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Majority Latino city endures years of toxic water in health ‘crisis’

News Feed
Thursday, April 18, 2024

SUNLAND PARK, N.M. — Rosana Monge clutched her husband’s death certificate and an envelope of his medical records as she approached the microphone and faced members of the water utility board on a recent Monday in this city in southeast New Mexico.“I have proof here of arsenic tests — positive on him, that were done by the Veterans Administration,” she testified about her husband, whose 2023 records show he had been diagnosed with “exposure to arsenic” before his death in February at age 79. “What I’m asking is for a health assessment of the community.”State and federal records show that in each of the last 16 years, drinking water samples tested in this 17,400-person town near the Texas border have contained illegally high levels of arsenic, including in 2016 when levels reached five times the legal limit.Naturally occurring in the soil in New Mexico, arsenic seeps into the groundwater used for drinking. In water, arsenic has no taste, odor or color — but can be removed with treatment. Over time, it can cause a variety of health problems, including cancer, diabetes and heart disease, endangering the lives of people in this low-income and overwhelmingly Latino community.The Environmental Protection Agency has assessed Sunland Park’s water operator, the Camino Real Regional Utility Authority (CRRUA), with 120 “violation points” over the last five years, a calculation based both on the number of times the utility has violated federal standards and the level of seriousness of the violations. For utilities serving at least 10,000 people that recently had a health-related violation, the tally was second only to the 182 points collected by Jackson, Miss., where problems with the drinking water earned national attention in 2022. Sunland Park has even more issues the EPA considers unresolved than Jackson.Anne Nigra, a professor at Columbia University who focuses on the impacts of arsenic-ladled water on Latino communities and reviewed the utility’s federally mandated water reports, called the situation in the New Mexico town “a public health crisis.”Experts who reviewed Joe Monge’s medical records said his levels were elevated but not extraordinarily so. A single lab test, however, cannot measure long-term effects of arsenic exposure, and Rosana Monge, 65, and others in this town are convinced the elevated arsenic levels are responsible for health problems including skin lesions and fetal development complications. Despite their pleas at public meetings and elsewhere, they believe the utility has not been taking the issue seriously.It is not entirely clear why arsenic has been allowed to seep into the water in Sunland Park year after year, though problems with infrastructure, lax enforcement of regulations and general inattention to the problem appear to be contributing factors.Fifty years after the Safe Drinking Water Act established legal limits for toxins such as arsenic in Americans’ drinking water, some public health experts and former EPA officials say politics and money have played an outsize role in how the agency determines maximum levels of contaminants allowed in drinking water. What’s more, they say some communities across the country repeatedly exceed those levels: More than 7,400 public utilities reported a violation every quarter for the last three years, according to an analysis of the EPA’s enforcement and compliance database.Those most impacted, experts say, are low-income areas and communities of color, such as Sunland Park, which is 94 percent Latino. Studies show Latinos are exposed to arsenic in their drinking water at higher rates than any other racial or ethnic group, even when controlling for socioeconomic factors. Similarly, Black Americans are disproportionately impacted by lead contamination in their water.The resulting picture, experts say, is that the world’s wealthiest nation fails to consistently deliver to all its residents one of the most fundamental necessities for human life: safe drinking water.“Why haven’t we solved these problems? Because we don’t want to,” said Ronnie Levin, a Harvard professor who was a scientist at the EPA for more than 30 years. “It’s shameful.”Udell Vigil, a spokesman for Sunland Park’s utility, said in a statement the system is challenged by aging infrastructure, new development in the area and a statewide shortage of certified utility operators. He declined to answer questions about arsenic due to the potential of a lawsuit over the issue.EPA spokesman Nick Conger said ensuring safe drinking water is a “top priority” for the agency, which is making enforcement of the legal limits a priority, and new federal infrastructure investments will help.In Sunland Park, residents’ complaints mounted in December when caustic soda, used to treat water for arsenic, was dumped into the water at unsafe levels as a result of what officials said was a plant malfunction. CRRUA’s director abruptly retired, and the state’s environmental agency levied a fine.“I think they were mismanaging at a significant level,” said John Rhoderick, director of the New Mexico Environmental Department’s water protection division, adding that the system is now “on notice.”Some residents have now taken the first steps toward filing a lawsuit.“This is a classic example of government at every level failing to protect public health for an inexcusable period of time,” said Erik Olson, a former attorney for the EPA who is now a senior health strategist and advocate at the Natural Resources Defense Council. “It’s outrageous it has been allowed to continue for well over a decade.”Naturally-occurring arsenic exists in pockets throughout the United States and particularly in the southwest, requiring municipalities to set up treatment plants that use varying techniques and chemicals to separate the arsenic from the water and extract it. The utility serving Sunland Park and the nearby Santa Teresa neighborhood has four such plants.Because arsenic is completely soluble and easily absorbed by the body, standard tests for water quality sold in stores do not typically detect it, and its range of damage to the human body is expansive. Chronic exposure can cause cancer of the skin, lung and bladder, among other kinds, as well as heart disease. It’s also associated with cognitive impairment, kidney disease, diabetes and lasting harm to fetal development. Ana Navas-Acien, professor of environmental health sciences at Columbia University, called arsenic “one of the most potent carcinogens” found in the environment.The EPA’s history of regulating arsenic is typical of how the agency has dealt with other water toxins, former EPA officials said. After the Safe Drinking Water Act was first adopted in 1974, the arsenic level was set at 50 parts per billion (ppb) — or 50 micrograms of arsenic per liter of water. Even then, former officials said evidence had emerged from the scientific community demonstrating its detrimental effects on the human body and suggesting public health would be improved by a lower level.The level was lowered once, in 2001, to 10 ppb, but some experts believe it is still too high.While the EPA sets federal toxin levels, nearly all states — including New Mexico — bear the responsibility for monitoring public water utilities and flagging violations, officials said. States can also set their own contaminant standards as long as they are not looser than the EPA’s. New Jersey and New Hampshire have the level at 5 ppb for their states, as do some European countries.“There was a lot of pressure from industry,” said James Elder, who worked at the EPA for 24 years and headed its Office of Groundwater and Drinking Water in the early 1990s, where he advocated for lowering toxin limits. “The history of arsenic is exemplary of how tortuous the process still is in regulating contaminants in drinking water.”Regularly consuming drinking water with just 3 ppb of arsenic creates a 1 in 1,000 increased risk of bladder or lung cancer, according to a 2001 National Academy of Sciences report. “With carcinogens … there is basically no safe limit,” said Sydney Evans, a senior science analyst at the Environmental Working Group, an environmental research and advocacy group.Last week, the EPA set a limit for a new drinking water contaminant, known as PFAS or forever chemicals — the first time the agency has set a water standard for a new contaminant since 1996.A history of water worriesSunland Park was founded in 1984, a decade after the passage of the Safe Drinking Water Act. Bordering Texas and Mexico, the town lies in stark desert terrain among beige mountains dotted with brush. The city is laid out as a collection of neighborhoods that dot McNutt Road like a string of pearls lying alongside the Mexico border. Cargo trains wind through the tall mountains, as does a multimillion-dollar wall along the international border, erected from private funds raised by an organization chaired by former Trump White House strategist Stephen K. Bannon.A limestone cross that glimmers in the near-constant sun here sits atop Mount Cristo Rey, a popular mountain for pilgrims in this Catholic-dominant region. It overlooks a city where many residents say they have been concerned about the water for decades.In the 1980s, the worry was a landfill and its accompanying incinerator that burned medical supply waste from New Mexico and El Paso. The residents said their health suffered from the water and air pollution it created.Monge and her husband were among a group of more than a hundred residents, called the Concerned Citizens of Sunland Park, who spoke out against a permit for the landfill.The protesters sold gorditas and other homemade food to pay for trips to the state’s capitol in Santa Fe to protest the permit. They blocked traffic and called for public hearings. Newspapers around this time reported children who were born with brain defects, as well as worms and high lead levels in tap water. Finally, in 1991, the incinerator company’s permit was denied and the state required the landfill to install a new liner to protect groundwater.Today, Sunland Park remains a working-class community where 84 percent speak Spanish at home, with more than double the national poverty and uninsured rates, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. In a place with few professional opportunities for young people, some of the loudest voices about the water quality are the same voices that spoke up more than 30 years ago: what’s left of the Concerned Citizens protesters — retirees who are no longer working full-time and know the city’s history.“Back then the people were stronger. Nowadays, many people are older and we can’t even carry the gallons” of store-bought water, said Elvia Acevedo, 65, in her living room where cases of bottled water are stacked. “I want to fight and get justice. For those who can no longer.”It’s not entirely clear how the problems with arsenic in the water began, but state and federal databases show violations piled up for years, even before several regional utilities were combined to form CRRUA in 2009.At the state level, the New Mexico Environment Department is controlled by Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham, a Democrat elected in 2018. Matt Maez, a spokesman for the department, said the state has struggled to fix the city’s water because of budget cuts enacted under Lujan Grisham’s Republican predecessor, Susana Martinez.Several of CRRUA’s seven board members, most of whom are elected officials, declined to comment. One, Alberto Jaramillo, who is also a city councilor, told The Washington Post he only recently learned about the area’s history of elevated arsenic. But he said he drinks the tap water and believes it is safe.“I haven’t read what arsenic does to your body over time, but if somebody says that I got cancer because of this or that, I want to see the proof,” Jaramillo said.Sunland Park residents woke up one morning at the end of November and turned on their sink faucets and shower heads to see a slimy, oily goo emerging from their taps. Residents reported the problem immediately but that day passed, and then the next, and CRRUA said nothing. Finally, on the fourth day, CRRUA and Doña Ana County issued a notice that the water was not safe to drink, and had not been for days.Local officials doled out bottled water. State officials investigated, discovering that the machine in charge of releasing caustic soda, used to treat arsenic, had malfunctioned, causing an unhealthy amount of pH buildup in the water. In all, residents were without potable water for six days.As state officials investigated, they found something else: The water had illegally high levels of arsenic. Three of the four arsenic plants “have been offline and bypassed for over a year,” the state said in a violation notice it sent to CRRUA, which did not account for the arsenic violations occurring in prior years.CRRUA’s executive director, Brent Westmoreland, retired in December. He did not respond to requests for comment.In January, the New Mexico Environmental Department issued a report that found 58 “significant deficiencies” in CRRUA’s water system. The state is now cracking down, levying a $251,580 fine in March. Then, a top environmental official sent a letter to the state’s attorney general and auditor urging an investigation into CRRUA for “potential violations of consumer protection laws and possible waste, fraud, and abuse of state and federal funds.”State investigators also paid an unannounced visit to Sunland Park on March 15 and took 10 water samples, finding one was above legal arsenic limits. The state has now demanded CRRUA turn over records related to its water testing.CRRUA is appealing the state’s administrative order. In a letter to the state, CRRUA board chair Susana Chaparro said the utility was proud of “ongoing improvements” since January. “What we were handed did not occur overnight and cannot be fixed overnight,” she said.The water utility also recently hired its first public information officer to communicate with its customers. Its website is now regularly updated, and notices have begun to go out with Spanish translations. CRRUA recently posted a video demonstrating how its staff samples water to test for arsenic. The utility’s interim executive director Juan Carlos Crosby said in a county board meeting on April 9 that CRRUA was more than halfway through correcting the deficiencies identified by the state and is now testing for arsenic twice a month.Eric Lopez, a consultant who recently began overseeing the arsenic plants, said CRRUA is also adding new technology to be able to monitor the water’s chemical and contaminant levels remotely.But many residents are unconvinced that change will come without more dramatic intervention from state or federal agencies. Resident Lorenzo Villescas, 68, said officials had a playbook for what was happening in Sunland Park.“I compare this to Flint,” he said, referring to the Michigan city where problems with lead in the water sparked national outrage 10 years ago this month. There, “the authorities denied it was bad, too.”Residents have been pleased by the new attention from state and local officials in recent months but have wondered if it’s only come about because newer and wealthier residents in growing developments around the city have also now been affected.“They discovered this now because the water came out bad in the new areas, where the rich people live,” said Isabel Santos, 65, a former interim mayor and city council member who was also once president of the Concerned Citizens of Sunland Park and now wants to revive the group.Villescas has lesions on his skin and wonders if it is from drinking the arsenic-laden water. So does Maria Lucero, 66, whose family helped found this town but is now looking to move out because of the water.Irene Rodriguez, 62, is surrounded by cancer: Her husband, her mother and three of her four siblings were diagnosed with it. They only recently started to wonder if their water was to blame. She has stopped even brushing her teeth with it.Ofelia Garcia, 81, said many of her friends and neighbors have died of thyroid cancer. “A lot of people down here die from cancer. But we don’t know if it’s from the water for sure,” she said.At a ranch full of high-end horses that compete at a local racetrack, horses kept dying, said a former employee who spoke on the condition of anonymity for fear of offending the utility. He said he quit and now only gives the horses he raises bottled drinking water.Acevedo said she drank the tap water here for a long time, including when she was pregnant with her son Mikey. She said he was born with Down syndrome as well as thyroid problems, asthma and diabetes, while her other two children, who were born in California before she moved to Sunland Park, were born healthy.In March, three friends of hers who were born and raised in Sunland Park died of cancer. She blames the water.“People are dying from this,” she said. “We’re paying for something that’s poisoning us.”With residents distrustful of the utility, it is common in Sunland Park to see water bottles piled up in garbage cans and stacked by the dozens in living rooms and kitchens. Some people drive to nearby El Paso for water while others say they boil the water before use, which experts said actually concentrates arsenic rather than removing it.In a door-to-door survey conducted by Empowerment Congress in March, 317 out of 490 people said they were not using the tap water to drink or cook.About 11 years ago, Monge’s husband developed prostate and thyroid cancer. Several years ago, he began to hallucinate and grew weak. She took him from doctor to doctor in hopes of finding out what was wrong. His February death was officially attributed to Parkinson’s disease. A bugler played “Taps” before the decorated Vietnam War veteran was buried on a crisp March morning in Arlington National Cemetery.Monge, who has lived in town for over 40 years, now wonders if other conditions in her family — one of her daughters was born premature at two pounds, another one developed a tumor in her late teens, while Monge herself was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis — could be related to prolonged arsenic exposure.Experts say arsenic can cause many of the conditions cited by residents though such diseases are also rampant in low-income communities of color even without dangerous water conditions. “There’s a lot of parts of injustice in poor, Latino communities. … But how do you just nail down one? How do you just say — look, is this the thing that’s killing you?” asked Israel Chávez, a lawyer representing residents.After Monge spoke at the CRRUA board meeting about her late husband, Vivian Fuller, a field organizer for Empowerment Congress, cast aside her pre-written notes for public comments, and issued a new plea to the board members.“People are dying. Our community is dying,” she said. “There’s nothing that we can do unless you all help us.”

After repeated violations, the state has stepped in -- but the problems are a reminder that safe water is not available to all Americans

SUNLAND PARK, N.M. — Rosana Monge clutched her husband’s death certificate and an envelope of his medical records as she approached the microphone and faced members of the water utility board on a recent Monday in this city in southeast New Mexico.

“I have proof here of arsenic tests — positive on him, that were done by the Veterans Administration,” she testified about her husband, whose 2023 records show he had been diagnosed with “exposure to arsenic” before his death in February at age 79. “What I’m asking is for a health assessment of the community.”

State and federal records show that in each of the last 16 years, drinking water samples tested in this 17,400-person town near the Texas border have contained illegally high levels of arsenic, including in 2016 when levels reached five times the legal limit.

Naturally occurring in the soil in New Mexico, arsenic seeps into the groundwater used for drinking. In water, arsenic has no taste, odor or color — but can be removed with treatment. Over time, it can cause a variety of health problems, including cancer, diabetes and heart disease, endangering the lives of people in this low-income and overwhelmingly Latino community.

The Environmental Protection Agency has assessed Sunland Park’s water operator, the Camino Real Regional Utility Authority (CRRUA), with 120 “violation points” over the last five years, a calculation based both on the number of times the utility has violated federal standards and the level of seriousness of the violations. For utilities serving at least 10,000 people that recently had a health-related violation, the tally was second only to the 182 points collected by Jackson, Miss., where problems with the drinking water earned national attention in 2022. Sunland Park has even more issues the EPA considers unresolved than Jackson.

Anne Nigra, a professor at Columbia University who focuses on the impacts of arsenic-ladled water on Latino communities and reviewed the utility’s federally mandated water reports, called the situation in the New Mexico town “a public health crisis.”

Experts who reviewed Joe Monge’s medical records said his levels were elevated but not extraordinarily so. A single lab test, however, cannot measure long-term effects of arsenic exposure, and Rosana Monge, 65, and others in this town are convinced the elevated arsenic levels are responsible for health problems including skin lesions and fetal development complications. Despite their pleas at public meetings and elsewhere, they believe the utility has not been taking the issue seriously.

It is not entirely clear why arsenic has been allowed to seep into the water in Sunland Park year after year, though problems with infrastructure, lax enforcement of regulations and general inattention to the problem appear to be contributing factors.

Fifty years after the Safe Drinking Water Act established legal limits for toxins such as arsenic in Americans’ drinking water, some public health experts and former EPA officials say politics and money have played an outsize role in how the agency determines maximum levels of contaminants allowed in drinking water. What’s more, they say some communities across the country repeatedly exceed those levels: More than 7,400 public utilities reported a violation every quarter for the last three years, according to an analysis of the EPA’s enforcement and compliance database.

Those most impacted, experts say, are low-income areas and communities of color, such as Sunland Park, which is 94 percent Latino. Studies show Latinos are exposed to arsenic in their drinking water at higher rates than any other racial or ethnic group, even when controlling for socioeconomic factors. Similarly, Black Americans are disproportionately impacted by lead contamination in their water.

The resulting picture, experts say, is that the world’s wealthiest nation fails to consistently deliver to all its residents one of the most fundamental necessities for human life: safe drinking water.

“Why haven’t we solved these problems? Because we don’t want to,” said Ronnie Levin, a Harvard professor who was a scientist at the EPA for more than 30 years. “It’s shameful.”

Udell Vigil, a spokesman for Sunland Park’s utility, said in a statement the system is challenged by aging infrastructure, new development in the area and a statewide shortage of certified utility operators. He declined to answer questions about arsenic due to the potential of a lawsuit over the issue.

EPA spokesman Nick Conger said ensuring safe drinking water is a “top priority” for the agency, which is making enforcement of the legal limits a priority, and new federal infrastructure investments will help.

In Sunland Park, residents’ complaints mounted in December when caustic soda, used to treat water for arsenic, was dumped into the water at unsafe levels as a result of what officials said was a plant malfunction. CRRUA’s director abruptly retired, and the state’s environmental agency levied a fine.

“I think they were mismanaging at a significant level,” said John Rhoderick, director of the New Mexico Environmental Department’s water protection division, adding that the system is now “on notice.”

Some residents have now taken the first steps toward filing a lawsuit.

“This is a classic example of government at every level failing to protect public health for an inexcusable period of time,” said Erik Olson, a former attorney for the EPA who is now a senior health strategist and advocate at the Natural Resources Defense Council. “It’s outrageous it has been allowed to continue for well over a decade.”

Naturally-occurring arsenic exists in pockets throughout the United States and particularly in the southwest, requiring municipalities to set up treatment plants that use varying techniques and chemicals to separate the arsenic from the water and extract it. The utility serving Sunland Park and the nearby Santa Teresa neighborhood has four such plants.

Because arsenic is completely soluble and easily absorbed by the body, standard tests for water quality sold in stores do not typically detect it, and its range of damage to the human body is expansive. Chronic exposure can cause cancer of the skin, lung and bladder, among other kinds, as well as heart disease. It’s also associated with cognitive impairment, kidney disease, diabetes and lasting harm to fetal development. Ana Navas-Acien, professor of environmental health sciences at Columbia University, called arsenic “one of the most potent carcinogens” found in the environment.

The EPA’s history of regulating arsenic is typical of how the agency has dealt with other water toxins, former EPA officials said. After the Safe Drinking Water Act was first adopted in 1974, the arsenic level was set at 50 parts per billion (ppb) — or 50 micrograms of arsenic per liter of water. Even then, former officials said evidence had emerged from the scientific community demonstrating its detrimental effects on the human body and suggesting public health would be improved by a lower level.

The level was lowered once, in 2001, to 10 ppb, but some experts believe it is still too high.

While the EPA sets federal toxin levels, nearly all states — including New Mexico — bear the responsibility for monitoring public water utilities and flagging violations, officials said. States can also set their own contaminant standards as long as they are not looser than the EPA’s. New Jersey and New Hampshire have the level at 5 ppb for their states, as do some European countries.

“There was a lot of pressure from industry,” said James Elder, who worked at the EPA for 24 years and headed its Office of Groundwater and Drinking Water in the early 1990s, where he advocated for lowering toxin limits. “The history of arsenic is exemplary of how tortuous the process still is in regulating contaminants in drinking water.”

Regularly consuming drinking water with just 3 ppb of arsenic creates a 1 in 1,000 increased risk of bladder or lung cancer, according to a 2001 National Academy of Sciences report. “With carcinogens … there is basically no safe limit,” said Sydney Evans, a senior science analyst at the Environmental Working Group, an environmental research and advocacy group.

Last week, the EPA set a limit for a new drinking water contaminant, known as PFAS or forever chemicals — the first time the agency has set a water standard for a new contaminant since 1996.

A history of water worries

Sunland Park was founded in 1984, a decade after the passage of the Safe Drinking Water Act. Bordering Texas and Mexico, the town lies in stark desert terrain among beige mountains dotted with brush. The city is laid out as a collection of neighborhoods that dot McNutt Road like a string of pearls lying alongside the Mexico border. Cargo trains wind through the tall mountains, as does a multimillion-dollar wall along the international border, erected from private funds raised by an organization chaired by former Trump White House strategist Stephen K. Bannon.

A limestone cross that glimmers in the near-constant sun here sits atop Mount Cristo Rey, a popular mountain for pilgrims in this Catholic-dominant region. It overlooks a city where many residents say they have been concerned about the water for decades.

In the 1980s, the worry was a landfill and its accompanying incinerator that burned medical supply waste from New Mexico and El Paso. The residents said their health suffered from the water and air pollution it created.

Monge and her husband were among a group of more than a hundred residents, called the Concerned Citizens of Sunland Park, who spoke out against a permit for the landfill.

The protesters sold gorditas and other homemade food to pay for trips to the state’s capitol in Santa Fe to protest the permit. They blocked traffic and called for public hearings. Newspapers around this time reported children who were born with brain defects, as well as worms and high lead levels in tap water. Finally, in 1991, the incinerator company’s permit was denied and the state required the landfill to install a new liner to protect groundwater.

Today, Sunland Park remains a working-class community where 84 percent speak Spanish at home, with more than double the national poverty and uninsured rates, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. In a place with few professional opportunities for young people, some of the loudest voices about the water quality are the same voices that spoke up more than 30 years ago: what’s left of the Concerned Citizens protesters — retirees who are no longer working full-time and know the city’s history.

“Back then the people were stronger. Nowadays, many people are older and we can’t even carry the gallons” of store-bought water, said Elvia Acevedo, 65, in her living room where cases of bottled water are stacked. “I want to fight and get justice. For those who can no longer.”

It’s not entirely clear how the problems with arsenic in the water began, but state and federal databases show violations piled up for years, even before several regional utilities were combined to form CRRUA in 2009.

At the state level, the New Mexico Environment Department is controlled by Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham, a Democrat elected in 2018. Matt Maez, a spokesman for the department, said the state has struggled to fix the city’s water because of budget cuts enacted under Lujan Grisham’s Republican predecessor, Susana Martinez.

Several of CRRUA’s seven board members, most of whom are elected officials, declined to comment. One, Alberto Jaramillo, who is also a city councilor, told The Washington Post he only recently learned about the area’s history of elevated arsenic. But he said he drinks the tap water and believes it is safe.

“I haven’t read what arsenic does to your body over time, but if somebody says that I got cancer because of this or that, I want to see the proof,” Jaramillo said.

Sunland Park residents woke up one morning at the end of November and turned on their sink faucets and shower heads to see a slimy, oily goo emerging from their taps. Residents reported the problem immediately but that day passed, and then the next, and CRRUA said nothing. Finally, on the fourth day, CRRUA and Doña Ana County issued a notice that the water was not safe to drink, and had not been for days.

Local officials doled out bottled water. State officials investigated, discovering that the machine in charge of releasing caustic soda, used to treat arsenic, had malfunctioned, causing an unhealthy amount of pH buildup in the water. In all, residents were without potable water for six days.

As state officials investigated, they found something else: The water had illegally high levels of arsenic. Three of the four arsenic plants “have been offline and bypassed for over a year,” the state said in a violation notice it sent to CRRUA, which did not account for the arsenic violations occurring in prior years.

CRRUA’s executive director, Brent Westmoreland, retired in December. He did not respond to requests for comment.

In January, the New Mexico Environmental Department issued a report that found 58 “significant deficiencies” in CRRUA’s water system. The state is now cracking down, levying a $251,580 fine in March. Then, a top environmental official sent a letter to the state’s attorney general and auditor urging an investigation into CRRUA for “potential violations of consumer protection laws and possible waste, fraud, and abuse of state and federal funds.”

State investigators also paid an unannounced visit to Sunland Park on March 15 and took 10 water samples, finding one was above legal arsenic limits. The state has now demanded CRRUA turn over records related to its water testing.

CRRUA is appealing the state’s administrative order. In a letter to the state, CRRUA board chair Susana Chaparro said the utility was proud of “ongoing improvements” since January. “What we were handed did not occur overnight and cannot be fixed overnight,” she said.

The water utility also recently hired its first public information officer to communicate with its customers. Its website is now regularly updated, and notices have begun to go out with Spanish translations. CRRUA recently posted a video demonstrating how its staff samples water to test for arsenic. The utility’s interim executive director Juan Carlos Crosby said in a county board meeting on April 9 that CRRUA was more than halfway through correcting the deficiencies identified by the state and is now testing for arsenic twice a month.

Eric Lopez, a consultant who recently began overseeing the arsenic plants, said CRRUA is also adding new technology to be able to monitor the water’s chemical and contaminant levels remotely.

But many residents are unconvinced that change will come without more dramatic intervention from state or federal agencies. Resident Lorenzo Villescas, 68, said officials had a playbook for what was happening in Sunland Park.

“I compare this to Flint,” he said, referring to the Michigan city where problems with lead in the water sparked national outrage 10 years ago this month. There, “the authorities denied it was bad, too.”

Residents have been pleased by the new attention from state and local officials in recent months but have wondered if it’s only come about because newer and wealthier residents in growing developments around the city have also now been affected.

“They discovered this now because the water came out bad in the new areas, where the rich people live,” said Isabel Santos, 65, a former interim mayor and city council member who was also once president of the Concerned Citizens of Sunland Park and now wants to revive the group.

Villescas has lesions on his skin and wonders if it is from drinking the arsenic-laden water. So does Maria Lucero, 66, whose family helped found this town but is now looking to move out because of the water.

Irene Rodriguez, 62, is surrounded by cancer: Her husband, her mother and three of her four siblings were diagnosed with it. They only recently started to wonder if their water was to blame. She has stopped even brushing her teeth with it.

Ofelia Garcia, 81, said many of her friends and neighbors have died of thyroid cancer. “A lot of people down here die from cancer. But we don’t know if it’s from the water for sure,” she said.

At a ranch full of high-end horses that compete at a local racetrack, horses kept dying, said a former employee who spoke on the condition of anonymity for fear of offending the utility. He said he quit and now only gives the horses he raises bottled drinking water.

Acevedo said she drank the tap water here for a long time, including when she was pregnant with her son Mikey. She said he was born with Down syndrome as well as thyroid problems, asthma and diabetes, while her other two children, who were born in California before she moved to Sunland Park, were born healthy.

In March, three friends of hers who were born and raised in Sunland Park died of cancer. She blames the water.

“People are dying from this,” she said. “We’re paying for something that’s poisoning us.”

With residents distrustful of the utility, it is common in Sunland Park to see water bottles piled up in garbage cans and stacked by the dozens in living rooms and kitchens. Some people drive to nearby El Paso for water while others say they boil the water before use, which experts said actually concentrates arsenic rather than removing it.

In a door-to-door survey conducted by Empowerment Congress in March, 317 out of 490 people said they were not using the tap water to drink or cook.

About 11 years ago, Monge’s husband developed prostate and thyroid cancer. Several years ago, he began to hallucinate and grew weak. She took him from doctor to doctor in hopes of finding out what was wrong. His February death was officially attributed to Parkinson’s disease. A bugler played “Taps” before the decorated Vietnam War veteran was buried on a crisp March morning in Arlington National Cemetery.

Monge, who has lived in town for over 40 years, now wonders if other conditions in her family — one of her daughters was born premature at two pounds, another one developed a tumor in her late teens, while Monge herself was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis — could be related to prolonged arsenic exposure.

Experts say arsenic can cause many of the conditions cited by residents though such diseases are also rampant in low-income communities of color even without dangerous water conditions. “There’s a lot of parts of injustice in poor, Latino communities. … But how do you just nail down one? How do you just say — look, is this the thing that’s killing you?” asked Israel Chávez, a lawyer representing residents.

After Monge spoke at the CRRUA board meeting about her late husband, Vivian Fuller, a field organizer for Empowerment Congress, cast aside her pre-written notes for public comments, and issued a new plea to the board members.

“People are dying. Our community is dying,” she said. “There’s nothing that we can do unless you all help us.”

Read the full story here.
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U.S. Plan to Protect Oceans Has a Problem, Some Say: Too Much Fishing

An effort to protect 30 percent of land and waters would count some commercial fishing zones as conserved areas.

New details of the Biden administration’s signature conservation effort, made public this month amid a burst of other environmental announcements, have alarmed some scientists who study marine protected areas because the plan would count certain commercial fishing zones as conserved.The decision could have ripple effects around the world as nations work toward fulfilling a broader global commitment to safeguard 30 percent of the entire planet’s land, inland waters and seas. That effort has been hailed as historic, but the critical question of what, exactly, counts as conserved is still being decided.This early answer from the Biden administration is worrying, researchers say, because high-impact commercial fishing is incompatible with the goals of the efforts.“Saying that these areas that are touted to be for biodiversity conservation should also do double duty for fishing as well, especially highly impactful gears that are for large-scale commercial take, there’s just a cognitive dissonance there,” said Kirsten Grorud-Colvert, a marine biologist at Oregon State University who led a group of scientists that in 2021 published a guide for evaluating marine protected areas.The debate is unfolding amid a global biodiversity crisis that is speeding extinctions and eroding ecosystems, according to a landmark intergovernmental assessment. As the natural world degrades, its ability to give humans essentials like food and clean water also diminishes. The primary driver of biodiversity declines in the ocean, the assessment found, is overfishing. Climate change is an additional and ever-worsening threat.Fish are an important source of nutrition for billions of people around the world. Research shows that effectively conserving key areas is an key tool to keep stocks healthy while also protecting other ocean life.Subscribe to The Times to read as many articles as you like.

Megadrought forces end to sugarcane farming in parched Texas borderland

The state’s last sugar processing mill closed because there’s just not enough water in the Rio Grande to share between the US and MexicoTudor Uhlhorn has been too busy auctioning off agricultural equipment to grieve the “death” of Texas’s last sugar mill.“I’m as sad as anyone else,” said the chairman of the board of the Rio Grande Valley Sugar Growers cooperative, which owns the now-shuttered mill in Santa Rosa, a small town about 40 miles from Brownsville. “I just haven’t had a whole lot of time to mourn.” Continue reading...

Tudor Uhlhorn has been too busy auctioning off agricultural equipment to grieve the “death” of Texas’s last sugar mill.“I’m as sad as anyone else,” said the chairman of the board of the Rio Grande Valley Sugar Growers cooperative, which owns the now-shuttered mill in Santa Rosa, a small town about 40 miles from Brownsville. “I just haven’t had a whole lot of time to mourn.”In February, the cooperative announced that it would close its 50-year-old sugarcane processing mill, the last remaining in the state, by the end of this spring. It didn’t even make it to the end of the season, with most workers employed until 29 April. Ongoing megadrought meant there wasn’t enough water to irrigate co-op members’ 34,000 acres of sugarcane, and that effectively puts an end to sugarcane farming in the south Texas borderlands.Co-op leadership blame this on ongoing shortages related to a US water-sharing agreement that splits Rio Grande River water with Mexico. If only Mexico had released water from its reservoirs to American farmers as decreed by a 1944 treaty, Uhlhorn told the Guardian, sugarcane might have been saved. Phone calls and emails to various Mexican consulates were not returned.But sugarcane’s demise in Texas is indicative of many agricultural areas’ water woes. Increasingly dry farms find themselves vying with other farms, cities, industries and mining operations for dwindling resources. In 2022, drought decimated Texas cotton and forced California growers to idle half their rice fields. Water disputes are also on the rise as decreased flows in the Colorado River and other vital waterways pit state against state, states against native nations and farmers against municipalities.“That story is playing out all across the western US,” said Maurice Hall, senior adviser on climate-resilient water systems at the Environmental Defense Fund (EDF). And irrigated agriculture, “which uses the dominant part of our managed water supply in most of the arid and semi-arid western US, is right in the middle of it”. Sugarcane may be the first irrigated crop to go under in the lower Rio Grande. But it probably won’t be the last.By early March, the mill had harvested the last sugarcane crops from about 100 area producers, including from the 7,000-acre farm Travis Johnson works with his uncle in Lyford, Texas. His family has farmed this land for 100 years, but sugarcane – a lucrative crop thanks to government subsidies – was a new addition about 20 years ago.As the lower Rio Grande’s notoriously fierce winds gusted through his phone, Johnson sounded resigned to the end of his family farm’s sugarcane era. For the near future, he’ll be growing more of the cotton, corn and grains that fill out the rest of his acreage. “It was nice to have another crop we could rely on,” he said. “Sugarcane was something that we could harvest and get money for during a time when we were spending money on our other crops.”Though sugarcane was a reliable cash crop, it is also a water hog. In a place like the lower Rio Grande, where average rainfall is 29 inches or less a year, sugarcane requires up to 50 inches of water a year. It cannot grow here without irrigation. The co-op’s sugar mill churned out 60,000 tons of molasses and 160,000 tons of raw sugar annually, and that’s also a water-heavy business.“So many of the steps along that process require a massive amount of water,” starting with washing cane when it comes in from the field, said journalist Celeste Headlee, whose Big Sugar podcast explored Florida’s exploitative sugar industry. (The bulk of US sugarcane is commercially in only two other states, Florida and Louisiana; less water-intensive sugar beets are grown in cooler states like Minnesota and North Dakota).Per the 1944 treaty, Mexico is obligated to deliver 1.75m acre-feet of water to the US in any given five-year cycle (the current cycle ends in October 2025).Burnt sugar cane is spread out at an even height at Rio Grande Valley Sugar Mill in Santa Rosa, Texas, in 2005. Photograph: Joe Hermosa/AP“This thing worked pretty good up until 1992,” said Uhlhorn, when “we got into a situation where Mexico was not delivering their water” due to extraordinary drought – a scenario that played out again in the early 2000s. In 2022, Rio Grande reservoirs fell to treacherously low capacities. A storm eventually dumped rain mostly on the Mexican side; what fell in Texas “was enough water for maybe one irrigation, but you’d have to starve your other crops” in order to water sugarcane, Uhlhorn said. A Texas Farm Bureau publication said that Mexico currently “owes 736,000 acre-feet of water”.Lack of water caused Texas growers to plow under thousands of acres of sugarcane during the last growing season. “So now [the farmers are] down to 10,000 acres and we’re no longer viable,” explained Uhlhorn about the decision to end production. “Even if we had the best yields ever, with our fixed costs, the mill would have lost millions of dollars.”The Texas A&M agricultural economist Luis Ribera said: “It’s not that Mexico is holding the water because they are bad neighbors. They’re using it” because drought has plagued both sides of the border. As David Michel, senior fellow for water security at the Center for Strategic and International Studies, elaborated, the entire Rio Grande [Valley] faces these challenges “from source to sea. Users on both sides of the border are going to have to define water efficiencies and conservation strategies to mitigate these pressures.” In other words, said Travis Johnson, the mill closure “is probably going to be a wake-up call for farmers in our area, whenever we do get water again, to try to conserve it as much as possible”.In the immediate post-closure period, Uhlhorn and the cooperative members are selling off equipment to settle debts and trying to find replacement jobs for mill staff at places like SpaceX and the Brownsville Ship Channel. The facility employed 100 full-time workers and supported another 300 part-time laborers. The cooperative also reportedly shipped all remaining sugar from its warehouses more than 600 miles away to the Domino refinery in Chalmette, Louisiana, one of the hemisphere’s largest sugar processors.The Santa Rosa sugar mill was a vital cog in an industry that generated an estimated $100m annual in economic impact from four counties in the lower Rio Grande. The loss of jobs and community revenue might well extend to the valley’s $200m citrus industry, which also is struggling to meet its water needs and survive.“I wish I could tell you we had all the answers and we were geniuses, and we were going to avoid what happened to the sugar mill. But I can’t,” said Dale Murden, a grapefruit and cattle farmer. “Water going into the spring and summer is as low as it’s ever been, and some water districts have already notified customers they’re out [of water] for the year. Without rains and inflows and cooperation from Mexico, we are in serious trouble.”The International Boundary and Water Commission, which is responsible for applying the 1944 treaty, began negotiating a new provision to it – called a “minute” – in 2023, with the aim of “bringing predictability and reliability to Rio Grande deliveries to users in both countries”, a spokesperson wrote in an email.Vanessa Puig-Williams, EDF’s Texas water program director, said that if the new minute focuses on the science of how much water is actually available on both sides of the border, that would be an opportunity “to think more innovatively and creatively about how we can conserve some of those water rights”.Either way, Michel said farmers must adjust to a thirstier reality. That might include using recycled water and tools like moisture sensors, finding better irrigation techniques and planting more drought-resistant crop varieties. And they may have to reconcile themselves to the fact “you won’t be able to do [certain things] any more just because there isn’t water”.Chelsea Fisher, a University of South Carolina anthropologist who studies environmental justice conflicts, said lessons relevant to the current water crisis can be found throughout agricultural history. “Something that you notice across societies that manage to farm sustainably for at least several centuries is that they’re emulating relationships that already exist in nature – whether that means copying the way that wetlands recycle nutrients, whether it’s dryland farming that is very much in sync with the ways that water naturally gathers in certain places,” she said.In fact, Johnson plans to stop growing crops that require irrigation. Instead, he’ll focus only on those that can be grown with naturally available moisture. “I don’t think [the water situation] just amazingly gets better overnight,” he said.The Environmental Defense Fund’s Hall said that the water crisis was pushing growers to ask: “What is the future that we want? And how do we move toward that future, recognizing with a clear-eyed view what the real hydrology is? … People want to continue doing what they’ve been doing. But at some point, undesirable things are going to happen. Things like sugarcane and industries and whole communities going away. Farmers who are willing to listen to what the science is telling us is going to happen, and to think about how we can do things differently: that is where the real innovation at scale is going to happen.”Reporting for this piece was supported by a media fellowship from the Nova Institute for Health

As California cracks down on groundwater, what will happen to fallowed farmland?

California water regulators are cracking down on the overuse of groundwater by farmers. Enforcement could prompt them to idle thousands of acres of farmland and poses larger questions about what will happen to the affected fields.

In summary California water regulators are cracking down on the overuse of groundwater by farmers. Enforcement could prompt them to idle thousands of acres of farmland and poses larger questions about what will happen to the affected fields. A couple of weeks ago, the California Water Resources Control Board put five agricultural water agencies in Kings County on probation for failing to adequately manage underground water supplies in the Tulare Lake Basin that have been seriously depleted due to overpumping. It was the state’s first major enforcement action under the State Groundwater Management Act, passed a decade ago to protect the aquifers that farmers have used to supplement or replace water from reservoirs that’s curtailed during periods of drought. In some areas, so much groundwater has been pumped that the land above it has collapsed, a phenomenon known as subsidence. The board’s action on April 16 not only subjects the Kings County agencies to fees and tighter monitoring but sends a message to irrigators throughout the state that they must get serious about eliminating overdrafts after having a decade to adopt aquifer management plans. Curtailing groundwater use is not an isolated event, but rather a significant piece of the state’s declared intent to reduce the share of water devoted to agriculture – roughly three quarters of overall human use – as the state adjusts to the effects of climate change. As if to punctuate that goal, federal water managers have told San Joaquin Valley farmers that despite two wet winters they will receive less than half of their contracted allocations of water during this year’s growing season. In decades past, when surface water from reservoirs has fallen short of demand, farmers have drilled deep wells to tap aquifers. With the state water board cracking down on groundwater, it is inevitable, experts say, that some fields will have to be taken out of production. The Public Policy Institute of California, which closely monitors management of the state’s water supply, has estimated that at least 500,000 acres of farmland will be fallowed when the groundwater law is fully implemented. Whose lands will be affected, what happens to idled acreage and the financial impacts are issues hovering over groundwater reduction. One day after the water board’s crackdown on Kings County, a hint of those issues surfaced as the Assembly Utilities and Energy Committee approved legislation that would make it easier for farmers whose access to groundwater is restricted to convert their fields into solar energy farms. Assembly Bill 2528, carried by Assemblyman Joaquin Arambula, a Fresno Democrat, would allow affected farmers to withdraw their land from Williamson Act conservation contracts and use it for solar power generation without paying the stiff cancellation fees now in current law. The six-decade-old Williamson Act gives farmers big reductions in their property taxes in return for making long-term commitments to keep land in agricultural production. Learn more about legislators mentioned in this story. Joaquin Arambula Democrat, State Assembly, District 31 (Fresno) Arambula told the committee that “many agricultural landowners are at risk of losing access to water that is essential for their ability to farm their land (and) this confluence of water sustainability needs and clean energy demand creates an opportunity for us to craft an approach that addresses multiple economic and environmental goals.” The bill is backed by the solar power industry and the Western Growers Association, which generally represents large farmers. However, the California Farm Bureau, with many relatively small farmers as members, is opposed, saying the bill could undermine the Williamson Act’s goal of conserving farmland. The split between the two farm groups implies that as groundwater is curtailed, there will be a scramble over the conversion of fallowed fields. Some farmers are already lining up deals with solar energy interests that would be even more lucrative if they can cancel their Williamson Act contracts without paying hefty cancellation fees, as much as 25% of the land’s value.

Fire for Watersheds

To bring more water to the landscape — and fight the growing risk of catastrophic wildfires — a Tribe in California helps to reshape fire management policy. The post Fire for Watersheds appeared first on The Revelator.

Originally published by BioGraphic. Fire is not coming easily to the pile of dried grass and brush. Four college students fuss with the smoldering heap while Ron Goode, a bear-like man with a graying braid, leans on his cane and inspects their work. Crouch down low, he tells them. Reach farther into the brush with the lighter. Tentative orange flames spring to life and a student in a tie-dyed t-shirt blows gently, imploring them not to die. It’s a clear November day in the western foothills of California’s Sierra Nevada near the town of Mariposa. The students, visiting from the University of California, Berkeley, are here to help revitalize a patch of live oaks that belongs to Goode’s wife’s family. Goode, the chairman of the North Fork Mono Tribe, is here to teach them how. Now in his early 70s, Goode and his Tribe have worked for decades to restore neglected meadows and woodlands on private property,  reservations belonging to other Tribes, and on their own ancestral homelands in the Sierra National Forest. And restoration, in these dry hills, calls for fire. Dressed in cotton shirts and pants, the students feeding the thread of smoke in the oak grove look more like landscapers than a fire crew. “We’re not firefighters. We’re burners, professional burners,” Goode explains. “And we’re using Native knowledge, traditional ecological knowledge, from centuries ago.” This approach, employed by Native peoples across the world, is known as cultural burning. Once the fire is rolling, the students use pruning shears to cut more naked stems of Ta-ka-te, or sourberry (Rhus trilobata), down to the ground and toss those onto the now crackling pile. The next morning, after the flames have devoured this fuel, Goode’s grandnephew Jesse Valdez will coach the students on how to mix the cooling ash into the soil with rakes, to fertilize the roots below. After piles are burned and extinguished, fire practitioners will rake the ash into the soil to fertilize the roots below. Photograph by Ashley Braun Cultural burning is a kind of gardening. This Indigenous stewardship tradition of clearing, landscaping, and burning mimics natural disturbances, which create a diverse mosaic of habitats and trigger beneficial growth patterns in certain plants. Goode, Valdez, and other practitioners use small, targeted fires to help reshape and rejuvenate landscapes, both for the overall ecological health of the land and for specific cultural purposes, from cultivating traditional foods to sustaining ceremonial practices. Fire, for instance, stimulates Mo-nop’, or deergrass (Muhlenbergia rigens), to explode with flowers. Nium people, as the Mono call themselves, use these flexible flower stalks to weave watertight baskets coiled and patterned like rattlesnakes. And towering Wi-yap’, or black oak (Quercus kelloggii) yield bushels of healthy acorns — once a staple in many Native Californian diets. Low-intensity fires discourage competing conifers, smoke out pests, and clear fuels that threaten to carry flames into the oaks’ more vulnerable crowns. Fire also improves fruit production in berry patches — another key food source for people and animals. Acorns were once a staple among many California Natives, accounting for up to 50 percent of Indigenous diets in the state. Photograph by Ashley Braun Before foreign colonizers arrived and suppressed the practice, Native Californians often lit low-intensity fires to realize benefits like these. Frequent, low-intensity fire also inoculated the landscape against the kind of destructive megafires that regularly scorch the West Coast today. In fact, fire was so endemic in pre-colonial times that the total area burned in California each year was far greater than that burned by modern megafires. But instead of leaving a blackened moonscape largely devoid of life, the low-intensity fires revitalized the land. Now, Indigenous peoples across the United States are reclaiming traditional fire stewardship practices, from California and Oregon to Minnesota and Texas. They are reviving their connections to their cultures and homelands, restoring ecosystems, boosting biodiversity, and reducing wildfire risk. In California, they’re even using fire — counterintuitively — to bring water back to the parched land. “Let’s go way back in time,” Goode says, beginning a Nium story. “Tobahp — Land — married Pia — Water — and they had a mischievous child named Kos. And Kos is Fire. Kos liked to run around out in the forest and leave a trail, and wherever Kos went, his father Pia would follow him and sprinkle water on his trail, and his mother Tobahp would come along and plant flowers and plants.” The ancient allegory describes wildfire in the Sierra, Goode explains: After flames pass over the land, “Water is everywhere, and the first thing that starts popping up are all the cultural plants and the flowers.” Learning to harness fire and its benefits over millennia allowed Native Californians like the Nium to create and maintain open, park-like landscapes. They wanted clear sightlines to watch for danger and protect their villages and families. And the grassy oak savannas and meadows that they tended with cultural burning were ideal for gathering food, medicines, and other supplies, as well as for travel and hunting. Meadows are good for more than just people, says Joanna Clines, a Sierra National Forest botanist who has worked with the North Fork Mono on restoration. These wetland ecosystems are often-spring-fed and boast “a huge explosion of diversity,” Clines explains, including dozens of species of sedges, rushes, and grasses,  which in turn provide cover and forage for deer, birds, frogs, snakes, and other fauna. Wildflowers like common camas hide delicious bulbs beneath the damp soil and produce blooms that attract native butterflies and bees. Comprising just 2% of the region today — historically they may have covered more than four times that — meadows “are the gems of the Sierra Nevada,” Clines says. But from the late 18th to the early 20th century, colonists violently removed Indigenous stewards from their meadows, and from the land. Fires were snuffed out or never lit. Indigenous people in the Sierra and beyond were killed in droves, forced to assimilate, and corralled onto reservations. Spanish missionaries were first to ban cultural burning, followed later by the U.S. government. After a devastating complex of wildfires burned 3 million acres in the Northern Rockies in 1911, Congress passed a law establishing a national forest policy of fire prevention and suppression. The Bureau of Indian Affairs later adopted it on reservations. The land and people are still recovering from their forced separation from fire. Fifty miles east of Mariposa, Goode surveys a meadow within the North Fork Mono’s homelands, where fragrant native mint and soaproot toast in the autumn sun, alongside a muddy spring. The meadow is part of the 1.3-million-acre Sierra National Forest. For a long time, the Tribe tended deergrass and other resources here, Goode says, but in the early 1980s, many began to feel that the national forest no longer welcomed them in this place. Without the Tribe’s ministrations, ponderosa pines marched in, along with aggressive European invaders like Scotch broom, shading out what had been the largest deergrass bed in their homelands. In 2003, Dave Martin, a friendly new Forest Service district ranger, invited the North Fork Mono back to this meadow. When the Tribe returned, they found it unrecognizable. But with initial help from an environmental nonprofit and local volunteers, the Tribe chopped brush and selectively logged to mimic what fire would have accomplished had it been allowed. They also performed three cultural burns between 2005 and 2010. Some pines were too large for them to cut or burn, but the utility company PG&E serendipitously felled them later as it cleared space around its powerlines to avoid sparking wildfires. Freed from thirsty conifers, the meager spring began gushing through the summer. Within a few years, Goode says, these five verdant acres were once again worthy of the label “meadow.” A stately black oak — a favorite tree among many California Tribes — drops acorns at its margin, and Goode points out the sprawling hummocks of returned bunchgrasses, their green glow fading to straw. “These are all the fresh deergrasses,” he says. “They go way up, all the way to the farthest telephone pole now.” The link between fire and water is well-recognized among fire-dependent Indigenous cultures worldwide, says Frank Kanawha Lake, a Forest Service fire ecologist who collaborates with Goode on research. Historical records suggest that Tribes throughout California, for example, have long known that burning brush makes springs run better and helps save water, according to research by Lake, who has family ties to the Karuk and Yurok. Even in swampy Florida, the Seminole Tribe has a long history of burning in marshes and other damp ecosystems to encourage cultural and medicinal plants that require a higher water table. The Maar-speaking Indigenous peoples of southeastern Australia, meanwhile, tell a story about a vengeful cockatoo who sets a grass fire that prompts a musk duck to shake its wings, filling lakes and swamps with water. Western science is just starting to catch up with this kind of Indigenous knowledge. Tucked beyond the iconic monolith Half Dome in Yosemite National Park, north of Goode’s restored meadow, Illilouette Creek rushes past streaked granite and patches of charred pines. For almost a hundred years, federal land managers suppressed every blaze in the creek’s fire-adapted basin. Then, in 1968, the National Park Service acknowledged fire’s ecological role with a new policy of “Natural Fire Management.” The policy allowed lightning-caused wildfires to burn in zones where they didn’t threaten human health or infrastructure and where natural fuel breaks contained their reach. By 1972, Yosemite had applied the approach to granite-flanked Illilouette Creek Basin. In the following four and a half decades, wildfire remade the landscape, though not in the way of the megafires that often grab headlines today. Instead, the blazes were more frequent, smaller, and burned with varying degrees of severity — likely aided at first by the cooler, wetter climate of the 1970s and ’80s. Using aerial photography, ecohydrologist Gabrielle Boisramé and a handful of collaborators discovered that Illilouette Basin’s forest cover shrank by a quarter, more closely approximating historical conditions.  New holes appeared in the canopy, filling in with shrublands and meadow-like fields, which have more than tripled in area since 1972. In 2019, Boisramé published a model-based study that suggested these changes have made the basin modestly but notably wetter. “In the more open areas — which are maintained open by fire — you get deeper snow, and it sticks around longer,” in part because more of it reaches the ground, says Boisramé, who’s now based at the nonprofit Desert Research Institute in Nevada. “That means that water from the snowmelt is getting added to the soil later into the dry season, which is better for vegetation, and can help maintain some of those wet meadows” — as well as boost streamflows and groundwater in a region often grappling with drought. Her previous modeling also shows that fire’s return brings as much as a 30% spike in soil moisture during the summer. The extra water stored and the smaller number of trees competing for it seem to have helped Illilouette’s trees weather the state’s worst drought in centuries, even as trees in the adjacent Sierra National Forest died in droves, Boisramé says. And the type of fire diversity now found in Illilouette is connected to better long-term carbon storage and greater biodiversity, with documented benefits for bees, understory plants, bats, and birds. Teasing out fire’s precise and myriad influences on hydrology is challenging, given the many variables involved for any particular place or circumstance. However, Boisramé’s studies are part of a small but growing body of work that suggests frequent fire has long-term hydrologic benefits for ecosystems adapted to such blazes. In the mid-20th century, pioneering fire researcher Harold Biswell found that the prescribed burns he conducted on cattle ranches in the Sierra Nevada foothills helped revive summer-parched springs. That aligns with research in the western U.S. showing that some watersheds — particularly those without substantial groundwater stores to feed waterways — see more water in streams after fire, likely thanks to fewer thirsty plants. Researchers in Australia, meanwhile, recently published a paper suggesting that European colonization of southeast Tasmania created the region’s dry scrublands and devastating megafires by suppressing Indigenous burning that had maintained waterlogged heathlands. Fire has less direct benefits, too. Inspired by the knowledge of Indigenous burners in the Karuk Tribe, have shown that wildfire smoke can block enough solar radiation to cool rivers and streams by nearly 2.5 degrees Fahrenheit. In some cases, that could offer localized relief to cold-water species like salmon during the changing climate’s hottest summer days. As more scientists and conservationists recognize the ways Indigenous people shaped ecosystem biodiversity and resilience with fire, there’s an opportunity to return reciprocity to management, says Lake — and to reconnect people and place. “What is our human responsibility, and what are our human services for that ecosystem?” he asks. “How do we prescribe the right amount of fire today, fire as medicine? Traditional knowledge can guide us.” There is little question that the land needs help. Of the more than 8,200 meadows that the Forest Service has documented in the Sierra Nevada, the agency has listed 95% as unhealthy, or worse, no longer functioning as meadow ecosystems. The North Fork Mono have taken on the task of reviving some of these places in addition to the deergrass meadow that Goode showed me. Working alongside the Forest Service, they’ve begun restoring at least five others in the Sierra National Forest since 2003. In 2018, and again last year, Goode signed five-year agreements with the Forest Service that he hopes will allow the Tribe to restore many more. Those agreements explicitly acknowledge their authority to carry out Indigenous fire management. But their traditional management practices have been challenging to implement. Goode and his team have so far assessed nine meadows for restoration — and eventually, for cultural burning. They and the Forest Service are working to cut down encroaching conifers and shrubs, clear dead and fallen trees and other vegetation, create piles for burning, remove noxious weeds, clear gullies, and build structures to stabilize eroding soil. All paving the way for vibrant meadows that will hold onto water. As some elements of those projects move forward, Goode’s team has so far hit a roadblock when it comes to lighting the actual fires. According to Goode, under the agreements, “it’s us putting fire on the ground, and them participating if they wish.” But the Forest Service won’t allow someone to set a fire unless they have a “red card” obtained through rigorous firefighter training. “The forest is in dire need of restoration, and cultural burning is certainly going to be a key component going forward,” says Dean Gould, Sierra National Forest supervisor. But the agency wants to operate as safely as possible, he adds. Fire practitioners must work in forests laced with buildings and infrastructure, under unprecedented climatic conditions and huge fuel loads. For his part, Gould blames the delay mostly on a lack of capacity. Several recent historic wildfires within the national forest have kept its staff from building a more robust prescribed fire program, which would coordinate cultural burns. The COVID pandemic added other delays, as did a slew of onerous new nation-wide recommendations for prescribed fire that the Forest Service issued in 2022 after losing control of two such burns in New Mexico. Tribes hoping to implement cultural burning on federal lands commonly face challenges like the ones the Nork Fork Mono has come up against. “[B]oth state and federal agencies lack an adequate understanding of Tribes and cultural fire practitioners, their expertise and authority, land tenure, and the requirements of cultural burns,” write the authors of a report put together for the Karuk Tribe. That, in turn, has led to “confusion, delay, and red-tape,” as well as interference with tribal sovereignty. “Either we do cultural burning the way it’s supposed to be done, or we’re not going to do it,” says Goode, whose team has more than a hundred small piles of brush prepped and waiting in two Sierra National Forest meadows — ready for them to light and tend the fires before snow falls. Indigenous fire stewardship also includes cultural rituals such as burning sage, which is sacred to many Native communities of California and Mexico. Photograph by Ashley Braun Traditional practitioners often see requirements like red cards as inconsistent with cultural burning, explains Jonathan Long, a Forest Service ecologist who has worked with several Tribes on the issue. Part of the problem is that cultural burning adopts precautions in fundamentally different ways than typical agency burns do. Their intentions and practices, for example, make for safer burns as a general rule. Practitioners tend to ignite only small patches of lower-intensity fire; they welcome both youth and elders to teach and learn; they manicure away risky fuels; and they tend burns closely enough to reduce impacts on cultural resources like deergrass, as well as other plants and wildlife. It’s akin to a city installing bike lanes and traffic-slowing measures so parents can transport kids safely to school by bike, instead of strapping them in car seats inside bulky SUVs. Either way, kids arrive in one piece, but the approaches are vastly different. There’s also not yet an official playbook for cultural burning within the Forest Service to help guide agency staff, which holds the process back. But Gould says he is part of a regional effort to draft such a policy and that his staff are thinking about how to apply that in the Sierra National Forest. “I think people are trying to work through, how do we craft the system in ways that will distinguish cultural burning from the wildfire suppression and large prescribed fire events where the risks are different?” says Long. Still, Long sees more opportunities for traditional fire practices opening up, especially in California, where in recent years the state has rolled out new policies that ease barriers to cultural burning on state and private lands. And at the federal level, in late 2022 the U.S. Forest Service announced 11 major agreements to jointly manage lands with Tribes, including one that allows the Karuk Tribe to conduct cultural burns in partnership with the Six Rivers National Forest in California. The White House followed that announcement with the first-ever national guidance on Indigenous knowledge for federal agencies. The document explicitly recognized the North Fork Mono Tribe for collaborating on research examining cultural burning and climate resilience. In December, Goode’s grandnephew Valdez trained the Tule River Indian Tribe and Sequoia National Forest staff during a cultural burn at that forest. Sierra National Forest staff also attended, hoping to use the event’s success as a springboard in their own forest, according to Gould. But Goode, now facing serious health issues, is losing patience with the plodding government agency overseeing his Tribe’s homelands, and is even considering legal options for enforcing his Tribe’s right to burn. “You’re not doing it fast enough, not just for the Tribe’s benefit, but for the land,” he says. As the light retreats after the first day of burning near Mariposa, Goode and Valdez, both of whom also work as tribal archaeologists, gather the students next to a wide meadow. Goode’s wife’s property, where they’ve been working, lies within the ancestral territory of the Miwok people,  and a few years ago, Goode, Valdez, and a large volunteer contingent worked with some Miwok to clear and burn this portion of the land. These burns represent an intergenerational transfer of knowledge and culture, a core part of the practice and key to its continuity. While the sky turns citrus, the group stands atop a massive slab of granite bedrock that emerges from the sea of amber grass like the back of a gray whale. It’s pockmarked with deep, perfectly round holes, some filled with rotting leaves and recent rainwater. Here, the pair explains, the Miwok women who lived in this place at least as far back as 8,000 years ago milled acorns with stone pestles, their daily rhythms grinding permanent impressions into the stone. “They need to be cleaned and cleared out,” Goode says of the mortars. “Right now these are all deteriorating.” Like the meadow here that needed burning, even features as immutable-seeming as these bedrock mortars need tending. They need the Indigenous stewards whose hands shaped them; and people today to remember how to sustain the land. After the archaeology lesson, everyone piles back into trucks to return for dinner: foil-wrapped potatoes, roasting in the embers of today’s fire. Previously in The Revelator: Wildfires Ignite Mental Health Concerns The post Fire for Watersheds appeared first on The Revelator.

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