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Field studies were conducted on southern highbush blueberry in Elizabethtown and Rocky Point, NC, in 2019, 2020, and 2021 to determine tolerance to 2,4-D choline as a postemergence-directed application. In separate trials for younger and older bearing blueberry bushes, both 2,4-D choline rates and application timing were evaluated. Treatments included 2,4-D choline at 0, 0.53, 1.06, 1.60, and 2.13 kg ae ha–1 applied alone in winter during dormancy, and sequential treatments at 0.53 kg ae ha–1 followed by (fb) 0.53, 1.06 fb 1.06, 1.6 fb 1.6, or 2.13 fb 2.13 kg ae ha–1. The first application of the sequential treatments was applied in winter followed by another application in spring during early green fruit. Injury to blueberry from 2,4-D choline treatments was not observed for either maturity stage, and fruit yield was not affected by any of the treatments. Differences among treatments were not observed for fruit soluble solid content (SSC) in older bushes, or for fruit pH, SSC, and titratable acidity (TA) in younger bushes. In older bushes, fruit pH and TA had rate-by-timing interactions, and TA had a farm-year interaction with differences at Rocky Point in 2019 and Elizabethtown in 2020, but biologically no pattern was observed from the treatments.
Field studies in strawberry grown on polyethylene-mulched raised beds were conducted from 2018 to 2019 and 2019 to 2020 in Clayton, NC, to determine ‘Camarosa’ and ‘Chandler’ strawberry tolerance to 2,4-D directed to the row middle between beds. Treatments included 2,4-D at 0, 0.53, 1.06, 1.60, and 2.13 kg ae ha−1 applied alone and sequential treatments (0.53 followed by [fb] 0.53 or 1.06 fb 1.06 kg ae ha−1). Initial treatments were applied in winter (December 2018 or January 2020) during vegetative growth, and sequential applications were applied in spring (April 2019 or March 2020) during reproductive growth. No differences among treatments were observed for visual foliage injury, strawberry crop canopy, fruit yield, and fruit quality (pH, titratable acidity, and soluble solid content).
Response to lithium in patients with bipolar disorder is associated with clinical and transdiagnostic genetic factors. The predictive combination of these variables might help clinicians better predict which patients will respond to lithium treatment.
Aims
To use a combination of transdiagnostic genetic and clinical factors to predict lithium response in patients with bipolar disorder.
Method
This study utilised genetic and clinical data (n = 1034) collected as part of the International Consortium on Lithium Genetics (ConLi+Gen) project. Polygenic risk scores (PRS) were computed for schizophrenia and major depressive disorder, and then combined with clinical variables using a cross-validated machine-learning regression approach. Unimodal, multimodal and genetically stratified models were trained and validated using ridge, elastic net and random forest regression on 692 patients with bipolar disorder from ten study sites using leave-site-out cross-validation. All models were then tested on an independent test set of 342 patients. The best performing models were then tested in a classification framework.
Results
The best performing linear model explained 5.1% (P = 0.0001) of variance in lithium response and was composed of clinical variables, PRS variables and interaction terms between them. The best performing non-linear model used only clinical variables and explained 8.1% (P = 0.0001) of variance in lithium response. A priori genomic stratification improved non-linear model performance to 13.7% (P = 0.0001) and improved the binary classification of lithium response. This model stratified patients based on their meta-polygenic loadings for major depressive disorder and schizophrenia and was then trained using clinical data.
Conclusions
Using PRS to first stratify patients genetically and then train machine-learning models with clinical predictors led to large improvements in lithium response prediction. When used with other PRS and biological markers in the future this approach may help inform which patients are most likely to respond to lithium treatment.
Dissolved and particulate sodium, magnesium and calcium are analyzed in ice cores to determine past changes in sea ice extent, terrestrial dust variability and atmospheric aerosol transport efficiency. They are also used to date ice cores if annual layers are visible. Multiple methods have been developed to analyze these important compounds in ice cores. Continuous flow analysis (CFA) is implemented with instruments that sample the meltstream continuously. In this study, CFA with ICP-MS (inductively coupled-plasma mass spectrometry) and fast ion chromatography (FIC) methods are compared for analysis of sodium and magnesium. ICP-MS, FIC and fluorescence methods are compared for analysis of calcium. Respective analysis of a 10 m section of the Antarctic WACSWAIN Skytrain Ice Rise ice core shows that all of the methods result in similar levels of the compounds. The ICP-MS method is the most suitable for analysis of the Skytrain ice core due to its superior precision (relative standard deviation: 1.6% for Na, 1.3% for Mg and 1.2% for Ca) and sampling frequency compared to the FIC method. The fluorescence detection method may be preferred for calcium analysis due to its higher depth resolution (1.4 cm) relative to the ICP-MS and FIC methods (~4 cm).
Were the ancient Coast Salish farmers? Conventional anthropological wisdom asserts that the ethnographically known communities of the Northwest Coast of North America were “complex hunter-fisher-gatherers” who lacked any form of concerted plant food cultivation and production. Despite decades of extensive ethnobotanical and paleoethnobotanical study throughout the Pacific Northwest demonstrating the contrary, this “classic anomaly” is still a cornerstone of anthropological and archaeological canons. The recent discovery of a spectacularly preserved wetland wapato (Indian potato, Sagittaria latifolia) garden, built 3,800 years ago in Katzie traditional territory near Vancouver, British Columbia, has helped recast this picture, alongside evidence for other forms of resource management practiced by Northwest Coast peoples. This article examines “origins of agriculture” stories from three distinctive perspectives: Coast Salish Katzie people who cultivated wapato for millennia; settlers who colonized the Fraser River Delta historically, bringing with them their own ideas about what constitutes farming; and archaeologists, who are challenged by these data to reevaluate their own understandings of these cultural constructs. These perspectives have critical bearing on the historical appropriation of lands and waterways by settler communities in British Columbia as well as contemporary questions of sovereignty and stewardship in this region and well beyond.
Palaeolandscape reconstructions at the German North Sea coast are essential for the understanding of coastal changes and dynamic landscape-forming processes. This study contributes to reconstructing Holocene coastal changes in the back-barrier area of the East Frisian island of Norderney and draws conclusions on the local palaeogeography. Five sediment cores were analysed in terms of sedimentology (grain-size distribution), geochemistry (TOC, TIC, N, C/N), microfauna (foraminifers and ostracods) and 13 radiocarbon dates. In order to identify driving environmental factors and support the facies interpretation, multivariate statistics (PCA) were carried out. Additional cores from the surrounding area (WASA Project and ‘Landesamt für Bergbau, Energie und Geologie’ (LBEG) Hannover) enabled correlation of the investigated cores over a transect of ~6 km, showing six depositional environments, which can be used for landscape reconstruction. Deposition starts with periglacial (aeolian and glaciofluvial) Pleistocene sediments, with subsequent pedogenesis followed by swamp conditions that develop into a salt marsh. The overlying tidal-flat sediments are partially cut by (fossil and recent) channel deposits. A hiatus at the base of the tidal-flat deposits that spans some 3000 years hints at their reworking caused by a combination of antrophogenic coastal protection measures and the impact of storms. Furthermore, based on the profile correlation and the age data, a widespread salt-marsh area with a minimum age of ~4000 cal BP is defined for the ‘Hohes Riff’ in the southwestern back-barrier of Norderney Island.
The main aim of the current study was to present the abilities of widely used crop models to simulate four different field crops (winter wheat, spring barley, silage maize and winter oilseed rape). The 13 models were tested under Central European conditions represented by three locations in the Czech Republic, selected using temperature and precipitation gradients for the target crops in this region. Based on observed crop phenology and yield from 1991 to 2010, performances of individual models and their ensemble were analyzed. Modelling of anthesis and maturity was generally best simulated by the ensemble median (EnsMED) compared to the ensemble mean and individual models. The yield was better simulated by the best models than estimated by an ensemble. Higher accuracy was achieved for spring crops, with the best results for silage maize, while the lowest accuracy was for winter oilseed rape according to the index of agreement (IA). Based on EnsMED, the root mean square errors (RMSEs) for yield was 1365 kg/ha for winter wheat, 1105 kg/ha for spring barley, 1861 kg/ha for silage maize and 969 kg/ha for winter oilseed rape. The AQUACROP and EPIC models performed best in terms of spread around the line of best fit (RMSE, IA). In some cases, the individual models failed. For crop rotation simulations, only models with reasonable accuracy (i.e. without failures) across all included crops within the target environment should be selected. Application crop models ensemble is one way to increase the accuracy of predictions, but lower variability of ensemble outputs was confirmed.
The clash of values in indigenous cultural preservation efforts on public lands is readily apparent in the case of the Blackfeet Confederacy and their ceded sacred territory in the Rocky Mountain Front of north central Montana. There, the Rocky Mountains rise from the Great Plains like a snow-covered apparition impossibly hovering above the undulating prairie below. The beauty of these nearly 30,000 square miles of the so-called Crown of the Continent is hard to describe in words, with heavily forested valleys containing wild-flowing rivers, framed by bare alpine peaks on either side. Biologists and ecologists value the Crown because it is home to some of the last great populations of large carnivores, native fish, and untrammeled wilderness, including unbroken natural wildlife corridors spanning hundreds of miles. These corridors are made up of several areas of protected public lands in the United States and Canada, including Glacier National Park; Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park; and the Bob Marshall, Scapegoat, and Great Bear Wilderness areas in addition to several national forests. The area has also been home to the Blackfeet and other indigenous peoples since time immemorial.
Nonindigenous American society has oscillated over the past two centuries between degrading indigenous cultures and appropriating them for pecuniary gain, whether as fashion statements or musical trends or perhaps to satisfy some broader twenty-first-century cultural yearning to resurrect the myth of the “Noble Savage,” deeply and purely connected to nature and immune from the toxins of modern daily life. Whatever or however it is labeled, this yearning remains an obsession; one rooted in the myths of American identity and at the same time inherently contradictory. On the one hand, nonindigenous society still derogates indigenous cultures the same way it did in the nation’s founding document or in legal opinions like Johnson v. M’Intosh. But, on the other hand, an element of non-indigenous society is simultaneously attracted to and collectively in awe of certain other aspects of indigenous culture. This attraction is reflected in the mass theft, looting, and general appropriation of indigenous imagery, music, religious practices and icons, ceramics, jewelry, totem poles, and regalia on a scale that is so vast it can be difficult to comprehend. The depth of the cultural assault on indigenous people has in many ways become so imbedded within American culture and the popular psyche that few nonindigenous citizens even notice it. Though similarly hidden, that cultural assault can be seen in rules of law as well.
The Fort Peck Indian Reservation encompasses just over 2 million acres of rolling grasslands and prairies along the Missouri River in far northeastern Montana. Rising from the banks of the “Mighty Mo’” in the south and nearly reaching the United States–Canada border in the north, the reservation is vast, alive with undulating terrain and near constant wind. At its southern edge, one can stand on the riverbank, gaze out over the prairies, and almost see history unfolding among the waving grasses. At least, one can see the history one knows.
Understanding the laws tribes can use to protect their cultures requires a working knowledge of the jurisdictional framework among the nation’s three sovereigns: the federal government, state governments, and tribal governments. This chapter provides some of the essential elements of this foundation by tracing the arc of US Supreme Court cases in which the justices filled in the contours of the Constitution’s rough outline of the relationship between these three sovereigns. While the Supreme Court’s treatment of tribal authority over this period largely reflected the broader federal interests of a particular era, including the elevation and insulation of exclusive federal authority over Indian affairs in the nineteenth century, Supreme Court decisions of more recent vintage have severely restricted tribal authority, even over areas within the boundaries of present-day reservations, during a period in which the federal government otherwise seemed to embrace a policy of supporting tribal self-government. It is therefore not always possible to discuss individual cases or periods of federal Indian policy in general terms. Moreover, the jurisdictional maze that results from this lengthy history often frustrates attempts to seek legal recognition of inherent tribal authority and confuses even well-versed legal practitioners.
Hawaii and Vermont illustrate many of the themes surrounding indigenous peoples’ relationships with the states in which they reside, sometimes dating back long before the ratification of the US Constitution. Vermont was the fourteenth state admitted to the Union, and by 1791, the year of its admission, the lands within its boundaries had been home to indigenous peoples since as early as 11,000 CE and perhaps before. The state keeps no historical records about indigenous populations, language groups, or virtually any other information that might assist a tribal historian to piece together the history of one or more of the local indigenous people, which complicates the matter of recounting the state’s historic relationship with indigenous cultures. As of the twenty-first century, there are approximately 2,000 people living in Vermont who identify as indigenous on census surveys, and these are mostly members of different bands of Abenaki in the northern part of the state.
The roots of present-day federal cultural resource protection statutes were planted in the culturally traumatic soils of late-nineteenth-century America. As introduced in Chapter 1, the late 1800s were a period of intense isolation and destruction for indigenous people, their land bases, traditions, and cultures. Federal policies aimed at assimilating indigenous people into so-called mainstream society shattered the integrity of reservations, families, and entire societies, resulting in the loss of millions of acres of tribal lands, generations of tribal and family connections, and ultimately, the abject failure of this draconian federal policy, even by the federal government’s own measure.
The story of indigenous cultures in the United States is almost as old as the land itself. By nonindigenous measures, including the anthropological and archaeological records and Western calendars, they are entering at least their tenth millennium. Despite facing ongoing destructive external forces, particularly over the last 500 years, many of these cultures have witnessed thousands of years of evolution on the North American continent. But viewing these cultures by such scientific standards ignores the depth of their connection to the continent, a depth that is reflected in the oral histories passed down by generations of indigenous people. These histories stretch back to what many indigenous people call “time immemorial,” or the beginning of time, and tell of the first moments of the planet’s existence, the birth of humankind, and the peopling of the land. These stories are central to many aspects of indigenous culture and spirituality in the same way that sacred texts like the Bible or the Quran are central to Christianity or Islam. Unlike those texts, though, these oral traditions and stories, passed down over centuries, evolve with time and collective experience, and they continue to inform the core cultural beliefs and values of many tribes.