The company’s press release claimed the pups to be “the world’s first de-extinct animals … brought back from extinction using genetic edits derived from a complete dire wolf genome, meticulously reconstructed by Colossal from ancient DNA.”

Experts in paleogenetics pointed out that only 14 genes, with 20 differences between living gray wolves and extinct dire wolves, were involved in the “edits.” Pontus Skoglund, head of the Ancient Genomics Laboratory at Britain’s Francis Crick Institute, posted on BlueSky: “Would a chimpanzee with 20 gene edits be human? … These individuals seem optimistically 1/100,000th dire wolf.”

Conservationists noted other concerns.  What is the plan for dire wolves and other “de-extinct” species?  Where is the habitat for an animal that was adapted for preying on now-extinct megafauna like ground sloths and giant bison?  How might dire wolves and gray wolves co-exist, and could they hybridize? 

And the real question: Wouldn’t Colossal’s enormous financial resources be better used to conserve existing species? 

According to the Washington Post, the company has been valued at $10.2 billion and has raised $435 million in funding; billionaire and conservative mega-donor Peter Thiel is an investor.

Despite all this, there is one place where the scientifically dubious and ethically problematic goal of “de-extinction” has been embraced without reservation: the Trump Administration. 

In a post on X, Interior Secretary Doug Burgum claimed that most species listed under the Endangered Species Act (ESA) have not recovered “because the status quo is focused on regulation more than innovation,” and went on to hail Colossal’s announcement: “The revival of the Dire Wolf heralds the advent of a thrilling new era of scientific wonder, showcasing how the concept of de-extinction can serve as a bedrock for modern species conservation.” 

Burgum’s endorsement of Colossal went even farther during a meeting with Interior Department employees: “If we’re going to be in anguish about losing a species, now we have an opportunity to bring them back. Pick your favorite species and call Colossal.” 

In fact, the Endangered Species Act has produced some spectacular recovery successes, including the bald eagle, peregrine falcon, and American alligator. And the law has succeeded in preventing the extinction of over 99% of listed species.

Burgum is correct that most ESA-listed species have not recovered sufficiently to be “delisted,” declared no longer at risk of extinction.  But the reason is not excessive regulation.

A peer-reviewed analysis of species listed by the law from 1992 through 2020 concluded that the reasons for the low rate of delisting were “small population sizes at time of listing, coupled with delayed protection and insufficient funding.” To this can be added the fact that by the time many species are listed, their suitable habitat has dwindled too much to support robust recovered populations.

The “innovation” needed to protect America’s biodiversity is not the high-tech resurrection of extinct species. It is simply to list declining species earlier, when their populations are still large enough to benefit from the protections that the law provides. And funding must be sufficient to support scientifically sound recovery plans.  The paper cited above found that spending per listed species declined by nearly 50% from 1985 to 2020.

Burgum’s statements ignore the most basic goal of conservation. It is not to preserve individual animals, it is to help populations sustain themselves in their native habitats, fulfilling their ecological roles and exhibiting the full range of their natural behaviors. 

The idea that species can be conserved by picking up the phone to “call Colossal” and order up a few genetically engineered survivors is a delusional and disingenuous fantasy.

Burgum has made clear that his management of the more than 500 million acres of public land under his authority will be all about energy extraction. On his first day in office, he released six Secretarial Orders, all of which were focused on increasing fossil fuel production. None mentioned the words “wildlife” or “conservation,” much less endangered species.

Endangered species such as sage grouse, gray wolves, and grizzly bears are inconvenient obstacles to “unleashing” fossil fuel extraction everywhere across the public lands of the West. We can expect many attacks on the Endangered Species Act from this administration.

But none is more wrong-headed—or cynical—than using those cute genetically engineered “dire wolf” pups to distract from the urgent needs of actual endangered species.

Pepper Trail is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is a conservation biologist and lives in Oregon.

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They strutted, leaped in the air with feathers spread, and bowed, but the greatest thrill was watching them puff up the garish, red-orange air sacs on either side of their necks.

Concealed in a blind, we watched late into the morning that spring of 1999, until the last birds — members of a rapidly vanishing species — flew off.

I recalled that wonderful day recently, because in late March, after countless lawsuits and scientific opinions, the lesser prairie chicken in New Mexico, Colorado and eastwards finally got what it so desperately needs — federal protection under the Endangered Species Act.

The designation, however, comes 25 long years after the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service first determined that this magical dancing bird could go the way of the passenger pigeon.

In June 1988, the Service did something seemingly mundane, though it had profound consequences. It relegated the lesser prairie chicken to what might be called endangered species purgatory — making its protection status “warranted but precluded” under the Endangered Species Act. Precluded apparently meant, “We should list the birds but find it impossible to do that.”

For decades, the Fish and Wildlife Service, under pressure from opponents in Congress and powerful industries, has used this designation to delay Endangered Species Act protections for hundreds of species that need an ecological safety net, including the lesser prairie chicken.

The result since 1998 has been predictable: The bird’s numbers have plummeted. In many parts of the West, it has disappeared entirely. Lesser prairie chickens now number about 30,000, less than 2% of what they were in the 19th century when the birds flourished in the hundreds of thousands.

Controversy around granting Endangered Species Act protection for the lesser prairie chicken has mainly been about oil and gas development. Meaningful protection of this bird, whose habitat covers millions of acres across New Mexico, Texas, Colorado, Kansas and Oklahoma, would mean restraint from the oil and gas and agricultural industries. Pump jacks and plows are the greatest threats to prairie chicken survival.

Kansas Republicans, namely Sen. Roger Marshall and Rep. Tracy Mann, have already pressured the Fish and Wildlife Service to delay the date that the listing takes effect. Texas has also filed a lawsuit to block the listing, and Kansas and Oklahoma are threatening to sue. The long struggle to keep the birds alive is far from over.

Fifty years ago, Congress enacted the Endangered Species Act to recognize the importance of endangered and threatened species, citing their “esthetic, ecological, educational, historical, recreational and scientific value to the Nation and its people.” The Act’s vision was remarkable, and Americans are fortunate that the law fought for a half-century ago continues to be fought for today.

I am proud that our nation passed this powerful law to protect the diversity of life. But for our nation’s laws to really mean something, they must be enforced, even when — especially when — opponents are among the most economically and politically powerful industries.

You’d think that identifying a species as “endangered” meant that there was still time to save it. But the prairie chicken, along with its high-profile distant cousin, the sage grouse, is running out of time. The birds need lots of open space, and the new designation only puts some constraints on existing oil and gas operations, while limiting new development.

Later this spring, I intend to return to the prairies near the town of Milnesand, New Mexico, this time with my nine-year-old twins in tow. I can only hope that the birds are still dancing. I also hope that my boys have the opportunity to watch and wonder about why these birds return to woo females at the same place each spring, and what we, as a society, must do to ensure that the dance continues.

John Horning is a contributor to Writers on the Range, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is the executive director of WildEarth Guardians and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

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