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Sunday Spinelessness – Lazy Link Blogging Edition David Winter May 20

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I though I’d do something a little bit different today. Instead of coming up with anything new to say or show you I’m going to steal from give a shout-out to a few New Zealand organisations that highlight  some of the amazing ways that spineless creatures get on with business of living.

Let’s start with Landcare Research (Manaaki Whenua), the Crown Research Institute that focuses on bioiversity and environmental issues. As you’d expect, Landcare do lots of work on invertebrates an that’s refelected in their public face. Their “What is this bug?” site is a great starting point for anyone trying to put a name to some weird critter that’s crawled out from the garden, and topic pages on some of our most interesting creatures (Onychophora, stick insects and our amazingly diverse moth fauna) make for a nice introduction to these groups.

The Landcare site I really want to pull out for special focus is their recently developed guide to freshwater invertebrates. Freshwater invertebrates are often use as “indicator species”. Because certain groups of stream invertebrates are very susceptible to pollution or changes to a stream’s natural flow, the presence or absence of these groups in particular stretch of water can give us an idea of the health of that water. In order to help community groups or landowner monitor their streams, Landcare has produced some beautiful photographs of stream invertebrates (along with information on how to sample them, and how well each species acts as an indicator). You really should check out the whole site, because some of them are quite beautiful, I’ll just give you a taster here:




Left: Kempynus lacewing sporting some impressive ‘tusks’. Right: Head shot of the larvae of an Onychohydrus diving beetle. Both images © Landcare Research


The other Crown Research Institute with a special interest in biodiversity is NIWA (the National Institute of Water and Atmosphere, if really wanted to know), who have a particular focus in the strange and wonderful creatures that live in the deep seas. NIWA scientists were part of the team that pulled up those mega-amphipods and I’m really pleased to say they have a great Facebook page dedicated entirely to their invertebrate collection. The NIWA Invertebrate Collection page has recently featured Phronima (one of favourites), Nematodes (perhaps the most under-studied group of animals on earth) an cold-water corals. Again, I encourage you to check out (an follow!) the page, but here are a couple of recent photos to entice you:




Phronima having recently evacuate its salp (© Owen Anderson). Tiny octopus! (photo from Ocean Survey 20/20)

Finally, let’s leave the Crown Research Institutes behind and go to Massey University and “Soil Bugs: A guide to New Zealand’s soil invertebrates“. Soil bugs is run by Dr Maria Minor and contains information and photographs of some of the thousands of species that live in the soil, leaf litter and rotting logs that cover the floors of our forests. Soil invertebrates a hugely important animals, being as they help to release the nutrients locked up in dead wood, but I’ve gone on about that plenty of times. So let’s look a couple of my favourites GIANT Springtails and native land snails:

Left: Holacanthella spinosa Right: Flamulinna zebra. Note, these images are © Massey University, and premission sought be sought to use them elsewhere.


Sunday Spinelessness – Each thing by its right name David Winter May 06

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In Dr Zhivago Boris Pasternak describes an epiphany that sneaks up on one of his characters thus:

For a moment she rediscovered the purpose of her life. She was here on earth to grasp the meaning of its wild enchantment and to call each thing by its right name…

It’s probably not spoiling the story to tell that Lara doesn’t dedicate her life to taxonomy at this point of the novel.I can’t say I really know what Pasternak was getting at with these sentences, but I’ve always liked them because they really do describe the driving force that makes taxonomists and lovers of natural history seek to understand and even name the wild diversity of life on earth.

I’ve recently learned the name of two species that turned up on these pages unnamed. So, let me introdue you to Thalassohelix igniflua (last seen in “they’re alive!”):

And Phenacohelix pilula (seen in Incertae sedis)

The drive that naturalists feel to call each thing by its right name can seem oddly obsessive to people that aren’t pulled by the same forces. But species are the fundamental units of biodiversity, and thus a natural point of comparison for studies in ecology, evolution and many other fields. If we want to understand biology we need to know about species, and if we want to know something about a species the we need to have a name that uniquely identifies that species in any scientific work. The species above got its name from Lovell Reeve and, being a New Zealand endemic invertebrate, only a little information has been tacked on that name since. Even so, knowing the name of this species is enough for me to learn that it is widespread across New Zealand, and down here in the southern end of the South Island it can co-exist with a close relative called P. mahlfelda. (From this last fact we can infer that it’s likey that P. mahlfeldae and P. pilula occupy slightly different ecological niches, as it is generally though two species can’t co-habitate while trying to take up the same sopt in nature’s economy).
I can also look at an unpublished study by the late Jim Goulstone, who collected snails from all around Dunedin and the surrounding patches of bush, and learn that its a bit of a surprise that our urban garden (we are 400 m away from the Octagon, Dunedin’s answer to a town square) has such a thriving population of this snail. Goulstone only found P. pilula at two sites in Dundedin, both in old-growth forests on the slopes of Mt Cargill. In both of those sites he only records one shell for P. pilula. Land snail distributions are notoriously patchy, but it’s still interesting to wonder how what seems like a fairly rare and habitat-restricted species ended up as the only native land snail in our garden. 

Sunday spinelessness – live-bearing land snails David Winter Apr 29

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People seemed to like the idea of a marsupial land snail, so today I thought I’d go one step further, and introduce you to land snails that give birth to live young. 
I was lucky enough to spend a little time in Vanuatu a while ago, and, although I was really there to relax and see in a new year, I couldn’t travel that far and not spend a little of my time looking for snails. As it turns out the island on which we stayed  is heavily modified, and there is not much natural habitat left for native land snail species. In fact, the only really interesting snails I found were living on the side of our host’s house. I collected a few of those snails, transported them to the fridge in our lab and forgot about them for the best part of year.
More recently it dawned on me that these snails would be useful for a project I am working on, so I grabbed them from the fridge, set them up under the microscope ready to dissect away a tissue sample for genetic work and saw this:
 

Embryos developing inside the shell of their mother. 
We sometimes think of live-bearing as being a trait that sets the mammalian branch of the tree of life apart from other animals, but that’s wrong. Most of the major groups of animals have some species that give birth to live young – there are live-bearing frogs, snakes, lizards, insects, fish, crustaceans and star fish. In fact, the only large group without live-bearing species that I can think of is birds (and, it seems, dinosaurs, a group that contains birds). Most land snails lay a clutch of many eggs, each containing a single-celled zygote which is left to develop on its own. A few species, like theses ones, have evolved a different reproductive strategy: producing fewer eggs than their relatives, but retaining those eggs within their shell before giving birth to much more developed young.

This behaviour seems to be particular common in snails that live in rocky outcrops, and those that live in the tropics, especially the Pacific. I’m not sure about what species the snail depicted above fall into – but they are from the sub-family Microcystinae, which is one of the dominant groups of land snails in the Pacific and is made up entirely of live-bearing species. The large evolutionary radiations that used to live in Hawai’i and the Society Islands were also all live-bearers.

So why give birth to live young? It is easy to see why live-bearing is an advantage to snails living in rocky habitats with few places to deposit eggs. It’s less clear why the Pacific is full of live-bearers. It has been suggested that tropical weather can lead to unpredictable patterns of boom and bust – with snails that can hold on to and grow their offspring in the bad times and release them “ready to go” when conditions are better having an advantage over egg-layers. As far as I know no one has ever come up with a way of testing that idea, so the reasons for the prevalence of live-bearers in the Pacific remains an open question.

Sunday Spinelessness – What’s brown and sticky? David Winter Apr 22

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Yup, I’m continuing with last week’s theme of terrible jokes. Of course you know the punchline for this one, what’s brown and sticky? A stick:

Both the objects in that photograph are brown and fairly sticky, but the one in the background is a bit more interesting.

That’s not a stick – it’s an insect doing a very convincing impersonation of a stick. Stick insects ( ‘walking sticks’ in North American, Phasmatodea everywhere in the world) are among the most impressive mimics in the biological world. As you can see, their bodies mirror the tiniest details of the plants they live on – right down to having stems and buds. The stickyness of stick insects goes deeper than their remarkable appearence – they also act like sticks. The rigid pose you see above is the result of my disturbing this one while trying to take a photo. The insect was so dedicated to its role I could easily pick it up and place it on its leaf while it maintained its spread-eagle pose.

A few minutes later it was on the move:

I don’t know what species we are looking at here. There are about 20 named species in New Zealand, though that is probably an underestimate of the true diversity. There seems to be lots of interesting biology going on among those species – species with sexual and asexual populations, a genus that arose by hybridisaton and one genus known only from two specimens. It’s possible this one is Niveaphasma annulata - a species that has patchy distribution across much of the southern half of the South Island and is pretty common in and around Dunedin. What ever the species name, here’s the beast making a bid for freedom from the faked-up leaf litter I put together for this little photo-shoot:

Sunday Spinelessness – Flightless flies David Winter Apr 15

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What do you call a fly with no wings? If you are someone’s Dad you are probably compelled to answer “a walk”, but, in fact, there are hundreds of species of fly that have given up on flight. What do you call a fly with no wings? Well, it could be a female phoird, or a hippoboscid, or perhaps a Mystacinobia. So here’s a brief survey of a few flies that have taken a brave stand against nominative determinism and given up on flight.

So what is a fly

You might be wondering how you can given the name “fly” to a flightless creature. Taxonomic groups reflect the evolutionary history of life. So for instance the great ape family contains orangutans, gorillas, humans and chimps because all these species descend from a shared common ancestor. When entomologists talk about “flies” they are referring to the taxonomic order Diptera – a group of insects that share a common ancestor that lived approximately 250 million years ago. Of course, organisms don’t come with little tags telling us where they came from, it’s the job of taxonomists to find characters that can be used to reconstruct that evolutionary history. The character that most sets flies apart from other branches of the insect tree of life is the presence of “halteres” – the stubby yellow structures  this predatory robber fly is modelling (more on that fly here).

Diptera means “two winged” and the name refers to the fact that most flies get about with one pair of wings, having reduced their second set into the flight-satablising halteres. This little innovation has allowed dipterans to become precision fliers, and one of the most successfully groups of organisms on earth with about 150 000 species (maybe 10% of all species are flies).

The true flies in order Diptera all descend from an ancestor which flew with two wings, but many of the species that descend from that ancestor have given up their wings. Because taxonomic groups are reflections of evolutionary history even wingless species are still flies – you can call them the apterous members of Diptera (wingless two-winged insects).

Flightless hippoboscids

Flies in the family Hippoboscidae are blood suckers. Many of these parasites fly from hosts to host, but a number of species have become so intimately associated that they’ve given up on flying – moving from one animal to another only while those hosts are in physical contact. The flightless hippboscids are generally called “louse flies” or “keds” and the most well known examples include species that specialise in drinking from pigeons, cattle and sheep. 
The “sheep ked” was once considered a pretty serious pest in New Zealand, but evidently it has been controlled thanks to “dip” and “pour on” insecticides that lambs are treated with. Besides the direct impacts, hippoboscids are potentiral vectors for blood borne disease, they have been implicated in the spread of avian malaria and are suspected for spreading other dieases. 

Bat flies, Bat flies, Bat flies

Bats seem to attract flies like… well they seem attract flies. At least three different lineages of flies have evolved a close relationship with bats. The largest group are, unsurpsingly, called “bat flies” (the taxonomy of this group is uncertain, but it includes the family Nycteribiidae). I have a soft-spot for most bugs, but even I have to admit bat flies are pretty gruesome looking creatures:


 Photo is CC 2.0 by Gilles San Martin

The bat flies have lost their eyes as well as their wings, by have made up for those loses in other body parts. The massive spider-like legs end in tiny claws that let the flies grip on the bat’s fur and move about. Once stuck on a bat these flies drink blood.


 

The fauna of New Zealand is very keen of flightlessness. Charasmatic mega-fauna like moa, kiwi and kakapo are the obvious examples, but we are also one of only two places on earth to have flightless perching birds (our three wrens are now extinct, as is the Canary Island Bunting). There are no truly flightless bats, but our short tailed bat is probably the closest thing – spending most of its time crawling around the forest floor. Our terrestrial bat hosts its own flightless flies. Apparenlty Mystacinobia zelandica descends from a blowfly but its association with the short talied bat has changed its body so greatly that is was not originally considered to be a fly at all, and thought to represent a unique order of insects. I couldn’t find any photos of Mystacinobia avaliable with a permissive license, but check out the New Zealand Geographic story and Te Ara’s article, which even has a video.

Mystacinobia has been placed in a family that is endemic to New Zealand, but there is one fly family with an even more restricted range. As far as we know, the family Mormotomyiidae is represented by a single species (Mormotomyia hirsuta) which is only known from a particular site in on one mountain in Kenya. As you may have guessed the site is a bat roost, and the animal, despite being only distantly related to the other bat flies discussed above, has taken on the spidery form that is associated with flies that spend their lives with bats.

 
Photo AFP

Mormotomyia doesn’t have the hooks that other species use to cling on to bats, so it may be a little more free-living than than the species discussed above.

Phorids

The family Phoridae might be the strangest group of flies . Hell, one genus is made up entirely of flies that burrow into the heads of ants, decapitate them, and use the severed head as a cocoon.

Photo from USDA (public domain)

Those flies can fly, but there is a phorid species within an even stranger life history. Male Aenigmatias lubbockii looks like a prefectly normal, albeit tiny, fly:

 
The female is something all together different:

A.lubbockii is a parasitoid of ants, the females live within an ant nest and lay eggs in the ants pupae. It is though that the rounded body, with relatively few jointed segments for ants to hang on to, helps them move around within a nest. But, of course, for that to work females need to be able to move on from the nest in which they are born. That’s where the winged male comes in, Alubbockii males airlift their females into ant nests. The males pick up females and carry them, mating on the wing, before dropping them off to infiltrate a new nest.

So, so many more

I’m going to end this brief survey of here, but I want to emphasise that these are just a few of the flies that go against their name. I could have talked about “snow fleas“, or “bee lice“,  in fact the flylogeny project records about 40 families with at least some flightless members. When the Daily Mail ran a story on the rediscovery of the Kenyan bat fly Mormotomyia hirsuta one of that newspaper giant page-view creating algorithm’s readers felt they needed to add this opinion to the ensuing discussion:

That looks nothing like a fly. How come this evolved into a ‘walk’ ? It makes no sense. If I could fly I wouldn’t evolve into something flightless. Evolution is flawed

I’ve heard some interesting critiques of evolutionary theory, but a lineage not evolving in the way a particular person would in the same situation might be the strangest. Even comical misunderstandings of evolution give us an insight into more common ones, and I’m sure this commenter’s confusion arises from a widespread “cartoon” version of evolutionary biology, in which changes within lineages is always progressive and moving towards more and more complexity. The “walks” discussed above, and the many more that I skipped over, are a good reminder that the only metric in evolution is “what works”. When these species took up lifestyles that don’t require wings they soon lost them – either because maintaining  wings and the muscles required to drive them was a cost they could profitably avoid, or because the “stabilising selection” that protects useful features from the ravages of mutation was no longer present.



The description and photos of A.lubbockii came from

Dupont S, Pape T. 2007. Fore tarsus attachment device of the male scuttle fly, Aenigmatias lubbockii. 8pp. Journal of Insect Science 7:54, available online: insectscience.org/7.54

Sunday Spinelessness – A marsupial snail David Winter Apr 01

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I never thought I’d become a fan of land snails. As I’ve said before, I started my PhD with the quaint idea that you could study a  group of organisms for years and still regard them as little bags of genes with no particular importance beyond their ability to help you answer questions. Perhaps that’s true for some people and some animals, but not me and snails. I’m now a card-carrying member of the land snail fan club, and take every opportunity to remind people of the amazing lives these creatures lead.

Snail shells are beautiful. You don’t need to know anything special about biology or maths to see that:

Nature Pattern

But, as is so often the case, the more you learn about snail shells the more beautiful they become. I’m not much of a mathematician. To be honest I find a lot of maths to be a horribly complex, and seemingly arbitrary, and I could never really follow it past basic algebra. Still, every now and again I’m struck by the beauty of a system that can explain parts of reality with such ease (and by envy for those who can see so much deeper than me). The mathematical description of snail shells is one of those cases in which the maths is easy enough for me to understand, and so I can appreciate the elegance.

The simplest way to model a snail’s growth would be to say it adds its shell at a constant rate. In that case, we could know the size of a shell at any given time (x) using the exponential function ex (e being the base of the natural logarithm, which you can think of as the base unit for any pattern of continuous growth). You can  probably remember the exponential function from high school maths, it’s the one that gets big quickly:

 

The exponential function can tell us how big a shell gets, but of course, shells don’t simply grow, they also spiral at the same time. If we want to model both the growth and the spiral pattern of a snail’s shell we need to leave our familiar “x,y” system of placing points (called the Cartesian coordinate system) and think in “polar coordinates”.

Just as any point in a two-dimensional space can be identified by its distance from another point along horizontal and vertical axes (x and y), it can also be identified by its angle and distance from another point. Think about a point at x=3 and y=2, you can just as easily, and just as uniquely, identify that point with polar-coordinates:

Using polar coordinates it’s very easy to write an equation that describes the growth of a snail shell:

r = e k.θ 

Here “θ“ (theta) is an angle relative to the starting point, “r” is the amount of growth the spiral has made by the time is swings around to that angle and k determines the “tightness” of the spiral the shell forms. I was playing around with Wolfram Alpha in preparation for this post, drawing spirals with different values of k, when I came across this spiral at k = -0.2:

I know that shape, that’s a Wainuia shell!

 

 With a little bit of tweaking you can make a paua (= -0.6) or something close to a tightly-turning charopid (k = -0.1).

Just changing one parameter in a pretty simple equation is enough to produce spirals that fit most snails’ shells. In fact, spirals like these ones, which are called logarithmic spirals, pop up in nature all the time – from the arms of galaxies to the nerves in your eyes. Logarithmic spirals have some pretty cool properties, the most interesting of which is that not matter how large they grow they ever change shape. A snail that grows according to these equation will be the same shape from the day it’s born to the day that it dies.

If you know a bit more maths you can extend these models into a third dimension and, with one more parameter, create flat disc-like shells or tall conical ones. I think it’s truly amazing that you can get a good approximation of snail shells using so few parameters – but it’s worth remembering mathmatical constructs are just models we use to examine reality. David M. Raup got a bit carried away with the mathematical description of shells in the 1960s, and created what he called the “museum of all shells” by exploring the three dimensional shapes you could make by tweaking just three parameters in a model of shell-growth. But Raup’s virtual musuem doesn’t include all the shells that snails can grow. Biology is weird, and any “law” that a biologist might claim to have discovered will have an exception. None of the shells above quite fit the spiral I’ve super-imposed on them, and some snails grow shells that radically deviate from logarithmic growth . My favourite example of such a radical departure are the “worm snails“, marine snails that cement the apex of their shell to a rock then grow an almost un-coiled tube of a shell.

Worm snails grow in way that is radically different from most of their close relatives, but more subtle deviations from logarthmic spiralling are just as interesting. Remember these guys?

 Libera fartercula are one of a great deal of snails that change shape as they age. Very young shells have a very broad opening (an umbilicus) on the underside:

As the shell get’s bigger, the opening to the umbilicus gets smaller…

…and smaller.

Of course, the original “wide” umbilicus is still part of the older shells. In effect, this pattern of growth creates a cavity within the shell which has lots of space at the top, but a very narrow opening. Amazingly, L. fratercula is a marsupial snail. Over the course of its growth this species creates a pouch within its shell, which it then lays its eggs in, protecting them from would-be predators who can’t get inside the narrow opening.

Land snails usually don’t do much for their young. A few snails lay extra large clutches, so that the first of their offspring to emerge will have eggs to eat before they set off on their lives. Others hang on to their eggs, either within their shells or withing their body. Libera fratercula takes parental investment to a much greater level. Here’s an older shell:

Most of the larger shells from this species show this sort of damage. When you zoom in on the damage you can see a slighltly irregular pattern.

These holes are creatued by immature snails emmerging within the brood pouch and eating their way out of their parent’s shell. Such damage doesn’t seem to kill the snails – they effectively wall-off the first few whorls of the shell once they are large enough, so there is no animal within the part of the shell that is broken.

I can tell you  a lot more about these snails. Allen Solem described the “brood pouch” and a little of their ecology in 1968, but he worked from old shells and no one has studied their behaviour in situ to be able to measure the impact of this strange adjustment to snail-life has on parents.


The shell photographs onto which I’ve super-imposed the sprials are all Creative Commons Licensed courtesy of Te Papa 1,2,3.

Sunday Spinelessness – Looking into the sprial David Winter Mar 25

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Next week’s post is going to be really good, but it’s also going to be next week. Here’s a little taster of a post I didn’t leave myself a enough time to write today – a close-up of of the shell of native (Allodicsus sp.) land snail:

 

A snail’s shell is a complete record of that shell’s growth. If you look closely at this photo, you can see that the raised pattern on the shell (the “sculpture”) changes. The inner-most coils have “spirals” that run in the same direction as the growth of the shell, while the outer shells have “ribs” that run across it. The point at which this pattern changes marks the end of the snails embryonic growth (called the protoconch) and the beginning of its juvenile and adult growth (the teleoconch). There isn’t always a change in sculpture at the point the protoconch gives way to teleoconch, but there is usually some sort of demarcation. 
The shape, size and sculpture of snail shells is an important character for the taxonomy of snails – this one is about 0.8 mm wide, which, combined with the sparse spiral pattern it bears fits with the desctiption of A. kakano.

Check out Aydin Orstan’s post about the protoconch and a few other useful terms for describing shell shapes.

Sunday Spinelessness – Gotcha! David Winter Mar 18

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I only have moment to spare today, so I thought I’d share a life and death moment from the garden.

The fearsomely-spiked creature photographed above is the larva of a ladybird (that is, a beetle of the family Coccinellidae), specifically the New Zealand and Australian native species Apolinus lividigaster. It’s meal is an ahpid, though I couldn’t tell you which species.

Learning that ladybirds are vicious predators (adults have more or less that same tastes as their larvae) might go some way to undermine ladybirds’ status as a “cute” insect that escapes the “yuck” reaction so many of their kin seem to evoke. But it’s worth remembering that ladybirds are very useful. Most species specialise in eating plant-sucking insects like aphids and scales, and so can be a boon to gardeners. On a larger scale, predatory ladybirds are often introduced as “biological” control to help keep pest numbers low. 

Sunday Spinelessness – Libera fratercula David Winter Mar 11

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If you are a cricket fan you’ll know what sort of weather we’ve had in Dunedin – wet and grey with a chance of denying New Zealand a glorious victory.* The gloomy picture outside the window is made worse for by the fact I’ve spent most of the afternoon sorting through pictures taken for my fieldwork in the Cook Islands. So, between the carefully numbered photographs of the snails that went on to be the basis of my thesis I’m met with scenes from a tropical paradise:

There are also some interesting critters in the “official” photos – like this snail:

That’s Libera fratercula Pease, 1867 and if you believe that subspecies are a meaningful category you can call in Lfratercula rarotongensis Solem, 1976. The genus Libera is part of one of the most important land snails families in the Pacific – the Endodontidae. These tiny snails (most have shells only a few millimeters across) are found on most islands in Pacific and in some cases underwent very large evolutionary radiations. In fact, there were so many species that Alan Solem seemed to have trouble coming up with names for them in his 1976 monograph . Solem introduced the genera Aaadonta and Zyzzyxdonta (so named because he believed them to be morphological opposites, which should appear at opposite ends of his work) and named one species Baa humbugi (the genus named for a part of Fiji and the species name the result of an “irresistible impulse”).

It’s not really possible to write about Pacific land snail faunas in the present tense – it’s quite likely most of the species Solem described are now extinct as the result of habitat destruction and introduced pests. In the Cooks there were two major radiations, the Sinployea and Minidonta of Rarotonga, both now severaly eroded. The Cook’s Libera are less diverse, but also have an interesting evolutionary history. There are forest-dwelling Libera species in many islands in the SW Pacific, and Rarotonga was no different with one species L. cavernula making its living in the vegetation. Libera fratercula (the handsome species photographed above) appears to be the closest relative of L. cavernula (that is, the two species arose within Rarotonga) but at some stage this lineage gave up on forest and started living on the beach. Specifically,  L. fratercula lives in the piles coral rubble that accumulate on Rarotonga’s beaches, having been broken away from the island’s fringing reef. This is a harsh environment, with changes in temperature, saltiness and moisture occuring all the time – but the switch appears to have worked out for L. fratercula, which still has quite large populations around island whereas L. cavernula is now missing presumed extinct.

Rarotonga has plenty of coral rubble, but the other islands in the Southern Cook Islands are basically made of coral rubble. Mitiaro, Mangia, Atiu and Mauke are all small islands that have already gone through the all the steps of the typical life cycle of a pacific island: a fiery birth as a volcano; subsequent erosion into an ever smaller,  flatter island; treading water as an atoll and finally dipping below the surface for ever. The islands of the Southern Cooks got another shot at life when, about 2 million years ago, fresh volcanic activity lifted the crust on which they sit and thrust the fossilsed remains of their coral reefs above the surface. These so-called makatea islands have no shortage of coral rubble and the Rarotongan L. fratercula populations live in just the right place to be swept out to sea. It seems that, among the thousands of snails that must have died having been washed out to sea, at least a few washed ashore on the makatea islands and took advantage of all that coral.  Libera fratercula has made it to each of these smaller islands and they each have (or at least have had) populations of this species.

There’s on more really cool think about about L. fratercula – but I’ll have to wait until I take a few more photos (sadlt no field work required) to talk about that one. Here’s a close up for the mean time:


*Hey, I can dream….

Sunday Spinelessness – How could I forget Phronima? David Winter Mar 04

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I don’t know how, but the other week, when was I trying to introduce the world to some of the ways those crustaceans we call amphipods have adapted to life on earth, I missed perhaps the coolest example of all. Phronima is an amphipod that builds itself a house from the remains of another animal.

Thankfully, other people done a much better job of celebrating these animals than I might have. Matthew Cobb wrote an article on them for Why Evolution is True, focusing especially on the salp whose body is stolen to form Phronima’s house (you may be surprised to learn how closely related salps are to us).  Mike Bok wrote a post about Phronima and the (perfectly plausible) idea that this creature was an inspiration for the design of the queen from Aliens. Finally, a clip from the extraordinarily awesome Plankton Chronicles series lets you see what I’ve been going on about with your own eyes:

Be sure to check out the rest of the videos in the series, which includes the flying snails I’ve blogged about before, a focus on salps in their own right, lots of jellies and all sorts of other wonderful creatures.