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Mystery surrounds sudden increase in steelhead trout deaths near California water pumps

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Friday, March 15, 2024

California environmental groups are urging a federal court to intervene amid a “dramatic increase” in the deaths of threatened steelhead trout at pumps operated by state and federal water managers. Since Dec. 1, more than 4,000 wild and hatchery-raised steelhead have been killed at pumps in the Sacramento-San Joaquin River Delta, according to public data for the State Water Project and the federal Central Valley Project. The agencies are now at about 90% of their combined seasonal take limit, which refers to the amount of wild steelhead permitted to be killed between January and March under the U.S. Endangered Species Act. A coalition of environmental and fishing groups — including the Golden State Salmon Assn., the Bay Institute and Defenders of Wildlife — are involved in ongoing litigation that seeks to challenge current federal operating plans in the delta, an estuary at the heart of the state’s water supply. They say the protocols are largely based on outdated rules dating to the Trump administration and are asking the court to require several modifications to better protect fish, including setting targets for water temperatures and upstream storage in Shasta Lake. The cause of the recent uptick in fish deaths is unclear, but the sudden increase in steelhead at the pumps is unusual, according to Ashley Overhouse, a water policy advisor with Defenders of Wildlife. About 2,100 live steelhead have also been collected from fish screens at the pumps and released downstream, a process known as “salvage,” data show. Steelhead trout fingerlings swim in a raceway pond at the California Department of Fish and Wildlife Feather River Hatchery in 2021. (Patrick T. Fallon / AFP via Getty Images) “We would appreciate additional monitoring, genetic sampling and, frankly, transparency [around the] increase in fish kills like this across any of the threatened and endangered species that rely on a healthy Bay Delta estuary that are dying at the pumps,” Overhouse said. “Because this is not the first increase in a fish kill over the last four years, and I don’t think, unfortunately, it will be the last.” Aggressive and impactful reporting on climate change, the environment, health and science. The Central Valley Project — a massive network of dams, reservoirs and canals operated by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation — is a key source of water for agricultural users in the southern part of the state. The State Water Project, operated by the California Department of Water Resources, is a similar network that provides water to about 27 million residents. But because the federal and state agencies coordinate their operations and pump jointly, the “fish death … and salvage are attributed to both parties,” Overhouse said. Central Valley steelhead are federally listed as a threatened species. A type of rainbow trout, they are a distinct population that migrate from the American River and San Joaquin River, two major tributaries of the delta. Like salmon, they are born in fresh water, migrate to the ocean, and then return to rivers as adults to spawn.“These fish that are trying to make their way out to the ocean … then get sucked into the pumps,” said Scott Artis, executive director of the Golden State Salmon Assn. “And so we end up with less and less fish making it out to the oceans, and that’s less fish that return.”The deaths of steelhead are an indicator of how the pumping is harming various fish species, and chinook salmon are also among the species that have been killed in recent weeks, Artis said. Since Dec. 1, 1,274 threatened spring-run chinook salmon and 353 endangered winter-run chinook salmon have been killed in the pumps, including wild and hatchery-raised salmon, the latest data show.Salmon populations have declined in recent years, and last year regulators decided to shut down the fishing season for fall-run chinook along the coast. A decision about this year’s salmon fishing season has yet to be announced, but it’s expected to be heavily restricted or shut down again this year. But increasing steelhead deaths due to water pumps are symptomatic of the severe stresses fish populations are experiencing, and demand changes to how the state’s water systems are managed, Artis said. “This is a big overarching problem of how this whole system in California works with these pumps and with the water diversions,” he said. “We need to reduce the amount of water that’s being pumped, and that would actually help mitigate and reduce the impact to steelhead that are being sucked into these pumps.”The latest increase in fish deaths is not the first time environmental groups have clashed with water agencies over the delta — a delicate ecosystem that has in recent years been imperiled by heavy water withdrawals for agriculture and cities. Bureau of Reclamation officials said they are working with the Department of Water Resources to reduce pumping at the Harvey O. Banks pumping plant and the nearby Jones pumping plant in two main channels in the south delta — the Old and Middle rivers. The reductions are being made “due to a large number of Central Valley steelhead being observed and collected at the Skinner Delta Fish Protective and Tracy Fish Collection facilities upstream of the pumping plants,” the agency wrote in a statement. Officials with both agencies acknowledged that the fish can be vulnerable at pump screens during the wet and snowy months that coincide with their movement through the delta. But late winter and early spring are “also an important time for DWR to capture and move water into storage,” said Ted Craddock, deputy director with the State Water Project.He noted that the agency operates its pumps in accordance with state and federal permits, including rules that require reduced pumping when endangered fish move into the vicinity of the pumps. It reduced pumping in January when delta smelt and winter-run chinook salmon were observed in the area, and again in February when steelhead moved in. Despite the reduction, steelhead continued to be collected at the fish screens, Craddock said, including a small portion that were not wild but “poorly marked hatchery fish” that are not protected under the 2019 rules, formally known as the National Marine Fisheries Service Biological Opinion. “DWR hypothesizes that many wild steelhead moved into the vicinity of the pumps prior to the large storms last week and are subsequently [resting] near the pumps,” he said. “Given current lower pumping levels and high flows as result of the storms last week, DWR does not believe the SWP is drawing additional steelhead near the pumps.”Even so, the agency on Monday again reduced its pumping from 2,400 cubic feet per second to 600 cubic feet per second, “which may help steelhead rearing near the SWP pumps to move quickly downstream en route to the ocean,” Craddock said. “In fact, since the initiation of the March 11 pumping reduction, DWR has not collected any steelhead at its fish screens.” He added that the agency plans to initiate a study on Friday to track the movements of steelhead and assess whether the pumping reduction is effective. The DWR is also making new investments in steelhead monitoring, including using new DNA technology to identify the origin of steelhead showing up at the fish screens. The San Joaquin River flows past Dos Rios Ranch Preserve near Modesto. (Loren Elliott / For The Times) Meanwhile, federal officials are also working with the Bureau of Reclamation to reexamine the 2019 biological opinions that govern the state and federal operations, including proposed thresholds for losses of salmon and steelhead at the delta pumping facilities.Under the proposal, weekly loss thresholds would “prompt action before disproportionate impacts on steelhead occur in a single week,” said Michael Milstein, a spokesperson for NOAA Fisheries. This would be a change from the current approach, which uses seasonal loss thresholds to trigger management actions.The Bureau of Reclamation is also proposing to develop a steelhead science plan, which would include a “juvenile production estimate” framework for the San Joaquin and Sacramento river basins, he said. That estimate “can then be used to develop loss criteria for steelhead that are scaled according to population size and trends instead of historic loss levels, which is what is currently used.”This sort of estimate is already used for management decisions regarding endangered winter-run chinook salmon, Milstein said, and is “recognized as a scientifically durable approach.”The evaluation of the biological opinion is expected to be completed by the end of this year, Milstein said. Until then, the water agencies are operating under interim plans that are supposed to be reviewed and approved by the court every year, with 2024’s update still pending. Artis, of the Golden State Salmon Assn., noted that the fish deaths have occurred at the pumps despite increased flows from recent storms. “Even with more water out there, there’s still a lot of water diversions that are happening,” he said. “If you can reduce the pumping, then you don’t have quite that pull, that suction through there, that can just basically grab those baby fish.”The steelhead deaths add more ammunition to the ongoing tug-of-war between environmentalists and the state water managers, who are also deadlocked over a proposed plan to build a $16-billion, 45-mile tunnel that would move more water out of the delta to regions to the south. State officials have touted the Delta Conveyance Project as a critical climate adaptation strategy and a key component of Gov. Gavin Newsom’s strategy for a hotter, drier California.Overhouse, of Defenders of Wildlife, said she believes it is possible for the state to achieve both goals — water capture and wildlife protection — at the same time. “It is not something that is easy — they are the most complex water projects, arguably, in the world,” she said of the Central Valley Project and the State Water Project. But increasing storage along the upstream reservoirs would make it easier for the agencies to better utilize stormwater runoff, and to hold water for movement through the system later in the year.“While I recognize how important these operations are, it is still my belief that it can be achieved — both higher end-of-year storage as well as meeting those pumping needs,” Overhouse said. “And most importantly ... protecting the threatened and endangered species that rely on this estuary.” Newsletter Toward a more sustainable California Get Boiling Point, our newsletter exploring climate change, energy and the environment, and become part of the conversation — and the solution. You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.

Environmentalists are calling for federal intervention after 4,000 threatened fish were killed by pumps operated by the State Water Project and the Central Valley Project.

California environmental groups are urging a federal court to intervene amid a “dramatic increase” in the deaths of threatened steelhead trout at pumps operated by state and federal water managers.

Since Dec. 1, more than 4,000 wild and hatchery-raised steelhead have been killed at pumps in the Sacramento-San Joaquin River Delta, according to public data for the State Water Project and the federal Central Valley Project. The agencies are now at about 90% of their combined seasonal take limit, which refers to the amount of wild steelhead permitted to be killed between January and March under the U.S. Endangered Species Act.

A coalition of environmental and fishing groups — including the Golden State Salmon Assn., the Bay Institute and Defenders of Wildlife — are involved in ongoing litigation that seeks to challenge current federal operating plans in the delta, an estuary at the heart of the state’s water supply. They say the protocols are largely based on outdated rules dating to the Trump administration and are asking the court to require several modifications to better protect fish, including setting targets for water temperatures and upstream storage in Shasta Lake.

The cause of the recent uptick in fish deaths is unclear, but the sudden increase in steelhead at the pumps is unusual, according to Ashley Overhouse, a water policy advisor with Defenders of Wildlife. About 2,100 live steelhead have also been collected from fish screens at the pumps and released downstream, a process known as “salvage,” data show.

Steelhead trout fingerlings swim in a raceway pond.

Steelhead trout fingerlings swim in a raceway pond at the California Department of Fish and Wildlife Feather River Hatchery in 2021.

(Patrick T. Fallon / AFP via Getty Images)

“We would appreciate additional monitoring, genetic sampling and, frankly, transparency [around the] increase in fish kills like this across any of the threatened and endangered species that rely on a healthy Bay Delta estuary that are dying at the pumps,” Overhouse said. “Because this is not the first increase in a fish kill over the last four years, and I don’t think, unfortunately, it will be the last.”

Aggressive and impactful reporting on climate change, the environment, health and science.

The Central Valley Project — a massive network of dams, reservoirs and canals operated by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation — is a key source of water for agricultural users in the southern part of the state. The State Water Project, operated by the California Department of Water Resources, is a similar network that provides water to about 27 million residents.

But because the federal and state agencies coordinate their operations and pump jointly, the “fish death … and salvage are attributed to both parties,” Overhouse said.

Central Valley steelhead are federally listed as a threatened species. A type of rainbow trout, they are a distinct population that migrate from the American River and San Joaquin River, two major tributaries of the delta. Like salmon, they are born in fresh water, migrate to the ocean, and then return to rivers as adults to spawn.

“These fish that are trying to make their way out to the ocean … then get sucked into the pumps,” said Scott Artis, executive director of the Golden State Salmon Assn. “And so we end up with less and less fish making it out to the oceans, and that’s less fish that return.”

The deaths of steelhead are an indicator of how the pumping is harming various fish species, and chinook salmon are also among the species that have been killed in recent weeks, Artis said. Since Dec. 1, 1,274 threatened spring-run chinook salmon and 353 endangered winter-run chinook salmon have been killed in the pumps, including wild and hatchery-raised salmon, the latest data show.

Salmon populations have declined in recent years, and last year regulators decided to shut down the fishing season for fall-run chinook along the coast. A decision about this year’s salmon fishing season has yet to be announced, but it’s expected to be heavily restricted or shut down again this year.

But increasing steelhead deaths due to water pumps are symptomatic of the severe stresses fish populations are experiencing, and demand changes to how the state’s water systems are managed, Artis said.

“This is a big overarching problem of how this whole system in California works with these pumps and with the water diversions,” he said. “We need to reduce the amount of water that’s being pumped, and that would actually help mitigate and reduce the impact to steelhead that are being sucked into these pumps.”

The latest increase in fish deaths is not the first time environmental groups have clashed with water agencies over the delta — a delicate ecosystem that has in recent years been imperiled by heavy water withdrawals for agriculture and cities.

Bureau of Reclamation officials said they are working with the Department of Water Resources to reduce pumping at the Harvey O. Banks pumping plant and the nearby Jones pumping plant in two main channels in the south delta — the Old and Middle rivers. The reductions are being made “due to a large number of Central Valley steelhead being observed and collected at the Skinner Delta Fish Protective and Tracy Fish Collection facilities upstream of the pumping plants,” the agency wrote in a statement.

Officials with both agencies acknowledged that the fish can be vulnerable at pump screens during the wet and snowy months that coincide with their movement through the delta. But late winter and early spring are “also an important time for DWR to capture and move water into storage,” said Ted Craddock, deputy director with the State Water Project.

He noted that the agency operates its pumps in accordance with state and federal permits, including rules that require reduced pumping when endangered fish move into the vicinity of the pumps. It reduced pumping in January when delta smelt and winter-run chinook salmon were observed in the area, and again in February when steelhead moved in.

Despite the reduction, steelhead continued to be collected at the fish screens, Craddock said, including a small portion that were not wild but “poorly marked hatchery fish” that are not protected under the 2019 rules, formally known as the National Marine Fisheries Service Biological Opinion.

“DWR hypothesizes that many wild steelhead moved into the vicinity of the pumps prior to the large storms last week and are subsequently [resting] near the pumps,” he said. “Given current lower pumping levels and high flows as result of the storms last week, DWR does not believe the SWP is drawing additional steelhead near the pumps.”

Even so, the agency on Monday again reduced its pumping from 2,400 cubic feet per second to 600 cubic feet per second, “which may help steelhead rearing near the SWP pumps to move quickly downstream en route to the ocean,” Craddock said. “In fact, since the initiation of the March 11 pumping reduction, DWR has not collected any steelhead at its fish screens.”

He added that the agency plans to initiate a study on Friday to track the movements of steelhead and assess whether the pumping reduction is effective. The DWR is also making new investments in steelhead monitoring, including using new DNA technology to identify the origin of steelhead showing up at the fish screens.

Sunshine glints off the surface of a river.

The San Joaquin River flows past Dos Rios Ranch Preserve near Modesto.

(Loren Elliott / For The Times)

Meanwhile, federal officials are also working with the Bureau of Reclamation to reexamine the 2019 biological opinions that govern the state and federal operations, including proposed thresholds for losses of salmon and steelhead at the delta pumping facilities.

Under the proposal, weekly loss thresholds would “prompt action before disproportionate impacts on steelhead occur in a single week,” said Michael Milstein, a spokesperson for NOAA Fisheries. This would be a change from the current approach, which uses seasonal loss thresholds to trigger management actions.

The Bureau of Reclamation is also proposing to develop a steelhead science plan, which would include a “juvenile production estimate” framework for the San Joaquin and Sacramento river basins, he said. That estimate “can then be used to develop loss criteria for steelhead that are scaled according to population size and trends instead of historic loss levels, which is what is currently used.”

This sort of estimate is already used for management decisions regarding endangered winter-run chinook salmon, Milstein said, and is “recognized as a scientifically durable approach.”

The evaluation of the biological opinion is expected to be completed by the end of this year, Milstein said. Until then, the water agencies are operating under interim plans that are supposed to be reviewed and approved by the court every year, with 2024’s update still pending.

Artis, of the Golden State Salmon Assn., noted that the fish deaths have occurred at the pumps despite increased flows from recent storms.

“Even with more water out there, there’s still a lot of water diversions that are happening,” he said. “If you can reduce the pumping, then you don’t have quite that pull, that suction through there, that can just basically grab those baby fish.”

The steelhead deaths add more ammunition to the ongoing tug-of-war between environmentalists and the state water managers, who are also deadlocked over a proposed plan to build a $16-billion, 45-mile tunnel that would move more water out of the delta to regions to the south.

State officials have touted the Delta Conveyance Project as a critical climate adaptation strategy and a key component of Gov. Gavin Newsom’s strategy for a hotter, drier California.

Overhouse, of Defenders of Wildlife, said she believes it is possible for the state to achieve both goals — water capture and wildlife protection — at the same time.

“It is not something that is easy — they are the most complex water projects, arguably, in the world,” she said of the Central Valley Project and the State Water Project. But increasing storage along the upstream reservoirs would make it easier for the agencies to better utilize stormwater runoff, and to hold water for movement through the system later in the year.

“While I recognize how important these operations are, it is still my belief that it can be achieved — both higher end-of-year storage as well as meeting those pumping needs,” Overhouse said. “And most importantly ... protecting the threatened and endangered species that rely on this estuary.”

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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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