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for such purposes as highly intelligent first-response units during house fires, military campaigns, or natural disasters
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    (Mark Thiessen/National Geographic Stock)

    Porcupine caribou migrate annually from Canada’s Yukon Territory to their traditional calving grounds in Alaska’s Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Herd instincts evolved over centuries have allowed the species to safely travel one of the longest migration routes of any land mammal, even under the threat of predators like wolves
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    (Alaska Stock LLC/National Geographic Stock)

The Genius of Swarms

By Peter Miller
    I used to think ants knew what they were doing. The ones marching across my kitchen counter looked so confident, I just figured they had a plan, knew where they were going, and what needed to be done. How else could ants organize highways, build elaborate nests, stage epic raids, and do all the other things ants do?
    Turns out I was wrong. Ants aren’t clever little engineers, architects, or warriors after all—at least not as individuals. When it comes to deciding what to do next, most ants don’t have a clue. “If you watch an ant try to accomplish something, you’ll be impressed by how inept it is,” says Deborah M. Gordon, a biologist at Stanford University.
    How do we explain, then, the success of Earth’s 12,000 or so known ant species? They must have learned something in 140 million years.
    “Ants aren’t smart,” Gordon says. “Ant colonies are.” A colony can solve problems unthinkable for individual ants, such as finding the shortest path to the best food source, allocating workers to different tasks, or defending a territory from neighbors. As individuals, ants might be tiny dummies, but as colonies, they respond quickly and effectively to their environment. They do it with something called swarm intelligence.
    Where this intelligence comes from raises a fundamental question in nature: How do the simple actions of individuals add up tothe complex behavior of a group? How do hundreds of honeybees make a critical decision about their hive if many of them disagree? What enables a school of herring to coordinate its movements so precisely it can change direction in a flash, like a single, silvery organism? The collective abilities of such animals—none of which grasps the big picture, but each of which contributes to the group’s success—seem miraculous even to the biologists who know them best. Yet during the past few decades, researchers have come up with intriguing insights.
    One key to an ant colony, for example, is that no one’s in charge. No generals command ant warriors. No managers boss ant workers. The queen plays no role except to lay eggs. Even with a half million ants, a colony functions just fine with no management at all—at least none that we would recognize. It relies instead upon countless interactions between individual ants, each of which is following simple rules of thumb. Scientists describe such a system as self-organizing.
    Consider the problem of job allocation. In the Arizona desert where Deborah Gordon studies red harvester ants
(Pogonomyrmex barbatus)
, a colony calculates each morning how many workers to send out foraging for food. The number can change, depending on conditions. Have foragers recently discovered a bonanza of tasty seeds? More ants may be needed to haul the bounty home. Was the nest damaged by a storm last night? Additional maintenance workers may be held back to make repairs. An ant might be a nest worker one day, a trash collector the next. But how does a colony make such adjustments if no one’s in charge? Gordon has a theory.
    Ants communicate by touch and smell. When one ant bumps into another, it sniffs with its antennae to find out if the other belongs to the same nest and where it has been working. (Ants that work outside the nest smell different from those that stay inside.) Before they leave the nest each day, foragers normally wait for earlymorning patrollers to