A man who died in a Romanian cave about 40,000 years ago carried more Neanderthal DNA than any other human ever sequenced, ancient or modern. His jawbone turned up in Peștera cu Oase, and when geneticists analysed it the result was startling: between six and nine per cent of his genome came from Neanderthals. Because those segments were still long and unbroken in his chromosomes, researchers reporting in Nature could work out that he’d had a Neanderthal ancestor only four to six generations back.
He was simply closer to the event than anyone alive today.
For most of the twentieth century the textbook story was replacement. Modern humans left Africa, Neanderthals died out, end of chapter. Anatomists had spent decades staring at skull shapes and reaching opposite conclusions from the same fossils. That held until 2010, when a draft sequence of the Neanderthal genome, assembled by Richard Green, Svante Pääbo and a large team from bones found in Vindija Cave in Croatia, showed that Neanderthals shared more genetic variants with living Eurasians than with living sub-Saharan Africans. Their estimate put the Neanderthal contribution to non-African genomes at one to four per cent.
Sixteen years of better data have tightened that figure rather than overturned it. Most current estimates sit closer to one or two per cent, with East Asians carrying about a fifth more than Europeans.
How long did the two species actually overlap before Neanderthals disappeared? Two papers published on the same day in December 2024 finally gave a precise answer. A study in Science, led by Leonardo Iasi and Manjusha Chintalapati, compared 58 ancient Eurasian genomes against 275 present-day ones and dated the average moment of mixing to about 47,000 years ago, with gene flow continuing for some 7,000 years. A companion analysis, published in Nature, examined 45,000-year-old remains from Ranis in Germany and Zlatý kůň in Czechia and traced the archaic stretches in those genomes to a single admixture event between 45,000 and 49,000 years ago, shared by every non-African sequenced so far.
Seven thousand years is a long time to call an encounter. It is longer than everything that has happened since the first cities of Mesopotamia.
“These deserts may have formed very rapidly after the gene flow,” Leonardo Iasi, one of the authors on the Nature paper, told UC Berkeley. He was describing what he and his colleagues call Neanderthal deserts, long stretches of the modern genome where archaic DNA is completely absent. Ancient human genomes from roughly 40,000 years ago already show no ancestry in those deserts, which is what led him to that conclusion. Read plainly, it means certain Neanderthal variants were harmful enough in a modern human body to be scrubbed out within a few thousand years.
The Oase man makes a similar point from the other end.
For all his recent Neanderthal ancestry, his population left little genetic trace in later Europeans.
Picture Neanderthal DNA as a jigsaw dropped and scattered across a crowd. No single person holds more than a sliver, but the crowd between them is still carrying a fifth of the picture. That is roughly what Benjamin Vernot and Joshua Akey found, writing in Science in 2014, when they sifted the genomes of 379 Europeans and 286 East Asians and recovered Neanderthal sequence covering roughly twenty per cent of that species’ entire genome.
There is a second archaic contributor in the mix too. Priya Moorjani of UC Berkeley, a senior author on the 2024 Science paper, is now studying people of East Asian descent, who carry both a larger Neanderthal share and up to 0.1 per cent of their genome from the Denisovans, a population known mainly from a handful of bone fragments and an enormous quantity of statistics.
Some of the surviving Neanderthal DNA is doing useful work. The variants that reached high frequency cluster around immune function, skin pigmentation and metabolism, which fits a group that had spent a few hundred thousand years adapting to Europe’s winters and its pathogens before anyone else showed up.
Some of it is a liability. In a paper published in Nature in 2020, Hugo Zeberg and Svante Pääbo showed that the strongest genetic risk factor then identified for severe COVID-19 was a stretch of roughly 50,000 bases on chromosome three, inherited from Neanderthals and carried by about half the population of South Asia and around sixteen per cent of Europeans. One paper, one chunk of chromosome, and the biology behind it is still being argued over. The provenance, though, is not really in dispute.
Extinction normally means a line stopping. Neanderthals did stop existing as a distinct population, around 40,000 years ago, and no amount of genetics changes that. What the genetic evidence changes is the shape of the ending. A population that dies out and a population that gets absorbed look much the same in the fossil record and nothing alike in the genome.
That leaves an odd little fact sitting in the middle of human prehistory. The last Neanderthals were not necessarily childless. Some of them had children, those children had children, and the arithmetic has been running quietly ever since, through a few hundred million bedrooms, down to whoever happens to be reading this.
The post Modern humans interbred with Neanderthals before they disappeared, and most people of non-African ancestry still carry roughly 1 to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA today — meaning part of the human population we once thought we simply replaced never actually vanished appeared first on Space Daily.
Kiruna’s church went for a walk in August 2025, at half a kilometre an hour, on 224 wheels.
The trip took two days and included a daily stop for fika, the Swedish afternoon coffee break, because some traditions outrank engineering schedules. One driver steered the entire building with a handheld control box across roughly twelve hours of travel, along a route crews had spent months preparing. The Associated Press, in coverage carried by CTV News, reported that a main road was widened from nine metres to 24 and a viaduct was dismantled to clear a new intersection. State-owned mining company LKAB, which paid for the whole performance, lists the church at 672.4 tonnes and 40 metres across. Thousands of people stood in the wind to watch a building do the one thing buildings are designed never to do.
Norwegian contractor Veidekke built the road the church rolled along and the foundations waiting at the far end, as documented by Dezeen. It was not the first tenant to make the trip. By July, AP counted 25 buildings already jacked onto beams and wheeled east, with 16 still queued behind them.
Beneath the town sits the largest underground iron ore mine on the planet. White Arkitekter, the practice behind the masterplan for the new city, describes daily extraction as the equivalent of six Eiffel Towers of ore, and notes that two thirds of Kiruna’s residents depend on the mine for work. Digging began in 1910. The church was completed two years later, a gift from the company, built on a hill so the congregation could look out over the town the company had also built.
Take enough rock out from under a place and the rock above fractures, sags and follows the hole down. Crews are now working towards a main level 1,365 metres deep, and the surface has been reporting back for years in split walls and buckled roads. In 2004 LKAB told the municipality that the centre would have to be picked up and shifted east, since the alternative was to stop mining.
Sweden chose the mine.
The company’s own accounting is blunt about the scale. LKAB estimates that at least 3,000 dwellings are affected, 6,000 residents must move and 450,000 square metres of floor space stands in the way, with roughly a third of the urban centre inside the affected zone. The replacement centre opened in September 2022. Per France 24, shifting the church alone carried a price tag of 500 million kronor, about 52 million US dollars.
Then came the sequel. LKAB has since published an expanded impact area that adds a further 6,000 people and 2,700 homes to the queue over the next decade, and CNBC has put the company’s estimated compensation costs across that period at 22.5 billion kronor, roughly 2.4 billion dollars.
Not all of it reads as loss. The Institution of Civil Engineers treats the relocation as a rare chance to redraw a city from scratch: a denser centre planned around good lighting through the long polar dark, 3,000 new homes, and streets arranged so nobody lives more than three blocks from open country. The same assessment records that the rebuild has squeezed Sami reindeer herders, who were working the land long before LKAB arrived.
Lars-Marcus Kuhmunen chairs Gabna, the reindeer-herding Sami community whose grazing corridors have already been carved up by the mine, the railway and the town. Speaking to Swedish public broadcaster SVT, he said a new mine at the Per Geijer deposit would mean the end of reindeer herding as they know it, because the ore sits beneath the last narrow passage his herds use between seasonal pastures.
Per Geijer is the reason the arithmetic keeps changing. A report by the Stockholm Environment Institute, covered by ArcticToday, found the project carries significant risk of breaching the Indigenous rights of Sami community members, in the words of senior research fellow Rasmus Kløcker Larsen. That is one institute’s assessment rather than a court ruling, and permitting has years to run. The deposit holds 1.2 billion tonnes of mineral resources including 2.2 million tonnes of rare earth oxides, which is why the European Union has flagged it as strategically important for cutting its dependence on Chinese supply.
Reindeer, unhelpfully, cannot be rerouted by memo.
Henning Larsen’s circular town hall anchors the relocated core, and the church is due to reopen at its new address, between the cemetery and the new town centre, in 2026. Parts of the stone wall that ringed the old site will be moved across to join it. Where it used to stand becomes a mining town park, kept as a quiet green space until the ground beneath it is needed, at which point the fences go up and the park goes the way of the neighbourhood.
Kiruna has become very good at a peculiar skill: treating permanence as a logistics problem with a budget attached. Beams, jacks, 224 wheels, a control box and a coffee break. A church can be lifted onto a trolley and driven down the road. A migration route cannot.
The post Sweden is moving parts of an Arctic city because decades of iron mining are deforming the ground beneath it — in 2025 a 672-ton church was placed on giant transporters and rolled five kilometers to the new city center appeared first on Space Daily.
Bar soap moved a lighthouse. Crews smeared ordinary Ivory soap along the steel beams the tower rode across, because it turned out to be the ideal lubricant for a job involving thousands of tons of creeping brick, a detail recorded at the time by the Lighthouse Directory.
Everything else about the job was considerably less homely.
When Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was finished in 1870, it stood a comfortable 1,500 feet from the Atlantic. Then Hatteras Island did what barrier islands do, which is travel. Storm tides strip sand off the ocean side and dump it on the sound side, and the whole island shuffles westward, a process the National Park Service traces back at least 10,000 years.
The island moved. The lighthouse stayed exactly where the builders left it.
Underneath sat yellow pine timbers resting in fresh water on compacted sand, a floating foundation improvised because pilings could not be driven through hard sand barely eight feet down. Ingenious for 1870, and considerably less reassuring once the surf reached the door. By the late 1990s the ocean had closed to within 60 feet of the base, per the park service’s account of the light station, and decades of groins and sandbags had mostly made the erosion worse.
Very slowly, and with an enormous amount of hydraulics.
Crews cut the tower free of its foundation, all 4,830 tons of it by the park service’s own retrospective, and replaced it with a grid of seven main beams, each 70 feet long and weighing 11 tons, fitted with 100 hydraulic jacks, as documented by Island Free Press. Those jacks raised the lighthouse 5.34 feet, just enough to slide roll beams underneath and give it a road. Horizontal push jacks then nudged the tower forward about five feet, backed off, shifted position along the beams, and pushed again, a sequence the park service sets out in its move FAQs. Each shove took about a minute, in coverage by the National Parks Conservation Association, and beams the tower had already passed over were carried round to the front to extend the track.
Progress ran to roughly 100 feet a day, with crowds cheering pushes that were barely visible to the naked eye, as Our State magazine later described the scene.
Twenty-three days, 2,900 feet, $11.8 million, and one American Society of Civil Engineers award the following year. International Chimney Corp of Buffalo held the contract. Expert House Movers of Maryland did the shoving.
None of this was settled quietly. Relocation had been on the table since the National Academy of Sciences recommended it in the late 1980s, and North Carolina State University reached the same conclusion in a review published in January 1997, as Coastal Review later recounted, but plenty of locals were convinced the tower would shake itself to rubble halfway down the track. Congress funded the move anyway in 1998. The lawsuit that followed now sits in an administrative record held by the State Archives of North Carolina, a tidy paper monument to a very loud argument.
The tower now stands about 1,500 feet from the water, the same margin it enjoyed in 1870, and should not be threatened again for something like a century, according to the State Library of North Carolina’s history project on the relocation.
Nearby property has fared worse. At least 32 privately owned beach homes have collapsed onto Cape Hatteras National Seashore since 2020, most of them at Rodanthe and Buxton, with the latest counted by National Parks Traveler in June. Each one brings a notice from Cape Hatteras National Seashore warning visitors about nail-studded debris drifting for miles down the beach. Superintendent David Hallac has pointed out that earlier generations built smaller and shifted buildings when the surf came for them, which is a polite way of saying the island never agreed to stay still.
Scaffolding went up in 2024 for what was meant to be an 18-month restoration costing $19.2 million, and the work has turned up something awkward. Crews expected 30 to 40 cracks in the cast-iron brackets carrying the gallery deck near the top. They found 116, spread across all 16 brackets, Stone & Lime superintendent Josh Brundige told a media tour in July, in reporting by Outer Banks Insider. Most were hidden under seven layers of brick, and the documentation of them predates the 1999 move.
Nobody can say what caused the cracking. Brundige offered thermal expansion and water damage as candidates, with generations of whale oil flame heating the lantern room and winter cooling it down again.
So the lantern room is currently missing from the tower altogether, a temporary beacon is doing the work, and the repair has added about a year and $10 million, taking the project to roughly $30 million. Moving a lighthouse five feet at a time was, in the end, the easy part. Whatever quietly split the ironwork at the gallery deck was already there, decades before anyone thought to look.
The post When Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was built in 1870, the Atlantic sat about 1,500 feet away, but by 1999 the ocean had crept to within 60 feet — engineers lifted the entire lighthouse and moved it 2,900 feet inland, five feet at a time appeared first on Space Daily.
Lake Peigneur, in the Cajun country of southern Louisiana, was a modest body of water with an unusual basement. The lake itself was about 1,300 acres and only ten or eleven feet deep — a placid fishing spot beside the Rip Van Winkle Gardens. Beneath it, however, rose the top of a salt dome, and inside the dome the Diamond Crystal Salt Company had been mining since 1919, carving out cathedral-sized galleries that by 1980 descended fifteen hundred feet, some of them running directly under the lake bed.
Two industries, stacked vertically, each aware of the other. Everything depended on the maps.
On the morning of November 20, 1980, a crew contracted by Texaco was probing for oil from a drilling rig floating on the lake. At around 430 feet down, their 14-inch drill bit stuck, the rig began to tilt, and the drillers — suspecting nothing worse than a collapsing borehole — evacuated to shore.
By most accounts, their position was off by roughly 400 feet. The bit had gone through the lake floor and into the third level of the mine.
What followed remains one of the most surreal industrial accidents ever recorded, and it unfolded with the logic of a bathtub.
A 14-inch hole should not drain a lake quickly. But water pouring into a salt mine does not just fill space — it dissolves the walls, and the pillars of salt deliberately left behind to hold up the ceiling. The puncture widened itself by eating its own edges, the flow compounded, and within a couple of hours the entire lake was corkscrewing down through the mine in a whirlpool hundreds of feet across.
The vortex took the drilling rig first — a derrick 150 feet tall, sucked under in minutes. Then it took eleven barges from the adjacent canal, a tugboat, trucks, a parking lot, greenhouses, and about 65 acres of Jefferson Island itself, as the shoreline calved into the spinning hole. Sixty-five-foot oaks went down whole. On the far side of the lake, a fisherman’s small boat was dragged toward the drain until he grounded it and ran.
Underground, the day’s shift — around 50 miners — was at work when the water arrived. Their escape is the disaster’s miracle chapter: warned by a fuse-blowing short and then by the sight of water where water could not be, they evacuated level by level, some riding out in mine carts, the last men lifted up the shaft in an elevator built for eight as diesel smoke and rising water chased them. Every miner surfaced. So had every driller. In an accident that swallowed a lake, a rig, a fleet and a chunk of Louisiana, not one person died.
The lake, once empty, had to refill from somewhere, and here the disaster produced its most famous image. The Delcambre Canal had always carried Lake Peigneur’s overflow south to the Gulf of Mexico. With the lake now a mud crater far below sea level, the canal reversed, and salt water from the Gulf came pouring backward and down into the basin — over a drop that, for two days, formed the tallest waterfall in Louisiana’s history, some 150 feet of it, on terrain otherwise famous for being flat. Compressed mine air blasted back up through the drain as 400-foot geysers.
When the refilling ended, nine of the eleven barges popped back to the surface like bath toys. The rig and the tug never reappeared. And the lake itself had been transmuted: a shallow freshwater pond had become a deep, salty, stratified lake with a new ecosystem to match — the fastest limnological conversion on record, performed in one afternoon.
The aftermath settled the way American disasters do. Diamond Crystal’s mine was destroyed; the company took $32 million from Texaco and its drilling contractor in settlement, with another $12.8 million to the ruined botanical gardens, and the mine closed for good a few years later, ending six decades of salt work. The precise cause was never officially pinned down — the evidence, inconveniently, had dissolved — but the settlements spoke, and the working explanation has never been seriously rivaled: a surveying error of a few hundred feet, on a map where a few hundred feet was the entire margin between two industries.
That is the durable lesson floating over Lake Peigneur, which today looks placid again and is, incidentally, much deeper than any map from 1979 says. The drillers did everything right by the coordinates they had. The mine was exactly where its own maps said it was. The catastrophe lived entirely in the gap between the two sets of paperwork — about 400 feet of it — and when the gap closed, it closed with a whirlpool. Nobody drowned, but a lake did: pulled down its own drain, through a hole the width of a dinner plate, into the space where men had been mining salt that morning.
The post In 1980, a Texaco crew drilling over Louisiana’s Lake Peigneur missed their mapped position by about 400 feet and punched into a working salt mine below, and within hours the entire lake had drained into the hole, swallowing 11 barges and briefly reversing a canal that ran to the Gulf appeared first on Space Daily.
The apparatus for one of the year’s most celebrated student experiments was paper and gym equipment.
Miles Wu, 14, of New York City, spent his project folding the same origami pattern over and over — 54 systematic variations of it — and then crushing his own handiwork, loading dumbbells onto each folded structure until it gave way and writing down the number.
Last October, that stack of creased paper and weights won him the $25,000 top prize at the Thermo Fisher Scientific Junior Innovators Challenge, the national middle-school competition run by Society for Science — the junior sibling of the storied Science Talent Search.
The pattern Miles chose wasn’t decorative. The Miura-ori is the most famous crease pattern in engineering: a tessellation of parallelograms, invented by Japanese astrophysicist Koryo Miura, that collapses a large sheet into a compact block and — its signature trick — unfolds in one smooth motion, pulled open from two corners. Japan flew it to space in 1995 to deploy a solar array; it lives on in maps, satellite panels and stent designs.
What made Miles’s project science rather than papercraft was treating that famous fold as an unexplored parameter space. A Miura-ori isn’t one pattern but a family — panel size, crease angle, row count can each be tuned — and the structural consequences of those choices are exactly the kind of thing a kid with patience, paper and a weight bench can map exhaustively.
So he mapped it: 54 variants, each loaded with dumbbells until failure.
The dataset produced a clean design law. Folds with smaller panels and steeper crease angles weren’t just stronger — they were remarkably resilient, holding their integrity rather than failing suddenly. Tighter, sharper folding packs more load-bearing geometry into the same footprint — more walls per square inch, effectively — and the best of his configurations supported more than 9,000 times their own weight before collapse.
For scale: a structure with that ratio, weighing as much as a bag of flour, would carry a car. And it started as a flat sheet.
The application Miles has named is the one the geometry begs for: strong, lightweight shelters that ship flat and deploy fast in disaster zones. Emergency shelter is a logistics problem before it is a housing problem — the structures are needed by the thousand, immediately, at the end of broken supply chains — and a Miura-based building would fly as a dense stack and open like a map, its strength coming from crease geometry rather than heavy framing. His prize-announcement plans point exactly there, putting him in step with a genuine research frontier: origami engineering is currently one of the busiest corners of structural design, from NASA solar arrays to foldable bridges.
It’s worth pausing on the method, because it’s a miniature of how materials science actually works.
Miles didn’t invent the Miura fold, and didn’t need to. He took a known structure, varied it systematically along its natural parameters, tested every variant to destruction under identical conditions, and extracted a generalizable rule — smaller panels, steeper angles, more strength — that someone else could now apply at shelter scale without repeating the 54 experiments. One variable at a time, failure as data, the answer as a design principle rather than a single artifact. Plenty of graduate work follows a looser protocol.
And the equipment list is the story’s quiet punchline. The competition he won celebrates access to STEM, and his project is the proof of concept: no lab, no fabrication budget, no instrument more specialized than the family’s dumbbells. The expensive part was the discipline — folding the same pattern 54 times with controlled precision, and being willing to destroy every one of them.
The origami masters have always said the crease pattern is the real object; the paper is just where it lives. Miles Wu’s version of that idea now has numbers attached, a five-figure prize, and a possible future as the roof over someone’s worst week: fold it right, and a flat sheet will hold nine thousand of itself.
The post A 14-year-old in New York folded 54 variations of the same origami crease pattern and stacked dumbbells on them to see which collapsed — the winning fold held more than 9,000 times its own weight, the design is aimed at flat-pack disaster shelters, and it took the $25,000 top middle-school prize appeared first on Space Daily.
A solar telescope in New Mexico is being torn down, and the reason is a pool of liquid mercury hidden inside it. The mercury was the clever trick that made the telescope work. It is now the thing that dooms it.
The telescope’s optical system weighs 250 tons, and it had to turn smoothly all day. You can’t spin something that heavy on ordinary wheels. So instead the whole thing floated on a sealed pool of liquid mercury. Mercury is dense and flows easily, so the load rode on the fluid and turned with almost no friction. That is how the 250-ton optical system of the Richard B. Dunn Solar Telescope was designed to move.
However, on January 5, crews found some of that mercury where it wasn’t supposed to be.
We are not engineers, chemists, or occupational-safety specialists, and nothing here is guidance for handling mercury or any other hazardous material. This is our reading of a public engineering story and the agency documents around it, not advice.
The Dunn sits at about 9,200 feet on Sacramento Peak, inside the Lincoln National Forest. The Air Force built it, and it opened as the Vacuum Tower Telescope on October 15, 1969. From the start it was one of the best high-resolution instruments in the world for studying the Sun.
As sunlight comes through the telescope, the Sun’s image slowly rotates over the course of a day. To keep that image lined up with the instruments studying it, you have to turn the whole optical assembly to match. Not just the tube, but the observing room, the lab, and the floor people stand on. That is where the 250 tons comes from. The mercury float let crews rotate the image of the Sun by turning the entire instrument.
The amount of mercury involved surprises people. The system floated on roughly 120 gallons of the liquid metal, sealed in the bearing. Mercury is so dense that this much weighs around 18,000 pounds on its own. And the bearing carrying the full load hung, according to the observatory, on just three bolts, each three inches across.
The result was a turn so smooth it sounds made up. Dave Dooling, a science writer who served as the site’s education officer, described it this way: the bearings “make rotation so smooth that a person could stand with one foot on the main floor and one on the turntable and slowly rotate all 250 tons” of it. That captures what the mercury bought: a huge instrument you could nudge by hand.
On January 5, 2026, two New Mexico State University staff members found liquid mercury on a platform inside the tower. The site closed, along with its visitor center.
A puddle of mercury is a serious problem because of what the metal does. It is a neurotoxin, it gives off vapor at room temperature, and once it escapes a sealed system it doesn’t stay put. The real question became whether the bearing could be trusted to hold 18,000 pounds of a poison for years to come. The National Science Foundation brought in the engineering firm Thornton Tomasetti to assess that, and the answer shaped everything that followed.
The mercury isn’t a part you can swap out. It is the thing the entire optical system stands on. Take it away and the telescope can’t rotate, which means it can’t do the one job it was built for. Removing the hazard and keeping a working telescope turned out to be the same decision pointing in opposite directions.
On February 24, 2026, the NSF announced it would remove the mercury, leaving the telescope permanently unusable, then demolish it. In its own words, “After assessing the engineering challenges, anticipated repair costs and safety and environmental risks, NSF determined that removing and safely disposing of the telescope’s mercury is the most prudent course of action.” That is the agency defending its own call, and worth reading as such. Preservation advocates in New Mexico dispute that demolition was the only option, and residents and lawmakers have pushed to save the wider observatory campus.
The Dunn was already near the end of its working life. The Air Force transferred it to the NSF in 1976, and in its final years it ran only in a limited mode since 2019. Much of what it once did best has moved to the NSF’s newer, far larger Inouye Solar Telescope in Hawaii.
Demolition is scheduled to begin as early as September 2026, and the NSF has said it will contribute up to $100,000 toward an exhibit about the observatory. What ends is more than a building: more than half a century of solar science from a machine that, for a long stretch, was the best in the world at what it did.
The post After more than 50 years, a solar telescope in New Mexico is being pulled down, after liquid mercury from the bearing that let its 250-ton optical system turn was found inside the tower. Crews found the metal on January 5. appeared first on Space Daily.
Thanks to having the “chunkiest squid butt” ever seen on an ancient cephalopod, paleontologists have discovered a 160-million-year-old octopus cousin. The newly identified fossils are described by an international research team in their study recently published in Papers in Palaeontology, which also includes a potential explanation for Wyoteuthis linsterorum’s hefty proportions. Just like today’s tentacled ocean dwellers, the Mesozoic squid ancestor likely had no problem devouring its relatives—or even members of its own species.
W. linsterorum is a belemnite, a group of prehistoric cephalopods who left behind some of paleontology’s most common fossils. Examples of their bullet-shaped structures known as a rostrum have regularly shown up at dig sites around the world for over 200 years. This includes the Sundance Formation in present-day Wyoming, which was covered by an inland sea millions of years ago.
Most of Wyoming’s belemnites are comparatively tiny—usually about two-to-four inches long and less than one inch wide. But about 30 years ago, Wyoming Dinosaur Center founder Burkhard Pohl found a fossil that “stuck out like a sore thumb,” according to study co-author Bill Wahl. While the preserved belemnite rostrum was about as long as other examples, it measured about 2.4 inches wide. Based on what they knew of belemnite proportions, paleontologists estimated this specimen’s entire body probably reached nearly two feet long.
Without any comparable examples, the thick squid butt remained in storage for nearly three decades. In 2019, fossil collector Cliff Linster finally discovered a similar cephalopod near Ten Sleep, Wyoming. He soon donated it to the Wyoming Dinosaur Center, and researchers began analyzing this pair of mystery fossils.
Computed tomography (CT) scanning allowed the team to inspect the remains without damaging them. The results confirmed the ancient sea creatures were never-before-seen belemnites.What’s more, they belonged to a family researchers previously believed went extinct millions of years earlier.
“After spending years fossil hunting in Wyoming and collecting countless fossils of the common Pachyteuthis belemnites here in Wyoming, this one is unlike anything I have ever seen,” Jessica Lippincott, a paleontologist and study co-author, said in a statement.
But why did W. linsterorum evolve to reach such bulky proportions? The team believes the answer lies in the diets of many present-day cephalopods.
“A possible explanation is that their relatively large size gave them an advantage when hunting co-occurring smaller belemnites of the genus Pachyteuthis,” explained paleontologist Alexey Ippolitov, a study co-author now at New Zealand’s Victoria University. “Modern squid, after all, are hardly picky when it comes to prey: they readily hunt not only other species of cephalopods, but sometimes even their own kind.”
An unexpected and surprising species, W. linsterorum is named in honor of Cliff Linster, who died in June 2026. While he didn’t live to see the dedication, Linster was well aware that the team was working to describe the animal he helped discover.
“It goes to show that we are still finding new species of fossils all the time, and people who rockhound or collect invertebrate fossils can also contribute to science,” said Lippincott.
The post ‘Squid butt’ fossil belongs to one of the ‘chunkiest’ cephalopods ever discovered appeared first on Popular Science.
The European Space Agency is moving "full steam ahead" with development of a robotic mission to Venus after NASA officials determined they were unlikely to fulfill a commitment to provide a US-built radar instrument for the spacecraft, the mission's project scientist said.
The European orbiter, named Envision, will map the Venusian surface at 10 times higher resolution than the last radar mission sent to Venus by NASA in the 1990s. The planet is enshrouded in a blanket of thick clouds of sulfuric acid, rendering its mysterious surface unseen by optical cameras in orbit. Radar is the most effective way to penetrate the clouds of Venus to reveal the terrain below, and scientists will use Envision to look for signs of active volcanism.
NASA and ESA signed a memorandum of understanding in 2024 outlining their partnership on Envision. NASA agreed to supply a US-made synthetic aperture radar instrument, Envision's primary means of mapping the surface of Venus, along with providing tracking and communications support through NASA's Deep Space Network. In exchange, ESA would include US researchers on Envision's science team. Europe would build the Envision spacecraft and the rest of its science instruments and provide the launch on an Ariane 6 rocket.
© ESA/Paris Observatory/VR2Planets
The European Space Agency is moving "full steam ahead" with development of a robotic mission to Venus after NASA officials determined they were unlikely to fulfill a commitment to provide a US-built radar instrument for the spacecraft, the mission's project scientist said.
The European orbiter, named Envision, will map the Venusian surface at 10 times higher resolution than the last radar mission sent to Venus by NASA in the 1990s. The planet is enshrouded in a blanket of thick clouds of sulfuric acid, rendering its mysterious surface unseen by optical cameras in orbit. Radar is the most effective way to penetrate the clouds of Venus to reveal the terrain below, and scientists will use Envision to look for signs of active volcanism.
NASA and ESA signed a memorandum of understanding in 2024 outlining their partnership on Envision. NASA agreed to supply a US-made synthetic aperture radar instrument, Envision's primary means of mapping the surface of Venus, along with providing tracking and communications support through NASA's Deep Space Network. In exchange, ESA would include US researchers on Envision's science team. Europe would build the Envision spacecraft and the rest of its science instruments and provide the launch on an Ariane 6 rocket.
© ESA/Paris Observatory/VR2Planets
Ancient meteorite minerals reveal a surprisingly strong magnetic field from the solar system’s first 200,000 years. About 4.6 billion years ago, before the Sun and planets existed in their familiar forms, the solar system was a vast cloud of gas and dust. Within a few million years, this “solar nebula” collapsed and flattened into a [...]We humans love our mind-altering substances. Cultures around the world have discovered, ritualized, and simply experimented with alcoholic drinks and ingestible drugs for millennia. However, recent archaeological evidence indicates humanity possibly began utilizing psychoactive plants much earlier than previously believed. Based on findings published in the journal Science Advances, some communities in present-day Indonesia enjoyed the effects of betel nuts as long as 25,000 years ago. This pushes the timeline over 23,000 years back from documented Neolithic and Bronze Age uses circa 1,500 BCE.
The areca nut (Areca catechu), better known as the betel nut, isn’t widely known in the United States, but it’s one of the world’s most popular intoxicants. Most frequently seen across southeast Asia cultures, its global usage only trails behind alcohol, caffeine, and nicotine. Betel nuts are prepared by grinding and processing the plant seeds with slaked lime (calcium hydroxide). This fine powder is often combined with additional ingredients such as flavoring spices or tobacco to make a “quid,” that is then chewed as a stimulant. There are millions of betel users today, with some estimates putting the global total at 1-in-10 people.
Many researchers contend that most human intoxicant use began with fermented alcoholic drinks, amid the rise of farming during the Neolithic era about 13,000 years ago. Adam Brumm, one of the study’s co-author and an archaeologist at Australia’s Griffith University, believes otherwise.
“This theory fails to account for the possibility that very ancient drug-taking lies at the roots of our most commonly used psychoactive substances,” he explained in a university profile.
Brumm and his team cite evidence gathered from the extremely rare skeletal remains of two early human foragers discovered on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi. The older of the two lived between 25,000 and 16,000 years ago, while the younger individual is 7,600 to 6,300 years old. Unlike many other documented skeletons from the region, these hunter-gathers both exhibit rarely seen dental damage in the form of deep, curved grooves in the teeth. Researchers theorized this unexpected deterioration stemmed from a never-before-identified practice of regularly sucking on entire betel nuts.
But there was a problem—this hypothesis contradicted earlier studies of betel nut usage. Many scientists believe the drug’s primary neuroactive alkaloid, called arecoline, is only noticeable after chewing betel nuts processed with slaked lime. Lab experiments conducted by Brumm’s group suggest this isn’t necessarily always the case. To test their theory, researchers soaked betel nuts in artificial saliva, then introduced the mixtures to exposed cloned human receptors grown from frog egg cells. These receptors included specific proteins that function as molecular switches overseeing neural activity.
The study authors discovered that even simply sucking on whole betel nuts is all it takes to release enough arecoline to elicit altered neural activity and physiological effects. To further bolster their findings, biochemists even flagged arceoline traces in the dental tissue of both hunter-gatherers.
However, the ancient humans living on Sulawesi didn’t necessarily ingest betel nuts for recreational use. Unprocessed nuts likely offer milder effects, but arceoline remains a natural analgesic. Knowing this, the study’s authors surmise these betel nut habits were self-reinforcing.
“Sucking these hard, abrasive seeds wore down the foragers’ teeth so badly that in some cases the inner pulp chamber became completely exposed,” explained Brumm. “So while this habit may have been a remedy for toothache, years of prolonged nut-sucking eventually caused much worse dental health problems, creating a cycle of continued habitual use.”
The implications go far beyond revising the timeline of humanity’s relationship with mind-altering substances. If true, this means at least some ancient hunter-gatherer cultures discovered psychoactive properties before the development of agriculture.
“The study implies that some modern drug-taking behaviors are deeply rooted in forager traditions,” added Brumm.
The post Humans experimented with mind-altering drugs 25,000 years ago appeared first on Popular Science.
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