquito bite, which may not be seen until months after initial infection. It transforms into a disfiguring ulcer after many weeks.

If left untreated, it can continue increasing in size with a loss of skin and muscle.

A buruli ulcer is treated with an eight-week course of antibiotics. Recovery can be much slower than expected for other common skin infections, with healing time highly dependent on the condition of the ulcer when first treated. It may take more than four months for ulcers to heal.

How do people become infected?

Mycobacterium ulcerans can infect urban wildlife, such as possums, which suffer symptoms similar to those in humans.

Recent research has shown mosquitoes pass the bacterium to people.

The mosquito most closely associated with areas at risk of Mycobacterium ulcerans is Aedes notoscriptus. Commonly known as the Australian backyard mosquito, it is widespread in Australia and commonly found in water-holding containers in suburban areas.

There may be other pathways of infection but health authorities have strongly encouraged people to prevent mosquito bites as the best way to avoid Buruli ulcer.

Where is it found?

Buruli ulcer has been reported in more than 30 countries around the world, including in Africa, South America and the Western Pacific.

In Australia, it has been reported in several states, territories and regions, including Victoria, Far North Queensland, the Northern Territory and New South Wales.

Victoria has been hit hardest, with 426 cases reported in the state in 2025 alone.

Victorian cases have mostly been reported from coastal regions but Melbourne’s suburbs have also seen an increase in activity. Inner north-west suburbs such as Essendon, Brunswick West and Moonee Ponds are part of the new cluster.

With the potential for more cases, and in more locations, surveillance beyond known areas of activity is needed.

Since Buluri ulcer became a notifiable disease in NSW, there have been six cases reported from the NSW south coast.

There was concern this was because the Victorian outbreak had spread to the state and could also spread to new regions. But genomic analysis suggests the NSW cases are from a separate outbreak rather than spread from Victoria. This raises questions about how widespread this pathogen may be and what conditions are likely to give rise to human infections in new regions.

How best to stop the flesh-eating bacteria’s spread?

Australian health authorities have recommended insect repellents and reducing exposure to mosquitoes for decades to reduce the risks of mosquito-borne disease.

But while health authorities might ordinarily consider insecticides to control mosquito populations, they’re not likely to be an effective way to reduce numbers of mosquitoes buzzing about the local suburbs in the long term.

New research in Victoria led by two of us (Véronique Paris and Andrew Buultjens) tested a novel approach to mosquito control and found evidence that reducing mosquito numbers can also reduce a person’s risk of contracting Buruli ulcer.

Using mosquitoes as pest-controllers

Special devices, known as autodissemination stations, are designed to offer a breeding site to mosquitoes looking for somewhere to lay their eggs. A stinky mix of water and yeast draws them in.

Once inside, the mosquito is exposed to a gauze strip coated with the control agent pyriproxyfen (an insect growth regulator) and Beauveria bassiana (insect specific fungus).

When the mosquito leaves the station, its days are numbered due to the fungal infection. But before they die, they’ll transfer the mosquito control agent to other water-holding containers as they look for other places to lay their eggs.

The mosquitoes become accidental pest controllers themselves.

How effective was it?

After eight-weeks of station deployment, mosquito egg counts (a measure of mosquito activity) were 70% lower in treatment areas compared with control areas.

Buruli ulcer presents an unusual challenge when trying to measure whether an intervention had impact on human disease because symptoms typically develop almost five months after infection.

To account for this delay, we had to work backwards to estimate when infection likely occurred and use forensic genomic analysis to determine which cases were acquired locally.

At the predicted peak of the mosquito-control effect, Buruli ulcer incidence was estimated to be 83% lower in the treatment areas than in the control areas.

The greater the reduction in mosquitoes, the greater the apparent protection from Buruli ulcer, providing further evidence that mosquito control can reduce disease risk.

The mosquito control stations used in the study are not yet available for purchase in Australia, but regulatory approval for their use is imminent and new products using similar approaches are also being tested.

However, in this study the control stations were deployed in high numbers, so it’s unclear what the impact of their use in a single household would be.

So how can you reduce your risk of Buruli ulcer this summer?

Current predictions are for hot and relatively dry conditions this summer in eastern Australia.

While this may mean there are fewer mosquitoes emerging from wetlands and other bodies of water, the mosquitoes closely associated with Mycobacterium ulcerans spread are found in our backyards.

Water will still be available for mosquitoes around the home in bird baths, rainwater tanks, blocked drains, sump pits and roof gutters, and water left out for wildlife. To prevent mosquitoes breeding in them, make sure you refill bird baths weekly, clear your gutters, cover water tanks, and empty and refill water for wildlife at least once per week.

It’s also a good idea to keep using insect repellents. Mosquito control, whatever form it takes, will never get rid of all the mosquitoes. Covering up with long-sleeve shirts, long pants and enclosed shoes when outdoors will also help stop the bites.

Cameron Webb, Clinical Associate Professor, School of Medical Science & Sydney Infectious Diseases Institute; Principal Hospital Scientist, University of Sydney; Andrew Buultjens, Microbial Bioinformatician & Postdoctoral Research Fellow, The Peter Doherty Institute for Infection and Immunity, and Veronique Paris, Postdoctoral Research Fellow in Medical Entomology, The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Not so long ago, we thought the ocean was an inexhaustible resource. There would always be plenty more fish in the sea.

We now know this isn’t true. A growing proportion of the world’s oceans are overfished. And even though we’re fishing more intensively and using more advanced gear than ever, the total number of fish caught has plateaued. There simply aren’t as many left to catch.

On top of this, climate change and other human-driven pressures are placing even more stress on marine species.

Globally, governments are working to prevent further damage to ocean systems by establishing marine protected areas. However, our new research suggests these aren’t as effective as they seem.

A global goal

Governments and communities are increasingly aware of the various threats our oceans face including fishing, marine heatwaves and overabundant species.

These compounding threats have prompted countries around the world to rapidly expand the coverage of marine protected areas – places where fishing and other destructive activities are restricted – over the past three decades. Protected areas are designed to help fragile ecosystems recover or, in some cases, prevent damage before it begins.

The international push to meet ambitious conservation targets has fuelled this expansion. The “30 by 30” target is one example. In 2022, 196 countries adopted the Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework and committed to protect at least 30% of the ocean by 2030.

Currently, about 10% of the ocean is officially “protected”. On the surface, this is a major win for ocean life. But an area with this label on paper might not actually be protected in practice.

Beneath the surface

Until now, we’ve judged how well the world’s marine protected areas are working based on data we can collect from the surface. This includes how many square kilometres these areas collectively cover or how strict their rules seem to be.

As a result, we don’t know what is happening underwater at a global scale. That’s where our new research comes in.

To find out whether marine life is actually recovering, we analysed underwater biodiversity data from thousands of shallow coral and rocky reefs worldwide, located both inside and outside marine protected areas. This data enabled us to measure how much fish biomass – the total weight of fish on a reef – has bounced back. This is an indication of true recovery, not an assumption based on whether an area is protected on paper.

Our results suggest less than 2% of the ocean falls inside marine protected areas where ecosystems are actually recovering. That’s an optimistic estimate, which assumes people are following the fishing rules in each area. In reality, many don’t. On a global scale, this low compliance means the share of the ocean that is effectively protected is likely much smaller.

So, what needs to change?

It’s worth noting, marine protected areas can be an effective conservation tool. Research shows they deliver significant and lasting benefits for marine life, such as restoring fish and shark populations.

However, there are various reasons why a marine protected area can fail. Fishing is a major one. If any amount of fishing is still happening, it’s difficult for marine communities to fully recover.

Research shows most of the world’s marine protected areas fail to safeguard marine life in practice. The reasons for this are complex and vary from place to place. What’s worrying is even a low level of non-compliance may put pressure on marine populations and undermine conservation efforts.

To ensure marine protected areas actually work, we need to improve protection on paper and in practice by strengthening fishing rule compliance. We must also ensure stakeholders are both aware of and actively engaged in marine stewardship.

But we can’t manage what we can’t see. We need an ongoing coordinated strategy for monitoring how marine species are faring by tracking them underwater, both inside and outside protected areas.

Otherwise, we risk overestimating how well the world’s protected areas are doing while ocean ecosystems beneath the surface continue to deteriorate.

Ella Clausius, Postdoctoral Research Fellow, Reef Ecology, University of Tasmania

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

When you think of conservation in Australia, chances are you’ll think of a national park.

But there’s another fast-growing way of conserving land: Indigenous Protected Areas (IPAs). These areas of land or sea Country are voluntarily dedicated by Traditional Owners to protect nature and cultural values and responsibilities.

Once dedicated, an IPA becomes part of Australia’s National Reserve System – our network of protected areas. To protect the area, Indigenous rangers tackle invasive species and undertake cultural burning and many other tasks.

In 2022, the Australian government signed up to an international pledge to protect 30% of lands and waters by 2030. This is one reason why IPAs have grown so rapidly in recent years.

In July, 4.7 million hectares of the Simpson Desert was dedicated as the newest protected area – the Pmere Atherre Antenterreme IPA.

Maintaining the success of Indigenous Protected Areas will require long-term funding, strong Indigenous governance and complementary conservation elsewhere.

How does this work?

While national parks are established and managed by governments, IPAs are Indigenous-led.

After deciding to establish an IPA, Traditional Owners develop a management plan and determine how Country is to be cared for, drawing on Indigenous knowledge and contemporary conservation science.

Caring for Country means looking after plants, animals, water, fire, sacred places and cultural practices as part of an interconnected whole.

Declaring an IPA doesn’t change existing tenure arrangements. For example, an IPA can cover freehold Indigenous land, land granted under land-rights legislation, Indigenous-held leasehold or pastoral land, Crown land and marine areas.

From pilot program to over half of Australia’s reserve system

In 1998, Nantawarrina became Australia’s first Indigenous Protected Area. The former pastoral station in South Australia’s Flinders Ranges was heavily degraded. Over the following decades, the Nipapanha people worked to restore the land and its biodiversity.

There are now 96 IPAs across Australia, spanning 113 million hectares. That’s almost 15% of the continent. Marine IPAs cover a smaller portion of Australian waters – 9.3 million hectares, or about 1.1% of our marine estate.

The growth of IPAs has far outstripped the growth of other types of conservation land. IPAs now make up more than 55% of lands protected in Australia’s National Reserve System.

Across all types of protection – both government and non-government – 25% of Australia’s land is now protected and 24% of seas are highly-protected “no-take” areas where fishing is banned.

The largest IPAs lie in Australia’s deserts, some of the world’s largest uncleared arid ecosystems. They form part of a vast, culturally-connected landscape shaped by Indigenous stewardship over tens of thousands of years.

People who care for Country

At the heart of Indigenous Protected Areas are Indigenous rangers, who combine cultural practice and traditional knowledge with contemporary conservation practices.

Ranger teams began growing in number from 2007, when dedicated federal funding became available. The program is now called the Indigenous Rangers Program.

No two Indigenous ranger programs are alike – each is locally led and grounded in Traditional Owner priorities. The program of work can include burning to prevent large wildfires or maintain cultural practice and care for Country.

Rangers look after cultural sites and culturally important species, and protect threatened species by managing threats, monitoring how populations are faring and undertaking surveys and research to find out more about them.

Rangers and researchers have worked together to combine Indigenous knowledge with new technologies such as drones, satellite imagery and environmental DNA to better understand how Country is changing and inform its care.

Ranger programs also create local jobs, stronger community governance and opportunities for Elders to pass on language, cultural knowledge and practical skills to younger generations. These programs show that caring for Country can deliver environmental, cultural and social benefits.

Many Indigenous Protected Areas welcome visitors, offering cultural and nature-based tourism, walking, camping, fishing and guided experiences. Access rules do vary. Some have restricted access at certain times, or require permission to enter. These arrangements reflect Indigenous ownership and management.

How are these areas funded?

Like many other protected areas, IPAs are publicly funded. The Australian government gives funds to declare and manage new IPAs through protected area and Indigenous ranger programs. Some state governments provide extra support to ranger teams.

However, these funds usually only cover a fraction of the costs of managing Country in this way. IPAs with ranger programs receive just over A$1 per hectare from government funding. By comparison, national park funding varies from around $16 per hectare in Queensland to $58 per hectare in NSW. State governments largely fund national parks.

Many Indigenous organisations try to augment funding with income from carbon projects, philanthropic grants, research partnerships and environmental management contracts. This financial uncertainty creates a large administrative workload.

Can we make these areas even stronger?

As this approach to conservation matures, our growing reliance on IPAs as a key conservation approach should be matched by increased funding and capability support.

It also makes sense to invest more in monitoring and reporting to track environmental, cultural and social benefits, and to pinpoint any areas to strengthen. Better data will also help policymakers know how Australia is tracking towards our commitments to the Global Biodiversity Framework.

Indigenous Protected Areas are working well. But they’re not the answer to every conservation challenge. They complement but do not replace other protected areas. The complex land tenures of the more heavily cleared and densely populated areas on Australia’s east coast makes it more challenging to declare new IPAs here, for instance.

As Australia works towards its conservation goals, it will rely more and more on Indigenous Protected Areas. But we believe the success of these areas speaks to something much deeper – the fact that Australia’s oldest systems of caring for Country is still one of the most effective ways to conserve nature.

Sarah Legge, Professor of Wildlife Conservation, Australian National University; Samantha Murray, CEO, Indigenous Desert Alliance, Indigenous Knowledge, and Stan Lui, Director, Five Cubed Environmental, Indigenous Knowledge

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The world is set to miss the 1.5°C global warming target, and plans are underway for UN climate talks in the Pacific and Turkey.

Climate mitigation – reducing or preventing greenhouse emissions – was once treated as the only legitimate response to global warming. In comparison, climate adaptation – trying to adjust to global warming – was seen as a form of defeatism, or worse, hubris.

But that taboo has long since lifted: our collective failure to prevent climate change means adaptation is now an essential part of climate policy.

Similarly, attitudes to actively removing carbon dioxide from the atmosphere have undergone an evolution. While there are reasons to doubt whether carbon removal can work at scale, Australia’s “net zero emissions” plans rely on these interventions.

Now, the taboo surrounding another controversial form of climate intervention – solar radiation modification (SRM) – appears to be lifting.

What is solar radiation modification?

SRM refers to large-scale technological interventions that reflect a small amount of sunlight back into space, thereby lowering global temperatures. Increasingly called the more benign term “climate stabilisation”, the proposed methods include space mirrors – satellites equipped with large reflective surfaces – and cloud brightening, where microscopic particles are sprayed into clouds to make them more reflective.

The most commonly discussed SRM technique is stratospheric aerosol injection (SAI) – the release of particles into the upper atmosphere to recreate the cooling effects observed following volcanic eruptions.

SRM is so controversial it’s sometimes called the “Voldemort of climate policy”. While it could reduce global temperatures, it does not limit carbon emissions, and the ecological effects of deployment are uncertain.

Some critics are worried a potential techno-fix will deter mitigation efforts. Others point out the risks of “termination shock”: once implemented, ending SRM would cause abrupt temperature rise. Scientific research suggests the strong warming experienced since 2023 is likely a case of inadvertent termination shock. When new fuel regulations reduced sulphur dioxide emissions from international shipping, the rapid warming that followed revealed this pollution had, incidentally, been cooling the planet.

At present, SRM inhabits an international and domestic policy vacuum. Many scholars advocate for a ban on both research and deployment, saying these technologies “play God” with nature. We argue a ban on research is no longer tenable.

Why challenge the taboo?

The case for taking SRM seriously does not usually rest on enthusiasm for the technologies, but on global warming’s grim reality. We are approaching planetary tipping points such as significant polar sea ice retreat, the death of the Amazon rainforest and widespread coral reef loss. SRM advocates say it should be viewed as a complement, not an alternative, to mitigation: a means of limiting the extent and duration of temperature overshoot while decarbonisation continues.

Government appetite for this approach is limited and patchy. When the UN Environment Assembly discussed a Swiss proposal for SRM research in 2024, countries could not agree even on whether and how to regulate research in this area. Countries such as Japan and Saudi Arabia pushed for ongoing research, while vulnerable Pacific and African countries argued against any language that risked endorsing the practice.

Nowhere is the politics of SRM more volatile than the United States. One group of Republicans reject the climate change “hoax” but is so convinced SRM is already happening that many Republican states have criminalised it. Some think tanks advocate SRM as a way to defend “American Weather Sovereignty”. NASA has an exploratory program investigating space-based reflective dust clouds. For now, the Trump administration has not chosen a side, but it’s easy to imagine a future administration unilaterally blocking, or implementing, SRM.

If we don’t challenge the SRM taboo, self-interested actors are poised to fill the policy vacuum. Elon Musk has recently spoken out in favour of SRM, while ventures such as the US-Israeli startup Stardust are pursuing research without public oversight.

What is Australia’s position?

Australia has no policy on SRM research or deployment, but federal government funds have supported related research into local interventions, including the Reef Restoration and Adaptation Program (RRAP). This trialled the world’s most respected marine cloud brightening research over the Great Barrier Reef.

Existing environmental and climate law might regulate risks posed by small-scale research, but does not consider the larger risks of eventual deployment. With the exception of some ad hoc efforts, SRM research is not subject to any dedicated ethics framework.

The planetary scale of SRM impacts means we urgently need research to consider the geographic distribution of benefits and harms from any deployment, and the security implications of unilateral deployment by any state or private actor.

What should Australia do?

As a trusted middle power, Australia is well positioned to help lead discussions on the future of SRM. At a minimum, Australia should assess the potential impacts of various options on Australia’s climate, agricultural production and natural environment, and develop a public position on research.

Waiting until a foreign government or well-resourced private actor forces the issue would leave Australia reacting to decisions made elsewhere. Instead, we should prepare for the surprises a fast-moving, under-governed field is likely to produce.

As temperature overshoot becomes an inevitability, SRM is emerging as a new element of international climate policy whether we like it or not. We do not argue anyone should deploy SRM, but that we should break the taboo and enable responsible scientific research and public deliberation.

Jan McDonald, Professor of Environmental Law, University of Tasmania; Jonathan Symons, Director of Research and Innovation, School of International Studies, Macquarie University; Manon Simon, Researcher in Climate Intervention Law and Governance, University of Tasmania; Matt McDonald, Professor of International Relations, The University of Queensland, and Rachel Neef, Research fellow, Faculty of Law, University of Tasmania

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

After months of gas industry pushback, the federal government has made sensible changes to its much-vaunted gas reservation policy.

Instead of forcing gas exporters to supply 20% of their export volumes to the domestic market, they will be made to supply “up to” 20%, with the precise amount set each year based on domestic demand. These details are in the newly released draft legislation.

This has been seen as a concession in the face of an intense industry backlash. But it’s not a concession at all – this is how the scheme was originally designed to work.

As I argued in July, the 20% figure was always a ceiling, not a floor. Both supply of and demand for gas will fluctuate over time, and the resources minister needs to be able to respond to that.

The scheme lets the minister decide how much gas to reserve each year, up to the cap, based on the market’s needs. Even Australia’s gas and oil peak body calls that “sensible”.

But there are still big questions over key elements of the design.

A carve-out for one producer?

One especially controversial element of the scheme is the minister’s power to reduce domestic gas obligations for individual companies.

This rule has divided the industry because one of the three east-coast exporters – GLNG – is unique in having signed contracts to export vastly more gas than it plans to produce until at least 2036.

Under the proposed law, the minister can reduce obligations on an individual company if meeting their obligations would require them to break their export contracts and if they are taking “active steps” to try to deliver domestic gas.

How this power is exercised in practice remains to be seen. The minister could use it to effectively exempt GLNG – or another producer – from domestic gas obligations.

An oversupplied market?

The government has not budged on a key element of its design: its supposed aim to push down prices by engineering a “modest oversupply” of gas.

Despite initially supporting the gas reservation, in recent months, domestic-only gas producers have pulled their support for the scheme over this proposal.

Their concern is that forcing an oversupply of gas into the market would force gas companies to sell gas below cost, making production unviable. This concern is not unfounded.

But again, the proposed legislation offers little clarity on what will actually happen in practice.

The minister will have the power to set the “oversupply” percentage each year somewhere between 0% and 10% of demand. In an east coast market using about 450 petajoules, that represents a huge range – anywhere from zero to 45 petajoules.

The government should cap this at 5% and codify how it will be set each year.

A truly national scheme?

The proposed gas reservation will really be two separate schemes – one for the east coast and one for the west. This is because the two systems are not physically connected and because Western Australia has long had its own scheme.

The obligations for each exporter will be set based on the demand in their system, not the nation as a whole. No one will be made to ship gas between coasts.

But in the hours since the draft legislation was released, the resources lobby in WA has rejected the goverment’s push to include the west. This is because the national scheme would be much stricter than the state’s scheme and would likely force WA exporters to deliver more domestic gas, more often.

Whether WA escapes the new tougher rules remains to be seen. Under the proposed rules, the federal resources minister can decide to reduce domestic gas obligations in recognition of existing state policies. This gives the minister carte blanche to exempt WA – or not. No one has any idea which way that decision will go.

A driver of decarbonisation?

The reservation law specifies that extracting gas from the ground is not the only way exporters can meet their domestic gas obligations.

First, they can also produce renewable gases such as biomethane, which can be collected from food waste or wastewater. Biomethane offers a critical way for many manufacturing businesses to decarbonise. Australia produces almost no biomethane at present. If the reservation policy creates demand for biomethane, it could accelerate this critical new industry.

Second, gas exporters can use demand reduction to meet their legal requirements. For example an exporter could fund a manufacturing business to electrify a gas boiler, permanently reducing demand for gas.

Designed right, the reservation could be a driver, not a dampener, on the shift to clean energy.

What problem is this meant to solve, again?

Gas is in structural decline in Australia.

The use of gas to generate electricity in the National Electricity Market has fallen by two-thirds over the past decade. Demand for gas on Australia’s east coast fell 6% last year alone – largely due to big batteries pushing out gas peaking plants. The number of households using gas for cooking and heating is now shrinking.

Despite declining demand and bountiful supplies of gas, Australia still risks running short. The energy market operator is still warning of looming shortfalls on both the east and west coasts.

In part, this is because traditional east coast supplies – the Bass Strait gas fields – are close to empty. But a bigger reason is the fact that 80% of all gas produced in Australia is exported.

East coast gas exports only really began in 2015 when three giant LNG export plants opened on Curtis Island, near Gladstone in Queensland.

Because they can attract much higher prices selling gas to international customers, exporters have strong financial incentives to export gas instead of selling it to domestic customers.

So the goal of the gas reservation is a to deliver enough gas to avoid shortfalls, and keep prices low, without slowing the phase out of gas in Australia.

Is this a good outcome?

The government has framed these laws as sensible. This is largely correct.

They will let the government of the day ensure the domestic market is well supplied without risking heavy-handed intervention that could tank the industry.

Whether it works or not will comes down to how the minister of the day chooses to use it. With the scheme not due to start until 2028, we may still have a long wait to find out.

Hamish McKenzie, Deputy Program Director, Energy and Climate Change, Grattan Institute

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Gas is now flowing from the Beetaloo Basin, a vast fossil fuel project roughly 500 kilometres southeast of Darwin in the Northern Territory.

The basin is one of Australia’s largest onshore gas reserves, which the NT government estimates is capable of producing 430 trillion cubic feet of gas.

The Beetaloo is producing its first round of gas amid fanfare about the amount of royalties it could bring the NT. Proponents say the basin could generate more than A$17 billion and support 13,000 jobs over the next two decades. Already, there is talk of the economic opportunities that come with cheap energy, including powering energy-hungry data centres with shale gas.

For those who have long hyped the Beetaloo’s economic potential, this is welcome news. For scientists, environmental groups and communities around Australia and the world bearing the brunt of global warming, it represents a “climate bomb”.

Remind me, what is the Beetaloo Basin?

The Beetaloo Basin is a vast, sparsely populated stretch of rolling plains that covers 28,000 square kilometres between Katherine and Tennant Creek.

In terms of gas reserves, the Beetaloo is bigger than Western Australia’s North West Shelf project, the nation’s largest fossil fuel development which accounts for more than 40% of Australia’s oil and gas production.

The Beetaloo Basin is covered with pastoral leases and different forms of Aboriginal tenure. Some of this tenure is the NT’s Aboriginal Land Rights Act land, which provides fairly strong rights for Traditional Owners. But most of the Aboriginal title in the basin is federal native title tenure that does not allow Traditional Owners to veto resource extraction.

Over several years, the developers of the Beetaloo – who now include Beetaloo Energy, Tamboran Resources and Santos – reached agreements with the Traditional Owners to frack their Country. But whether these agreements mean Traditional Owners actually consented to this fracking is hotly contested, given the Native Title Act is notorious for forcing Aboriginal groups into agreement.

Drawing in the dollars

The federal and territory governments have forked out significant money for the Beetaloo project.

At least $220 million has come from the Commonwealth. Meanwhile, the NT government has underwritten a $7.5 million loan to Tamboran Resources, a gas company found by a 2021 Senate inquiry to have then “paid no tax” in Australia. Other gas companies have also benefited from government largesse including Beetaloo Energy Australia, which received $15 million in taxpayer funds in 2024 alone.

The government has backed the Beetaloo for a range of reasons, including its potential to bring much-needed investment and jobs to the region.

However, it is extremely unlikely the project will deliver on these promises. A federal report, released only under freedom of information laws, found the benefits for Traditional Owners are “uncertain and variable”.

Not worth the hype

The climate crisis means the Beetaloo Basin project has two critical drawbacks.

A ‘stranded asset’

In this context, a “stranded asset” is a fossil fuel project – such as a coal mine or gas pipeline – that quickly loses its value because of the global transition away from fossil fuels. Research suggests demand for liquefied natural gas will decline as early as the mid-2030s. This, combined with dubious employment benefits, means the government is highly unlikely to get a good return on its Beetaloo investments.

An unliveable region

Recent research shows fracking in the Beetaloo would produce the equivalent of up to 49 million tonnes of carbon dioxide each year – about 11% of Australia’s total emissions in 2021. What’s more, Beetaloo gas projects are only required to offset 5% of their emissions with carbon credits. That’s nowhere near enough to compensate for the environmental damage they will cause.

Climate forecasts suggest many parts of the NT will become unliveable within decades, due to the lethal heat caused by climate change. The NT News headline, “NT will be cooking with Beetaloo gas”, sums this dilemma perfectly, if accidentally. The irony of this headline won’t be lost on anyone who is familiar with the science.

No amount of jobs or money can compensate for this devastating future. By turning on the Beetaloo tap, we risk watching the climate crisis worsen before our very eyes.

Lily O'Neill, Senior Research Fellow, Melbourne Climate Futures, The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

From poems to films and books of history, horses feature widely in Australian popular culture.

Feral horses, also known as brumbies, are descendants of domesticated horses that now live and breed independently in the wild. For some people, these horses are a cherished part of Australia’s cultural heritage. For others, they represent a major threat to the environments they inhabit.

Yuraygir National Park, on the coast of northern New South Wales on Yaegl and Gumbaynggirr Country, is a stunning landscape where you can see coastal emus and spot migrating whales from the shore.

It is also home to a small feral horse population that is now at the centre of a legal dispute. The final hearing, taking place on Wednesday, could have repercussions far beyond feral horses.

What is this dispute about?

In late August, feral horse advocates began urgent proceedings in the NSW Land and Environment Court. They argued the National Parks and Wildlife Service does not have the legal authority to kill feral horses in Yuraygir.

The National Parks and Wildlife Service had been using aerial shooting, ground shooting and trapping to manage feral horses, as well as feral pigs, deer and foxes. It has now agreed to suspend activities until the final hearing on September 9.

To date, the court has not ruled the proposed operations are unlawful. Rather, the current suspension gives the NSW Department of Climate Change, Energy, the Environment and Water time to ensure necessary approvals are in place so staff can continue working towards the goals of the Yuraygir management plan. These include controlling feral animals and restoring native vegetation.

A controversial topic

Feral horse control has long been a source of heated debate. For many people, it is more controversial than the management of other invasive species, such as deer and foxes, because horses are more culturally cherished. Lethal control is also associated with animal welfare concerns, including stress during pursuit and the possible risk of non-fatal wounding.

However, there is a strong ecological case for controlling feral horses. As large, hard-hooved, introduced grazing animals, feral horses can inflict significant damage to Australian ecosystems. They trample plants, compact soils, erode stream banks and disturb wetlands. This endangers many native species that rely on these fragile habitats, some of which live nowhere else. So feral horses must be managed with the same planning and urgency as other invasive animals.

Evidence suggests aerial shooting by professionals under strict protocols does not affect the welfare of feral horses. For example, independent veterinary assessments of recent operations in Kosciuszko National Park uncovered no welfare-related incidents.

A park worth protecting

Yuraygir National Park encompasses an extensive network of coastal lagoons, freshwater wetlands, saltmarshes and wet heaths that support an array of threatened animals. This includes the green and golden bell frog (Litoria aurea), the wallum froglet (Crinia tinnula) and the Olongburra frog (Litoria olongburensis).

However, these environments are among those most vulnerable to grazing and trampling. This is because their soft, often waterlogged soils and delicate vegetation are easily damaged by hard hooves. Feral horses can compact and churn up soil, increase erosion and muddy water, while destroying the shallow pools and vegetation that frogs use for shelter and breeding.

Beyond frogs, feral horses trample the nesting grounds of threatened shorebirds, such as the little tern (Sternula albifrons), pied oystercatcher (Haematopus longirostris) and critically endangered beach stone-curlew (Esacus magnirostris). Because these birds nest in shallow scrapes on the ground, horses could crush eggs or chicks and disturb nesting adults. Grazing and trampling may also reduce the dense vegetation relied on by species such as the eastern ground parrot (Pezoporus wallicus wallicus).

The current shooting suspension also delays control of pigs, deer and foxes, other invasive species that damage wetlands and native vegetation or prey on native wildlife. Yuraygir’s management plan identifies fox control as vital to protecting little terns, beach stone-curlews and coastal emu chicks.

So this legal dispute, while focused on feral horses, may have much broader ecological costs.

Early action is key

Control may seem unnecessary given there are relatively few horses in Yuraygir. However, research suggests the opposite is true.

Studies consistently show it’s often easier and cheaper to control small, localised populations of invasive species than larger, widespread populations. Delaying action gives animals time to reproduce, establish new populations and expand their geographical range. Management then becomes more difficult and expensive. It is also more likely to require repeated killing.

Kosciuszko is a case in point. Since late 2023, when aerial shooting was reintroduced to Kosciuszko National Park, thousands of feral horses have been removed. However, population numbers have stayed high and ecological damage remains widespread. This is partly because horses can breed quickly and move into controlled areas from surrounding land, particularly when management pauses.

There is still time to stop this happening at Yuraygir. For now, we await a decision from the NSW Land and Environment Court. But to safeguard this sacred landscape, we must protect it from the hard hooves and hungry mouths of feral horses.

Patrick Finnerty, Postdoctoral Research Fellow in Conservation and Wildlife Management, University of Sydney and David M Watson, Professor in Ecology, Charles Sturt University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

For thousands of years, human urine has had real value.

After our bodies absorb nutrients from our food, they excrete the rest – mainly via urine. An adult produces about 500 litres a year. This liquid gold is very rich in nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium, three compounds vital for plant growth.

Ancient civilisations from Greece to China to Rome used it as fertiliser for crops, alongside faeces.

Synthetic fertilisers have largely replaced natural fertilisers such as urine. Half the world’s population now relies on food grown using synthetic fertilisers. Urine is still used as fertiliser by smallholder farmers who cannot afford synthetic fertilisers or want a sustainable alternative.

This year, the Iran war has made synthetic fertilisers more expensive. If the era of cheap fertilisers is ending, urine-based fertilisers could make a comeback. Call it “peecycling”.

Of chamber pots and nightsoil

Before modern toilets, humans were a lot more intimately acquainted with the waste they produced. Peasants and smallholders would store their collective waste in cesspits. In cities, people used privies or chamberpots.

As cities grew, so did the volume of waste. While people slept, nightsoil workers would go door-to-door collecting human waste. Often, it would be transported for use on farms.

In the 19th century, modern central sewage greatly improved sanitation and cut rates of infectious diseases. But it also changed how we thought about pee and poo from resource – to waste.

From guano to synthetic fertilisers

During the 19th century, nations competed to gain access to a new source of fertiliser – guano, the compressed, nitrogen-rich droppings of seabirds. But the resource was limited. Guano islands were progressively mined out.

In the early 20th century, chemists invented synthetic fertilisers as an alternative.

These fertilisers boosted crop yields. But they also created new social and environmental problems.

Synthetic nitrogen fertilisers are produced using the industrial Haber-Bosch process. It uses lots of energy and relies on natural gas, a potent fossil fuel.

Synthetic phosphorus fertilisers are made by treating phosphate rock, a finite resource mined in only a few places. One of the largest reserves is in Western Sahara, a disputed territory long occupied by Morocco.

If synthetic fertilisers are applied at scale without good nutrient management, they can trigger toxic algal blooms and mass fish kills.

Fertiliser shocks

Australian soils are heavily weathered and nutrient-poor in most places.

To produce as much food as it does, Australia has to import 3.5-4 million tonnes of synthetic fertilisers every year. Almost no fertilisers are produced locally.

Relying on global markets works when times are good. But at a time of escalating global shocks, it is a huge vulnerability.

One answer could be to look for sustainable local sources of nutrients for the plants we depend on – such as urine.

Flushing liquid gold?

Urine represents less than 1% of all wastewater, but contains almost all its nitrogen and half its phosphorus.

Once mixed with wastewater, these nutrients are much harder to access.

To get enough urine to make fertiliser would involve using separate plumbing in homes, public toilets and at events. Urinals are an existing source.

When mixed with wastewater, the nitrogen in urine can turn into nitrous oxide, a potent greenhouse gas, or ammonia. Wastewater plants release the greenhouse gas emissions equivalent of the global aviation industry.

If urine is diverted from wastewater, authorities could save on wastewater treatment – and cut emissions.

How do we capture urine?

At a small scale, raw urine can be captured using specialised urine-diverting toilets or urinals. Urine can be applied directly to your home garden, as long as sensible guidelines are followed.

To scale up urine-based fertiliser, we will have to tackle bigger issues such as the chance of pathogens and pharmaceuticals being found in urine, as well as inconsistent plumbing codes.

These can be managed with the right treatments and governance.

Urine nations?

Urine fertilisers have gained popularity in recent years.

In the United States, the Rich Earth Institute has lead community peecycling programs for over a decade. In Europe, Swiss startup VunaNexus uses diverted urine to make a sustainable fertiliser.

Sporting arenas in the United Kingdom, Sweden and South Africa are trialling the approach. And in Australia, researchers are trialling urine fertilisers in Brisbane and Sydney parklands.

One of the biggest barriers to scaling up urine-based fertilisers is the ick factor. Some people find the idea gross.

Fortunately, this can change. Researchers have been testing ways to challenge the stigma around urine. Our new podcast examines how rethinking the humble toilet can turn waste into fertiliser.

For centuries, people saw urine as the vital resource it is. The fact we can help grow crops using something from our bodies is remarkable. In an increasingly uncertain world, it might well be necessary.

Jordan Roods, PhD candidate in Sustainability, University of Technology Sydney and Kerry Tozer, PhD candidate in Sustainability, University of Technology Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Imagine you’re halfway through your annual wheat harvest when a global crisis sends diesel and fertiliser prices soaring. All at once, your costs surge and your slender profit margin shrinks.

Are there alternatives? Increasingly, the answer is yes. Putting solar on the shed roof or an unproductive field could help keep the farm running.

In August, the federal government announced it would lift the cap on the long-running small-scale solar subsidy from 100 kilowatts to one megawatt – a size well suited to larger energy users, such as big farms.

If this plan comes into effect, it should reduce installation costs by about 20%, saving an estimated A$68,000 on the installation of a 250 kW system.

This could make larger solar systems more appealing for more farmers, reducing electricity costs and boosting energy self-reliance in the bush. It’s not yet possible to be fully self-reliant, as electric tractors and heavy machinery are still emerging. Anti-renewable sentiment in some communities could also be a challenge.

How far can farms go?

If farmers have the space and funds to build a large solar array, this may make sense as a first measure. The ability to produce low-cost electricity opens up many more options – especially if paired with energy storage such as batteries, so power can be stored and used later.

Some farms are shifting to hybrid models, where solar and batteries are integrated with farm equipment and a backup generator to form the farm’s own microgrid.

What about fuel? Right now, Australian farms are highly reliant on diesel. This energy-dense fuel supplies about 84% of the energy used on Australian farms.

Diesel powers harvesters and tractors. But it also runs water pumps and power generators. Over time, farmers can replace broken pumps with electric options and run their operations on solar power.

Much more can be done. This year, AgriFutures Australia laid out a roadmap for farming and other primary producers to shift from diesel to electric options.

Are farms actually doing this?

These technologies are already in use.

New South Wales almond operation Cadell Orchards has long been off-grid. Until recently, its irrigation pumps were powered by diesel generators. But diesel was getting too expensive and a grid connection wasn’t viable. As Australian Farming Services CEO David Armstrong said:

we couldn’t stay on generators forever … it just wasn’t feasible [and] the variability of costs is too great

Instead, the agribusiness installed a microgrid with over 8,000 solar panels and a battery. The goal is to produce over 85% of its own power.

To avoid the upfront cost, the business didn’t buy the whole system. Instead, an energy company owns and maintains it, while the orchard buys the power.

Some farmers have taken up “agrivoltaics”, which means combining farming and solar panels. Fields can carry more sheep and produce more and better wool, according to some farmers. This is because solar arrays provide shade and can help the ground retain moisture longer.

Tractors, harvesters and speed bumps

Small electric tractors are becoming available for smaller-scale jobs.

But large battery-powered tractors and harvesters aren’t ready for prime time yet, as diesel packs more energy by weight than today’s batteries by a wide margin.

There are other challenges too. Large electric machines would likely have to recharge during the working day, meaning charging infrastructure might have to be located near fields. Farmers often put in long hours to bring the crop in. Stopping for long recharges could interfere with time-sensitive crop harvesting.

The AgriFutures roadmap predicts stationary equipment such as pumps will electrify first, while liquid fuels will remain important longer.

Solar paired with batteries can keep a farm running overnight or during cloudy periods. But if dark, cloudy days drag on, it may be time to bring out the generator.

For some businesses, a battery may not stack up financially.

Even free sunshine can hit a roadblock. After Queensland cotton farmer Ian Brimblecombe installed a large solar system, he began saving about $60,000 a year. But power network rules restricted how much electricity he could export or move between pump stations.

It’s not all or nothing

Over time, more farms will produce more of their own energy. But there’s no silver bullet, and the shift will take place in fits and starts.

Some farmers may find it viable to produce their own biodiesel from oils or waste fats to keep existing machinery working.

For farmers to get the most out of clean energy, they will need dependable equipment, affordable finance, local technicians and guidance from people they trust. These aren’t always easy to access.

Some rural communities are sceptical about large-scale renewable projects and new transmission lines, often due to a perceived city-country divide. Campaigns against new solar, wind or transmission projects often focus on the impact on the landscape and distrust of far-off authorities. False claims are common. This may slow the shift towards energy self-reliance.

Over time, we may see this resistance become more nuanced. Some farmers may keep opposing large-scale projects, while moving to install their own systems.

New incentives may sweeten the deal too. We’re unlikely to see the farm diesel tank disappear any time soon. But we are likely to see many more shed rooftops covered in panels – and new ways to make use of clean, cheap power from the sun.

Md Alamgir Hossain, Senior Lecturer, Electrical and Electronic Engineering, University of Southern Queensland and Shahbaz Mushtaq, Director of the Centre for Applied Climate Sciences, University of Southern Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Squinting through my binoculars, I scanned the dense branches of a black spruce, trying my best to catch a glimpse of the thin legs of a small black, white and yellow songbird. I was on the hunt for a yellow-rumped warbler – a bird affectionately called “butter-butt” by bird-watchers after the distinctive buttery yellow patch of feathers above its tail.

Once I spotted a flash of red on one of the bird’s legs, I knew that this individual was special – in fact, it was one that I already knew well. That’s because I had placed identifying bands on it the previous year as part of my Ph.D. research, and it was carrying a very important piece of new technology.

I played the high pitched “warble” of its song through a speaker placed below a mist net of fine, nearly invisible mesh. Thinking another male had intruded on his territory, the bird quickly descended. My tactic worked – he got caught in the net. As I gently removed him, I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the Tic Tac-size device sitting on his back.

Over the past year, this warbler carried a multisensor geolocator backpack throughout his migratory journey, recording the long trek from his breeding grounds in Anchorage, Alaska, to a yet unknown winter refuge and back again. Working with my Ph.D. adviser, evolutionary biologist David Toews, I deployed dozens of these cutting-edge tags to illuminate the migratory journeys of these high-latitude breeding warblers at a scale not previously possible for small birds.

Now, after a year of waiting, I finally had the data in hand.

How can scientists track small birds?

Researchers began tracking the movements of migrating birds in the late 1960s using radio telemetry, a technique that requires tagged birds to be physically followed with receiver equipment, sometimes aided by a small aircraft.

Then, as GPS became more widely available in the early 2000s, satellite tags let researchers accurately track birds remotely. However, GPS transmitters are hefty – even just the battery that powers them is too heavy to be carried by the majority of small migratory songbirds, which often weigh less than a spoonful of sugar.

To address this problem, researchers developed ingenious little light-level geolocators. These miniature tags minimize weight by containing only a tiny battery, clock, computer chip and light sensor. They store data internally rather than transmitting it – hence my need to recapture tagged birds a year later. Researchers infer a bird’s locations from the timing of sunrise and sunset, which vary predictably across the globe and throughout the year.

Light-level geolocators have opened new windows into the migrations of small birds, but they also have limitations: Their estimated locations can err by hundreds of miles, and this uncertainty becomes impractically high around the equinoxes, when day length is the same worldwide.

More recently, researchers developed a newer method of geolocation that uses atmospheric pressure to circumvent these limitations. When a bird ascends during a migratory flight, a barometric geolocator records a steep drop in air pressure, capturing the timing of departure and arrival for every stop along a bird’s migration route. In between flights, the pressure the tag records reflects the elevation at the bird’s position.

Knowing the bird’s elevation helps to narrow down possible locations, which researchers can then refine further by comparing the change in pressure over time recorded by the tag to global weather data using the computer program GeoPressureR. The unique pattern of rises and falls in pressure acts as a kind of pressure fingerprint for a specific location. Including light and wind data in the model of the bird’s movements can increase precision even more.

New tech answers an old question

We used these new multisensor backpacks to study the migration patterns of myrtle warblers, the northern subspecies of yellow-rumped warbler, which breed across North America’s boreal forest. Myrtle warblers in the northeast are known to winter along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts, but where northwestern populations migrate has been more of a mystery. In 1899, ornithologist Richard McGregor observed myrtle warblers wintering in coastal California, and hypothesized that these birds might breed in Alaska and British Columbia.

Using these new tags allowed us to test whether warblers breeding in Anchorage, Alaska, actually followed the shortest migration route to winter in California. To our surprise – and probably to McGregor’s as well, if he were still alive – we found that all the birds we tracked traveled east across the boreal forest of Canada before shifting south to the Gulf Coast – certainly not the Pacific Coast route we expected.

All told, this 6,800-mile (10,900-kilometer) round-trip journey was much longer than we anticipated for a species commonly considered a short- or medium-distance migrant.

Why take such a circuitous route?

The long, seemingly suboptimal route taken by our Alaskan myrtle warblers is actually mirrored by some other songbird species tracked from northwestern North America, including blackpoll warblers and Swainson’s thrushes.

Part of this pattern may relate back to the glaciations that isolated ancient populations of birds millions of years ago. The thinking goes that as these glaciers spread, they squashed the ranges of formerly northern species into the south. Then, as the glaciers slowly receded, the forests gradually reexpanded.

As more land opened up, birds moved farther north and west into that habitat. Each season some birds went a little farther as the forest available in their northern breeding grounds expanded. For migratory species such as myrtle warblers, the farther north and west their breeding range expanded, the longer the migration to their southern wintering ground became.

Scientists think migration routes are genetically encoded. The birds’ genes may have traced this expansion front, like Hansel and Gretel putting down breadcrumbs as they journeyed deeper and deeper into the forest. Today’s migration routes still trace that incrementally expanded path, even though the glaciers that shaped the original boundaries are long gone.

We’re still not sure exactly where the California-wintering myrtle warblers spotted in the 1800s are breeding. We suspect that a small proportion of the Anchorage-breeding birds may migrate to California, but that most of them travel from more distant, unstudied regions of Alaska or Yukon. Future research, potentially tagging myrtle warblers directly on the California wintering grounds, will shed more light on this population and why certain individuals follow a different migration route.

Barometric geolocation provides new data

Today, this new geolocation approach improves scientists’ ability to study the migrations of small birds and supports more effective conservation actions across the course of the entire year. More precise location estimates help researchers identify key stopover and wintering sites in need of protection and better understand the threats birds face throughout their journeys. These geolocators also reveal the altitude of migratory flights, which is important for understanding the risk of birds colliding with buildings or wind turbines.

Because these new tags capture pressure data for every migratory flight, they’re especially valuable for studying migration timing. Researchers have combined data from over 50 bird species to understand at what time of day or night different birds migrate. Now, as a postdoctoral researcher at the Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center, I am integrating multisensor geolocator data with satellite imagery to investigate how arrival and departure decisions throughout a bird’s migratory journey relate to seasonal changes in plant growth.

Scientists have now tracked dozens of bird species with multisensor geolocators, and that number increases every year. Each mapped migratory journey improves our understanding of how small birds migrate, what factors shape their movements and how best to protect them.

Stephanie Szarmach, James Smithson Postdoctoral Fellow, Smithsonian Institution

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Saltwater isn’t something most people associate with English farmland. But in parts of eastern England, it’s becoming a growing problem, and not just for crops, but for farm incomes too.

In our new study focusing on Greater Lincolnshire, one of the UK’s most productive agricultural areas, we found that rising sea levels and more frequent flooding are pushing salt onto some of the country’s best farmland.

This isn’t just about crops struggling to grow. The real story is an economic one. Salt in the soil is changing which crops actually make money, and in some cases wiping out profits entirely.

Most studies on salinity look at what happens in the field. For example, how plants respond to increasing salt concentrations, how yields fall and how soils degrade.

We have been researching the problem from a farmer’s perspective. What happens to their income? How does risk change? And crucially, what can farmers grow instead when conditions shift?

To answer these questions, we combined maps of crops, land quality and flood risk with farm-level financial data and simulated what happens when salinity increases. The results were clear. Every major crop loses money as salt levels rise.

Some crops are hit much harder than others. Potatoes take the biggest losses, largely because they are expensive to grow, so when yields fall, profits collapse quickly. Crops like beet and oilseed also see large declines. Even cereals, which are generally more resilient, are not spared.

But the most important shift isn’t just that profits fall. It’s that the whole system changes. Under normal conditions, farming works with a kind of pecking order whereby some crops deliver high returns, others are safer but less profitable.

Salinity flattens that hierarchy. Instead of clear winners and losers, most crops end up clustered together in a lower-return, higher-risk situation.

One crop consistently stands out: winter wheat. It still suffers losses, but it holds up better than the others, making it the most reliable option as conditions deteriorate. In practical terms, that means farmers may increasingly fall back on it as their safest choice.

This matters because the places most exposed to saltwater flooding, especially the low-lying Fenlands, are also some of the most productive farmland in the UK. So this isn’t about marginal land becoming less useful. It’s about some of the country’s agricultural heartland coming under pressure.

There’s another complication. Salinity doesn’t just disappear when the floodwater drains away. Salt builds up in the soil and can linger for years, quietly reducing productivity over time. That makes it a slow-moving problem, but one with long-lasting consequences.

Over time, this could narrow farmers’ choices. Instead of a diverse mix of crops, more land could shift toward a smaller number that can cope with salty conditions. That has implications not just for farm incomes, but for food production and resilience more broadly.

Salty shifts

So what can be done? In the short term, adaptation is likely to mean shifting toward more resilient crops. Barley is already relatively salt-tolerant. Some wheat varieties cope better than others, and farmers are starting to move in that direction where risk is lower.

There is longer-term potential in crops that actually thrive in salty conditions, known as halophytes, edible saltmarsh plants like samphire. These are grown in the UK, but mostly as niche, high-value foods rather than mainstream crops. Scaling them up would require investment, new markets and changes in farming systems.

Our findings show that salinity isn’t just another environmental challenge. It’s a slow, structural pressure that changes how farming works. It affects not only yields, but decisions such as what farmers plant, how they manage risk and how land is used.

We’re not yet at the point where UK farming can switch to salt-proof crops. But the pressure from salinity is growing, and could push both crop choices and agricultural innovation in that direction over time.

Saul Ngarava, Postdoctoral Research Associate, Natural Sciences, University of Lincoln; Daniel Magnone, Associate Professor in Physical Geography, University of Lincoln, and Eric Ruto, Senior Lecturer in Economics, University of Lincoln, UK, University of Lincoln

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Archaeopteryx is an icon of evolution and is often called the first bird. Scientists have long debated just how it took off from the ground but a recent study published by my colleagues and I has brought new insights to the mystery.

Our study compared Archaeopteryx with the anatomy of modern birds, and our findings suggest it generated the force needed to take off by taking several jumps forwards.

Archaeopteryx, a fossil uncovered from the Jurassic rocks of Germany, dates back 150 million years. It was covered in feathers and it had wings. But it retained a number of distinctly dinosaur features such as a long bony tail, claws on separate fingers and teeth in a beakless jaw.

Charles Darwin predicted, in the first edition of On the Origin of Species published in 1859, that fossils would later be found linking major groups of animals. A year after publication a feather, and within two years, an entire skeleton of Archaeopteryx had been discovered, showing clear links between birds and the dinosaurs. Archaeopteryx is one of those transitional forms that links one group to another.

The “first bird” was not perfectly developed, as birds have evolved to be today. We would not expect them to be. It had relatively weak flight muscles, with no keeled sternum for strong muscle attachment, and could not have raised its wings above the horizontal.

Rather than call it the first bird, it is better to describe it as the earliest branching species, yet known, on the lineage of birds after the whole bird group split from non-avian dinosaurs some time more than 150 million years ago.

In 2016 my friend Colin Palmer asked a colleague, Markus Heller (professor of biomechanics) and me to join him in exploring a tricky problem: how did early birds slip the bonds of Earth and take to the sky?

Palmer had been working on the flying cousins of dinosaurs, the pterosaurs for over a decade, and also a peculiar (although now one among several known) four-winged, feathered and flying dinosaur called Microraptor. However, pterosaurs are not dinosaurs and Microraptor is a dinosaur closer to Velociraptor (small meat-eating dinosaurs) than to birds.

There have been a number of suggested mechanisms for the evolution of flight and takeoff, quite literally from the ground up, or the trees down, to flapping while running to climb a slope. The problem is that these are difficult to test experimentally. So we turned instead to the best example of takeoff there is: birds themselves.

Palmer had already filmed a number of birds, out of curiosity. As some other scientists had observed, but had never followed up, Palmer saw that they all showed the same sort of pre-takeoff behaviour. Two leg jumping. The wings appeared to do little in getting the bird off the ground, and this opened up some possibilities for research into the earliest of birds.

The ancestors of birds, the theropod dinosaurs, had powerful legs. They could definitely jump, and jumping could provide an important evolutionary advantage. Being able to get out of the way of a hunter, and maybe adding in a flap of your feathered arms to extend your leap, might just save your life.

The first bit of this research, which we carried out with then undergraduate student Erik Meilak, was developing a means to see how much force the hindlimbs of birds generate in getting off the ground. We used a force plate (a modified kitchen scale) and a Raspberry Pi computer controlling some high-speed photography, along with CT scanning of the skeleton to see exactly how bones were articulated. We worked out how magpies got off the ground. They used their legs as the primary generator.

This undergraduate summer project became a fully-fledged PhD project, with Meilak looking at several birds such as starlings and crows. We worked with evolutionary biologist Pauline Provini in Paris who had done work with doves and finches, demonstrating how all of these birds used their legs in takeoff.

And with detailed kinematics, all of the forces and moments generated by the muscles around the hindlimb joints, we fitted the model to Archaeopteryx and looked to see if the first bird could get into the air in a similar way to modern birds.

Archaeopteryx is by definition 150 million years behind the “leaps” of modern birds, and couldn’t take off as we had observed modern birds do when startled, explosively, with a single jump and then add flapping into the sky. Archaeopteryx couldn’t do that, and as I said couldn’t rely on its wings for powerful flaps. So we had asked what its legs could do. And like birds today, when taking off more leisurely, we demonstrated that Archaeopteryx could have got into the air with two leg leaps. Archaeopteryx could have used three jumps increasing in velocity, and once airborne its flapping wings could have maintained a flight speed of 7 metres per second.

However, if Archaeopteryx had added in a flap, it would have got to that speed – jump-flap-jump – with just two leaps. And all this without the highly evolved and flight-adapted anatomy of pigeons, crows, hawks and even chickens.

In the future we may find a fossil that is still a bird rather than a non-avian dinosaur, but is less, well, “birdy” than Archaeopteryx, and then that would become the earliest branching taxon. But we haven’t yet. So Archaeopteryx still sits on its perch as the first bird that we know of.

Neil J. Gostling, Associate Professor in Evolution and Palaeobiology, University of Southampton

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.