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Ranchers reported abandoned oil wells spewing wastewater. A new study blames fracking.

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Wednesday, August 7, 2024

Sign up for The Brief, The Texas Tribune’s daily newsletter that keeps readers up to speed on the most essential Texas news. Fracking wastewater, injected underground for permanent disposal, traveled 12 miles through geological faults before bursting to the surface through a previously plugged West Texas oil well in 2022, according to a new study from Southern Methodist University. It’s the first study to draw specific links between wastewater injection and recent blowouts in the Permian Basin, the nation’s top producing oil field, where old oil wells have lately begun to spray salty water. It raises concerns about the possibility of widespread groundwater contamination in West Texas and increases the urgency for oil producers to find alternative outlets for the millions of gallons of toxic wastewater that come from Permian Basin oil wells every day. “We established a significant link between wastewater injection and oil well blowouts in the Permian Basin,” wrote the authors of the study, funded in part by NASA and published last month in the journal Geophysical Research Letters. The finding suggests "a potential for more blowouts in the near future,” it said. For years, the Texas agency that regulates the oil and gas extraction industry has refrained from putting forth an explanation for the blowout phenomenon, even as a chorus of local landowners alleged that wastewater injections were driving the flows of gassy brine onto the surface of their properties since about 2022. Injection disposal is currently the primary outlet for the tremendous amount of oilfield wastewater, also known as produced water, that flows from fracked oil wells in West Texas. Thousands of injection wells dot the Permian Basin, each reviewed and permitted by Texas’ oilfield regulator, the Texas Railroad Commission. Oil producers are exploring alternatives — a small portion of produced water is reused in fracking, and Texas is in the process of permitting facilities that will treat produced water and release it into rivers and streams. Still, underground injection remains the cheapest and most popular method by far. A scientific connection has solidified between the practice of injection disposal and the increasing strength and frequency of earthquakes nearby. In the Permian Basin, a steady crescendo of tremors peaked last November with magnitude 5.4 earthquake, the state’s strongest in 30 years, triggering heightened restrictions on injections in the area. The link between injections and surface blowouts, however, has remained unconfirmed, despite widespread suspicions. The latest study marks a big step forward in scientific documentation. “It just validates what we’ve been saying,” Sarah Stogner, an oil and gas attorney who ran an unsuccessful campaign for a seat on the Railroad Commission in 2022, said about the latest study. For the last three years, Stogner has represented the Antina Cattle Ranch, where dozens of abandoned oil wells have been spraying back to life. Stogner persistently alleged that nearby wastewater injection was responsible. But she couldn’t prove it. Now a scientific consensus is beginning to fall in behind her. “Our work independently comes to this same conclusion in different areas [of the Permian Basin],” said Katie Smye, a geologist with the Center for Injection and Seismicity Research at the University of Texas at Austin, citing several upcoming papers she and her colleagues will release at major geoscience conferences in the coming year. “There is a link between injection and surface flows in some cases.” In a study published December 2023, Smye and others reported “linear surface deformation features” in parts of the Permian Basin — the ground was swelling along channels that suggested pressure moving through underground faults. Some of those were ancient geological faults, Smye said; others appeared to be created by recent human activity. Many of them were growing, heaving and bulging, the research showed. When that channel of underground pressure hits an old oil well that is broken or improperly plugged, it can shoot to the surface. “This is reaching a critical point in the Permian Basin,” Smye said. “The scale of injection needs is increasing.” About 15 million barrels, or 630 million gallons, of produced water are injected for disposal in the Permian Basin every day, Smye said. A Railroad Commission spokesperson, Patty Ramon, said in a statement the agency is “talking to operators in the Crane County area regarding geology and other data they maintain, reviewing satellite imagery, and analyzing RRC records such as well plugging information. “We will be continuing this type of analysis in our commitment to ensuring environmental protection,” Ramon said. Blowout in 2022 sparks study The SMU study examined a January 2022 blowout in Crane County that gushed almost 15 million gallons of brine before it was capped, according to the paper. That would fill about 23 Olympic-sized swimming pools. The study traced the cause of the blowout to a cluster of nine injection wells about 12 miles to the northeast. Researchers pulled publicly available data on injection volumes at those wells and found they lined up closely to surface swelling that preceded the blowout. Seven of the wells belong to Goodnight Midstream and two belong to Blackbeard Operating, according to Railroad Commission records. A spokesperson for Blackbeard said the company “is committed to ensuring prudent operations” and “will continue to operate its assets in accordance with all applicable laws and in coordination with all applicable regulatory agencies.” Goodnight did not respond to a query. According to the paper, injection at those nine wells began in 2018 at a rate of about 362,000 gallons per day and doubled to 720,000 gallons per day in late 2019. In late 2020 it doubled again to 1.5 million gallons — two Olympic-sized swimming pools crammed underground everyday — which is when the ground near the blowout site began to inflate. The study found that the volume injected matched the volume of the surface bulge 12 miles away. “These observations suggest that this group of injection wells to the NW of the study area, injecting into the San Andres and Glorieta formations, is responsible for the surface deformation in the region,” the study said. Those wells reached a depth between 4,300 and 3,300 feet. But the SMU study found that the source of the bulge in the earth was much shallower, between 2,300 and 1,600 feet underground. “This suggests the leakage of wastewater from the San Andres or Glorieta formations to the shallow formations,” the study said. The bottom of the Rustler Aquifer, the lowest usable source of groundwater in the Permian, sits between 800 and 1,000 feet underground. The SMU study did not examine the possibility of groundwater contamination. “Our findings highlight the need for stricter regulations on wastewater injection practices and proper management of abandoned wells,” the study said. Todd Staples, president of the Texas Oil and Gas Association, said the Railroad Commission “is taking appropriate action by thoroughly gathering and reviewing data to address the issues experienced in Crane County.” He said the industry cooperates with the Railroad Commission by providing data to help analyze geological formations. “In addition, the industry and academia continue to explore alternatives to wastewater injection through market-based water reuse and recycling as well as innovative pilot programs,” Staples said. Ranchers report damaged land West Texas ranchers who own land where contaminated water is seeping from underground are beginning to worry it will soon become uninhabitable. Last February, saltwater flooded parts of Bill Wight’s ranch, about 50 miles southwest of Odessa. The lifelong rancher purchased the land in 2012, hoping to pass it on to his kids. He told The Texas Tribune he wasn’t sure how much of the ranch would survive the leaking wells. When it was clear the flow of water threatened the property last December, he asked the Railroad Commission to seal the well the water had leaked from. It took the commission months and millions of dollars to plug the well. His brother, Schuyler Wight, faces a similar predicament at his ranch roughly 60 miles to the west in Pecos County. He has asked the Railroad Commission for years to investigate the multiple abandoned leaking wells on his property. The liquid has eroded the equipment on the surface and killed the plants. After the water dried up, the ground was crusted white from salt. “It’s what we’ve known all along,” Schuyler Wight said. “What we’re doing is not sustainable.” Ashley Watt, owner of a ranch 50 miles east of Schuyler Wight’s ranch in Crane County, told the Texas Railroad Commission during a 2022 meeting that she believed excessive injection by nearby oil producers was causing the fluids to spray from abandoned oil wells on her property. A Railroad Commission staff member said the agency asked operators to check for a source of the leak. The operators told the commission they did not find any. The Railroad Commission during the meeting also said they did not find a well in the agency’s database, and that the nearest injection wells were less than two miles away. The agency instructed staff to prevent truckers from accessing those injection sites, telling operators to find others “until further notice.” The wells continue to leak. Laura Briggs, who also owns a ranch in Pecos County less than half a mile east of Schuyler Wight’s place, said she has seen five old wells start leaking water since 2015. The Railroad Commission plugged two of them, she said, but one began to leak through the seal again. Briggs has repeatedly given testimony and submitted documentation to the Railroad Commission asking for help. Based on her experience, she believes the subterranean problems in West Texas are much more than what the Railroad Commission can handle. “If I could do one thing differently, we would have gotten a mobile home so it was easier to get the hell out of here,” Briggs said. “If this [ranch] goes leaking, we just have to leave and nobody will buy the property, no insurance will cover it, you’re just done.” Despite those problems, the Railroad Commission approved 400 new disposal wells in the Permian Basin alone in 2021, according to agency documents, and 480 in 2022. Threats to groundwater The use of injection wells for disposal has expanded immensely with the practice of fracking, according to Dominic DiGiulio, a geoscientist who worked for 30 years at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. But DiGiulio said these wells are still regulated under rules from the 1970s and ’80s. Increasingly, he said, those rules appear insufficient. “West Texas isn’t the only place where this is happening,” DiGiulio said. “Overpressurization of aquifers due to disposal of produced water is a problem.” In 2022, DiGiulio conducted a review of Ohio’s wastewater injection program for the group Physicians, Scientists, and Engineers for Healthy Energy and found the same two problems there: Injected fluids were leaking from some formations meant to contain them, and excessive injections were causing other formations to become overpressurized. There was one big difference with Texas. In November 2021, DiGiulio’s study said, Ohio had just 228 injection wells for wastewater disposal. Texas, meanwhile, had 13,585 in 2022, according to Railroad Commission documents. The primary threat posed by produced water migrating from injection wells is groundwater contamination. If deep formations fail to contain the toxic waste injected into them, that waste could end up in shallow freshwater aquifers. It could happen two ways, DiGiulio said. If the wastewater enters the inside of an old oil well through corroded holes in the casing, it can travel up the steel pipe to the surface, spilling and seeping into the ground. If the wastewater moves up the outside of an old oil well, through the cement that surrounds the steel pipe, it could already be flowing into the aquifer. That would be bad news for West Texas, which depends almost entirely on groundwater for drinking and crop irrigation. “Once groundwater contamination happens, it’s too expensive to remediate,” DiGiulio said. “So when it occurs, that’s basically it. You’ve ruined that resource.” Disclosure: Southern Methodist University and the University of Texas at Austin have been financial supporters of The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan news organization that is funded in part by donations from members, foundations and corporate sponsors. Financial supporters play no role in the Tribune's journalism. Find a complete list of them here. The full program is now LIVE for the 2024 Texas Tribune Festival, happening Sept. 5–7 in downtown Austin. Explore the program featuring more than 100 unforgettable conversations on topics covering education, the economy, Texas and national politics, criminal justice, the border, the 2024 elections and so much more. See the full program.

An SMU study is the first scientific proof of a phenomenon local landowners have long warned was occurring.

Sign up for The Brief, The Texas Tribune’s daily newsletter that keeps readers up to speed on the most essential Texas news.


Fracking wastewater, injected underground for permanent disposal, traveled 12 miles through geological faults before bursting to the surface through a previously plugged West Texas oil well in 2022, according to a new study from Southern Methodist University.

It’s the first study to draw specific links between wastewater injection and recent blowouts in the Permian Basin, the nation’s top producing oil field, where old oil wells have lately begun to spray salty water.

It raises concerns about the possibility of widespread groundwater contamination in West Texas and increases the urgency for oil producers to find alternative outlets for the millions of gallons of toxic wastewater that come from Permian Basin oil wells every day.

“We established a significant link between wastewater injection and oil well blowouts in the Permian Basin,” wrote the authors of the study, funded in part by NASA and published last month in the journal Geophysical Research Letters. The finding suggests "a potential for more blowouts in the near future,” it said.

For years, the Texas agency that regulates the oil and gas extraction industry has refrained from putting forth an explanation for the blowout phenomenon, even as a chorus of local landowners alleged that wastewater injections were driving the flows of gassy brine onto the surface of their properties since about 2022.

Injection disposal is currently the primary outlet for the tremendous amount of oilfield wastewater, also known as produced water, that flows from fracked oil wells in West Texas. Thousands of injection wells dot the Permian Basin, each reviewed and permitted by Texas’ oilfield regulator, the Texas Railroad Commission.

Oil producers are exploring alternatives — a small portion of produced water is reused in fracking, and Texas is in the process of permitting facilities that will treat produced water and release it into rivers and streams. Still, underground injection remains the cheapest and most popular method by far.

A scientific connection has solidified between the practice of injection disposal and the increasing strength and frequency of earthquakes nearby. In the Permian Basin, a steady crescendo of tremors peaked last November with magnitude 5.4 earthquake, the state’s strongest in 30 years, triggering heightened restrictions on injections in the area.

The link between injections and surface blowouts, however, has remained unconfirmed, despite widespread suspicions. The latest study marks a big step forward in scientific documentation.

“It just validates what we’ve been saying,” Sarah Stogner, an oil and gas attorney who ran an unsuccessful campaign for a seat on the Railroad Commission in 2022, said about the latest study.

For the last three years, Stogner has represented the Antina Cattle Ranch, where dozens of abandoned oil wells have been spraying back to life. Stogner persistently alleged that nearby wastewater injection was responsible. But she couldn’t prove it.

Now a scientific consensus is beginning to fall in behind her.

“Our work independently comes to this same conclusion in different areas [of the Permian Basin],” said Katie Smye, a geologist with the Center for Injection and Seismicity Research at the University of Texas at Austin, citing several upcoming papers she and her colleagues will release at major geoscience conferences in the coming year. “There is a link between injection and surface flows in some cases.”

In a study published December 2023, Smye and others reported “linear surface deformation features” in parts of the Permian Basin — the ground was swelling along channels that suggested pressure moving through underground faults. Some of those were ancient geological faults, Smye said; others appeared to be created by recent human activity. Many of them were growing, heaving and bulging, the research showed.

When that channel of underground pressure hits an old oil well that is broken or improperly plugged, it can shoot to the surface.

“This is reaching a critical point in the Permian Basin,” Smye said. “The scale of injection needs is increasing.”

About 15 million barrels, or 630 million gallons, of produced water are injected for disposal in the Permian Basin every day, Smye said.

A Railroad Commission spokesperson, Patty Ramon, said in a statement the agency is “talking to operators in the Crane County area regarding geology and other data they maintain, reviewing satellite imagery, and analyzing RRC records such as well plugging information.

“We will be continuing this type of analysis in our commitment to ensuring environmental protection,” Ramon said.

Blowout in 2022 sparks study

The SMU study examined a January 2022 blowout in Crane County that gushed almost 15 million gallons of brine before it was capped, according to the paper. That would fill about 23 Olympic-sized swimming pools.

The study traced the cause of the blowout to a cluster of nine injection wells about 12 miles to the northeast. Researchers pulled publicly available data on injection volumes at those wells and found they lined up closely to surface swelling that preceded the blowout. Seven of the wells belong to Goodnight Midstream and two belong to Blackbeard Operating, according to Railroad Commission records.

A spokesperson for Blackbeard said the company “is committed to ensuring prudent operations” and “will continue to operate its assets in accordance with all applicable laws and in coordination with all applicable regulatory agencies.”

Goodnight did not respond to a query.

According to the paper, injection at those nine wells began in 2018 at a rate of about 362,000 gallons per day and doubled to 720,000 gallons per day in late 2019. In late 2020 it doubled again to 1.5 million gallons — two Olympic-sized swimming pools crammed underground everyday — which is when the ground near the blowout site began to inflate.

The study found that the volume injected matched the volume of the surface bulge 12 miles away.

“These observations suggest that this group of injection wells to the NW of the study area, injecting into the San Andres and Glorieta formations, is responsible for the surface deformation in the region,” the study said.

Those wells reached a depth between 4,300 and 3,300 feet. But the SMU study found that the source of the bulge in the earth was much shallower, between 2,300 and 1,600 feet underground.

“This suggests the leakage of wastewater from the San Andres or Glorieta formations to the shallow formations,” the study said.

The bottom of the Rustler Aquifer, the lowest usable source of groundwater in the Permian, sits between 800 and 1,000 feet underground. The SMU study did not examine the possibility of groundwater contamination.

“Our findings highlight the need for stricter regulations on wastewater injection practices and proper management of abandoned wells,” the study said.

Todd Staples, president of the Texas Oil and Gas Association, said the Railroad Commission “is taking appropriate action by thoroughly gathering and reviewing data to address the issues experienced in Crane County.”

He said the industry cooperates with the Railroad Commission by providing data to help analyze geological formations. “In addition, the industry and academia continue to explore alternatives to wastewater injection through market-based water reuse and recycling as well as innovative pilot programs,” Staples said.

Ranchers report damaged land

West Texas ranchers who own land where contaminated water is seeping from underground are beginning to worry it will soon become uninhabitable.

Last February, saltwater flooded parts of Bill Wight’s ranch, about 50 miles southwest of Odessa. The lifelong rancher purchased the land in 2012, hoping to pass it on to his kids. He told The Texas Tribune he wasn’t sure how much of the ranch would survive the leaking wells.

When it was clear the flow of water threatened the property last December, he asked the Railroad Commission to seal the well the water had leaked from. It took the commission months and millions of dollars to plug the well.

His brother, Schuyler Wight, faces a similar predicament at his ranch roughly 60 miles to the west in Pecos County. He has asked the Railroad Commission for years to investigate the multiple abandoned leaking wells on his property. The liquid has eroded the equipment on the surface and killed the plants. After the water dried up, the ground was crusted white from salt.

“It’s what we’ve known all along,” Schuyler Wight said. “What we’re doing is not sustainable.”

Ashley Watt, owner of a ranch 50 miles east of Schuyler Wight’s ranch in Crane County, told the Texas Railroad Commission during a 2022 meeting that she believed excessive injection by nearby oil producers was causing the fluids to spray from abandoned oil wells on her property.

A Railroad Commission staff member said the agency asked operators to check for a source of the leak. The operators told the commission they did not find any. The Railroad Commission during the meeting also said they did not find a well in the agency’s database, and that the nearest injection wells were less than two miles away.

The agency instructed staff to prevent truckers from accessing those injection sites, telling operators to find others “until further notice.”

The wells continue to leak.

Laura Briggs, who also owns a ranch in Pecos County less than half a mile east of Schuyler Wight’s place, said she has seen five old wells start leaking water since 2015. The Railroad Commission plugged two of them, she said, but one began to leak through the seal again.

Briggs has repeatedly given testimony and submitted documentation to the Railroad Commission asking for help. Based on her experience, she believes the subterranean problems in West Texas are much more than what the Railroad Commission can handle.

“If I could do one thing differently, we would have gotten a mobile home so it was easier to get the hell out of here,” Briggs said. “If this [ranch] goes leaking, we just have to leave and nobody will buy the property, no insurance will cover it, you’re just done.”

Despite those problems, the Railroad Commission approved 400 new disposal wells in the Permian Basin alone in 2021, according to agency documents, and 480 in 2022.

Threats to groundwater

The use of injection wells for disposal has expanded immensely with the practice of fracking, according to Dominic DiGiulio, a geoscientist who worked for 30 years at the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. But DiGiulio said these wells are still regulated under rules from the 1970s and ’80s. Increasingly, he said, those rules appear insufficient.

“West Texas isn’t the only place where this is happening,” DiGiulio said. “Overpressurization of aquifers due to disposal of produced water is a problem.”

In 2022, DiGiulio conducted a review of Ohio’s wastewater injection program for the group Physicians, Scientists, and Engineers for Healthy Energy and found the same two problems there: Injected fluids were leaking from some formations meant to contain them, and excessive injections were causing other formations to become overpressurized.

There was one big difference with Texas. In November 2021, DiGiulio’s study said, Ohio had just 228 injection wells for wastewater disposal. Texas, meanwhile, had 13,585 in 2022, according to Railroad Commission documents.

The primary threat posed by produced water migrating from injection wells is groundwater contamination. If deep formations fail to contain the toxic waste injected into them, that waste could end up in shallow freshwater aquifers.

It could happen two ways, DiGiulio said. If the wastewater enters the inside of an old oil well through corroded holes in the casing, it can travel up the steel pipe to the surface, spilling and seeping into the ground. If the wastewater moves up the outside of an old oil well, through the cement that surrounds the steel pipe, it could already be flowing into the aquifer.

That would be bad news for West Texas, which depends almost entirely on groundwater for drinking and crop irrigation.

“Once groundwater contamination happens, it’s too expensive to remediate,” DiGiulio said. “So when it occurs, that’s basically it. You’ve ruined that resource.”

Disclosure: Southern Methodist University and the University of Texas at Austin have been financial supporters of The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan news organization that is funded in part by donations from members, foundations and corporate sponsors. Financial supporters play no role in the Tribune's journalism. Find a complete list of them here.


The full program is now LIVE for the 2024 Texas Tribune Festival, happening Sept. 5–7 in downtown Austin. Explore the program featuring more than 100 unforgettable conversations on topics covering education, the economy, Texas and national politics, criminal justice, the border, the 2024 elections and so much more. See the full program.

Read the full story here.
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Nuclear-Waste Arks Are a Bold Experiment in Protecting Future Generations

Designing nuclear-waste repositories is part engineering, part anthropology—and part mythmaking

This article is part of a package in collaboration with Forbes on time capsules, preserving information and communicating with the future. Read more from the report.IGNACE, Ontario, C.E. 51,500—Feloo, a hunter, chews a strip of roasted caribou flank, washing it down with water from a nearby lake. Her boots press into thin soil that, each summer, thaws into a sodden marsh above frozen ground. Caribou herds drift across the tundra, nibbling lichen and calving on the open flats. Hooves sink into moss beds; antlers scrape dwarf shrubs. Overhead, migratory birds wheel and squawk before winging south. Two lakes remain liquid year-round, held open by hidden taliks—oases of water in a frozen land. Beneath it all lies the Canadian Shield: a billion-year-old granite craton, a basement of rock, scarred by ice, that has endured glaciation after glaciation. In 10 or 15 millennia, Feloo’s world will vanish beneath three kilometers of advancing ice.Feloo is unaware that 500 meters below her feet rests an ancestral deposit of copper, steel, clay and radioactive debris. Long ago, this land was called Canada. Here a group known as the Nuclear Waste Management Organization (NWMO) built a deep geological repository to contain spent nuclear fuel—the byproducts of reactors that once powered Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick. The vault was engineered to isolate long-lived radionuclides such as uranium 235, which has a half-life that exceeds 700 million years—sealing them away from war, disaster, neglect, sabotage and curiosity for as long as human foresight could reach.On supporting science journalismIf you're enjoying this article, consider supporting our award-winning journalism by subscribing. By purchasing a subscription you are helping to ensure the future of impactful stories about the discoveries and ideas shaping our world today.NWMO issued reports with titles such as Postclosure Safety Assessment of a Used Fuel Repository in Crystalline Rock. These studies modeled future boreal forests and tundra ecosystems, simulating the waxing and waning of vast glacial ice sheets across successive ice ages. They envisioned the lifeways of self-sufficient hunters, fishers and farmers who might one day inhabit the region—and even the remote possibility of a far-future drill crew inadvertently breaching the buried canisters.Feloo was born into a world that has remembered none of this. Records of the repository were lost in the global drone wars of C.E. 2323. All that endured were the stories of Mishipeshu, the horned water panther said to dwell beneath the lakes—and to punish those who dig too deep. Some of Feloo’s companions dismiss the legend; others whisper that the earth below still burns with poison. Yet every step she takes is haunted by choices made tens of millennia before—when Canada undertook the Promethean task of safeguarding a future it could scarcely imagine.In 2024 NWMO announced that Canada’s deep geological repository for spent nuclear fuel would be built in the granite formations of northwestern Ontario, near the Township of Ignace and the Wabigoon Lake Ojibway Nation. The decision capped off a 14-year siting effort that solicited volunteer host communities and guaranteed them the right to withdraw at any stage of the process. NWMO is now preparing for a comprehensive regulatory review, which will include a licensing process conducted by the Canadian Nuclear Safety Commission. This means the development of impact assessments that will be specific to the Ignace site. NWMO has also pledged an Indigenous-led regulatory process alongside federal oversight, with the Wabigoon Lake Ojibway Nation conducting its own assessments to ensure the project reflects Anishinaabe principles of ecological stewardship. If approvals proceed, construction could begin in the 2030s, and the repository could go into operation in the 2040s.A deep-time repository, like a deep-space probe, must endure without maintenance or intervention, independently carrying human intent into the far future.A deep geological repository can be seen as a reverse ark: a vessel designed not to carry valuables forward in time but to seal dangerous legacies away from historical memory. Or it can be understood as a reverse mine: an effort returning hazardous remnants to the Earth rather than extracting resources from it. Either way it is more than just a feat of engineering. Repository projects weave together scientific reasoning, intergenerational ethics and community preferences in decisions that are meant to endure longer than empires. As messages to future versions of ourselves, they compel their designers to ask: What symbols, stories or institutions might bridge epochs? And what does it mean that we are trying to protect future humans who may exist only in our imaginations?I am a cultural anthropologist. From 2012 to 2014 I spent 32 months living in Finland, conducting fieldwork among the safety assessment teams for Onkalo—an underground complex that is likely to become the world’s first operational deep geological repository for spent nuclear fuel. The teams’ work involved modeling far-future glaciations, earthquakes, floods, erosion, permafrost and even hypothetical human and animal populations tens of millennia ahead. That research became the basis for Deep Time Reckoning, a book exploring how nuclear-waste experts’ long-range planning practices can be retooled as blueprints for safeguarding future worlds in other domains, from climate adaptation to biodiversity preservation.During the Biden administration, I joined the U.S. Department of Energy’s Office of Spent Fuel and High-Level Waste Disposition, where I helped advance participatory siting processes modeled on approaches that had proven successful in Finland and Canada. I served as federal manager of the DOE’s Consent-Based Siting Consortia—a nationwide coalition of 12 project teams from universities, nonprofits and the private sector that were tasked with fostering community engagement with nuclear waste management. Through it all, I came to see repository programs as civilizational experiments in long-term responsibility: collective efforts to extend the time horizons of governance and care so that shared futures may be protected far beyond the scale of any single lifetime or institution.An enduring question for all repository programs is whether—and, if so, how—to mark their sites and archive knowledge about them. There is no guarantee that the languages we speak today will remain intelligible even a few thousand years from now. Beowulf, written in an earlier form of English a millennium or so ago, already reads like a foreign tongue. The meanings of symbols drift just as unpredictably. A skull and crossbones, for instance, may denote poison, death, rebirth—or pirates—depending on culture and context. What, then, might a nuclear waste repository signify to people tens of millennia from now? How long can a warning sign, monument, or archive preserve the meanings we attach to it today? Or should we abandon the illusion of communicating with future humans like Feloo altogether—and instead build repositories that are meant to be forgotten?Nuclear organizations rely on familiar techniques to preserve institutional memory: documentation mandates, digital databases, mentoring pipelines, program redundancy, succession planning. Such mechanisms can sustain continuity for decades, even centuries—but their limits become clear when stretched across millennia. Archives can burn. Technologies can decay into obsolescence. Institutions can falter under political or economic upheaval. And today a new litany of planetary risks crowds the horizon: thermonuclear war, weaponized synthetic biology, climate-driven migrations, institutional collapse, even runaway artificial superintelligence.As NWMO prepares for construction in Ignace in the 2030s, the question of long-term communication must increasingly shift from theory to practice. Canada has participated in the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development’s Nuclear Energy Agency’s Preservation of Records, Knowledge and Memory initiative, which has explored strategies ranging from warning markers to staged transfers of responsibility across generations. In a 2017 safety report, NWMO wisely conceded a limit: “repository records and markers (and passive societal memory) are assumed sufficient to ensure that inadvertent intrusion would not occur for at least 300 ... years.” Beyond that horizon, the premise changes. No monument, land-use restriction, monitoring system or archive can be trusted to endure indefinitely.Different countries have embraced different philosophies of how to safeguard nuclear waste repositories across centuries and millennia—and how and whether to try to send messages to those who, like Feloo, may one day live above them.The U.S. is home to the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP), a deep geological repository carved into ancient salt beds in New Mexico. WIPP stores transuranic waste from the nation’s nuclear weapons programs. In the 1980s and 1990s, task forces convened scientists, artists, science-fiction writers and semioticians to design warning systems that were intended to deter drill crews or archaeologists living thousands of years in the future. Their proposals were dramatic: vast fields of concrete thorns bristling from the desert floor; monolithic slabs etched with multilingual warnings (“this place is not a place of honor ... nothing valued is here”); and signage depicting the anguished face of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Some envisioned a quasi-religious “atomic priesthood” to preserve the warning through ritual. Others suggested bioengineered “ray cats” whose fur would fluoresce near radiation—accompanied by myths, songs and proverbs to ensure that unborn generations would know to flee.Finland’s Onkalo repository embodies a somewhat different a philosophy. Anticipating the future loss of institutional control and memory of the repository, Onkalo was designed to remain secure for millennia in the absence of monumental communication systems. As in Canada, the lack of exploitable resources in the granite bedrock is meant to deter future prospectors. Once its tunnels are packed with copper canisters and bentonite clay, Onkalo will be backfilled and sealed for perpetuity on a small, unassuming islet in the Baltic Sea sometime in the 2120s. The danger is to be buried so completely that there will be nothing left to remember: no attention-grabbing monoliths to tempt curiosity, no symbols to be misread. When I conducted anthropological fieldwork in Finland, some scientists likened the project to launching a probe into interstellar space: years of meticulous planning and testing culminating in a single, irrevocable release. After that, no repair or recall is possible. A deep-time repository, like a deep-space probe, must endure without maintenance or intervention, independently carrying human intent into the far future.Even the mightiest empires have cycled through collapse and renewal, through forgetting and rediscovery.France has charted a third path with its Cigéo repository, planned in the Callovo-Oxfordian clay of its northeastern departments of Meuse and Haute-Marne. A 2016 law requires Cigéo to remain reversible for at least a century after operations begin. In practice, reversibility means retrievability: the inbuilt capacity to recover waste packages from the underground deposition cells. Advocates see this as a balance between long-term containment and intergenerational agency: the idea that future citizens should retain the right to revisit, or even overturn, choices made today. This logic resonates with those who view spent nuclear fuel as a future resource more than a liability. Jenifer Schafer, an associate director for technology at the DOE’s Advanced Research Projects Agency–Energy, has argued that “nuclear treasure” may be a more fitting term than “nuclear waste,” as the fissile materials inside it could someday power future innovations in nuclear reactor design. From this perspective, burying spent nuclear fuel too conclusively risks foreclosing possibilities that future generations might prefer to keep open.Taken together, these examples reveal how differently societies imagine their obligations to the far future. The American strategy reflected a lingering cold-war-era faith—tinged with hubris—in design ingenuity to frighten descendants away. The Finnish plan entrusted geology with the work of erasure, even if humans’ memory were to lapse as the landscape quietly reclaimed the site. The French framework preserved the right of future citizens to reject the decisions of today. Canada still has regulatory milestones and First Nations approvals to meet before NWMO can break ground at Ignace. In the decades ahead, however, it, too, will have to specify how it will stage its approach to intergenerational communication.What is certain, though, is that NWMO’s deep geological disposal efforts will unfold not only as a technical project but also as a cultural statement—a statement about care across generations, the limits of understanding across difference and the moral responsibilities of present-day Canadians to those not yet born. Like all repository efforts, NWMO’s work in Ignace will serve as a mirror: a message not only to the future but also to the present, reflecting what we choose to remember, what we choose to forget and how we hope to be remembered ourselves.As NWMO refines its approach to remembering, forgetting and communicating with societies of the future, it would do well to look beyond the nuclear industry for inspiration.Japan’s Kongō Gumi construction firm, founded in C.E. 578, operated independently for more than 1,400 years before it became part of the Takamatsu Construction Group in 2006. Adapting across vast social and political transformations, the Catholic Church, France’s Hôtel-Dieu hospital (C.E. 651) and Morocco’s University of al-Qarawiyyin (C.E. 859) have each endured for more than a millennium. Bali’s subak irrigation system, established in the ninth century, continues to flourish through a network of water temples that unite ecological engineering with Hindu philosophy and ritual. In New Mexico, three-century-old acequia canals still function under community governance, with elected mayordomos overseeing water sharing through collective labor. In Australia, the Brewarrina fish traps have been maintained across countless generations of Aboriginal peoples. What principles of intergenerational adaptation, renewal or continuity might NWMO glean from such long-lived systems?The Memory of Mankind (MoM) project in Austria could also be instructive. MoM’s mission is to preserve a snapshot of human civilization for the distant future, a cultural time capsule designed to outlast war, decay and digital obsolescence. Deep inside the Hallstatt salt mine, MoM stores ceramic tablets engraved with texts and images engineered to resist heat, radiation, chemicals and water. Its archive includes everything from scholarly works to recipes and personal stories. Led by ceramist Martin Kunze, MoM represents a philosophy of strategic redundancy. To guard against loss, Kunze distributes miniature tablets worldwide, each etched with maps pointing back to the Hallstatt archive—a physical embodiment of a principle articulated by the digital-preservation project LOCKSS: “Lots of Copies Keep Stuff Safe.” What might it mean for Canada to apply that same principle to the challenge of nuclear memory?Indigenous cultures offer another paradigm of long-term message endurance: storytelling as recordkeeping. Aboriginal Australian oral histories recount volcanic eruptions in western Victoria that align with geological evidence dating back nearly 37,000 years. Narratives describing islands drowned by rising seas have likewise been corroborated by climate science. Such traditions demonstrate that oral knowledge of environmental change can persist across timescales that far exceed those of our most advanced digital media, which often decay or become unreadable within decades. What might NWMO learn from cultural systems of memory grounded in ceremony, cosmology and story transmission?If built properly, NWMO’s deep geological repository will outlast governments, economies and the very languages that name it. It will join a global lineage of reverse arks: monuments to societies that dared to think beyond themselves. If the facility is someday uncovered by a far-future archaeologist, its depth, placement and engineered barriers could reveal what our civilization judged to be dangerous, how we calculated risk and how we imagined future humans would think, live and interpret signs. Yet scientific literacy cannot be assumed across deep time. Even the mightiest empires have cycled through collapse and renewal, through forgetting and rediscovery. To posterity, a nuclear waste repository might be read as a sacred monument, an extraterrestrial stronghold, a strange geological formation, a chamber of forgotten gods—or something beyond our present-day imagination altogether.In the end, Canada’s proposed Ignace repository will be an artifact of our own self-understanding: stone and metal fashioned into a signal meant to traverse vast orders of time. Its interpretation will belong solely to the future—to whatever beings, human or otherwise, may one day unearth what we once chose to hide.

‘We feel we’re fighting a losing battle’: the race to remove millions of plastic beads from Camber Sands

A huge cleanup effort has seen volunteers working to remove beads by hand and machine. They can only wait and see the extent of damage to wildlife and dune habitatJust past a scrum of dog walkers, about 40 people are urgently combing through the sand on hands and knees. Their task is to try to remove millions of peppercorn-sized black plastic biobeads from where they have settled in the sand. Beyond them, a seal carcass grins menacingly, teeth protruding from its rotting skull.Last week, an environmental disaster took place on Camber Sands beach, on what could turn out to be an unprecedented scale. Eastbourne Wastewater Treatment Works, owned by Southern Water, experienced a mechanical failure and spewed out millions of biobeads on to the Sussex coastline. Southern Water has since taken responsibility for the spill. Ironically, biobeads are used to clean wastewater – bacteria attach to their rough, crinkly surface and clean the water of contaminants.Camber Sands is one of England’s most popular beaches, with rare dune habitat Continue reading...

Just past a scrum of dog walkers, about 40 people are urgently combing through the sand on hands and knees. Their task is to try to remove millions of peppercorn-sized black plastic biobeads from where they have settled in the sand. Beyond them, a seal carcass grins menacingly, teeth protruding from its rotting skull.Last week, an environmental disaster took place on Camber Sands beach, on what could turn out to be an unprecedented scale. Eastbourne Wastewater Treatment Works, owned by Southern Water, experienced a mechanical failure and spewed out millions of biobeads on to the Sussex coastline. Southern Water has since taken responsibility for the spill. Ironically, biobeads are used to clean wastewater – bacteria attach to their rough, crinkly surface and clean the water of contaminants.In the days since, volunteers have flocked to the beach. On a chilly November morning, beneath a blue sky, they painstakingly pick out the minuscule beads by hand. It is mind-numbingly tedious work.Others – much to the envy of the hand-pickers – have sieves. One volunteer has fashioned a sieve from a mesh onion sack found nearby.“We’re scooping up the sand, then pouring the sand over a bucket into a sieve, and then pouring the water on top, so that we just get the beads,” says Hastings resident Roisin O’Gorman.Andy Dinsdale, the founder of Strandliners, an environmental organisation that runs beach cleanups, says: “They’ve got to get down on their hands and knees, almost into the strandline [the line of seaweed and other debris that lines the high water mark on beaches], to look for very small 5mm black pellets. We can only do our best.”Kneeling on the sand, on your knees, just picking them out, one by one, is futileHe is noticeably exhausted from his days-long effort coordinating the cleanup. He has missed his son’s birthday celebrations, he says, to be here.Despite their valiant efforts, many volunteers feel helpless. Walking tramples the plastic further into the sand and overfilled bin bags of waste can split, putting workers back to square one. “Kneeling on the sand, on your knees, just picking them out, one by one, is futile,” says Nick, a volunteer from Tunbridge Wells, in frustration.To make more of a dent, experts have brought in a special machine. “Do you remember Teletubbies?” says Dinsdale. He points about a mile down the beach, towards what looks like a giant vacuum cleaner – remarkably reminiscent of the character Noo-Noo from the children’s television series – sucking up a carpet of black beads.This microplastic removal machine is the invention of Joshua Beech, an environmental scientist and founder of the cleanup organisation Nurdle. “It works by vacuuming up material, separating it by density, and then sieving and separating in the back [of the machine] so it comes out as nearly pure plastic in the collection trays,” he says.Beech and his colleague Roy Beal have spent five backbreaking days vacuuming the beach from sunrise to sunset. Beech hoists the heavy nozzle on to his shoulders while Beal holds it underarm. “He has a rugby player’s shoulders,” says Beal. “I have kayaker’s shoulders.”They hope that removing as many biobeads as possible can prevent more damage.Tamara Galloway, professor of ecotoxicology at the University of Exeter, says microplastics “overlap with the prey item size of many marine organisms and can enter the food web, with the potential to transfer contaminants into cells and tissues”.They can also break down and leach harmful compounds that affect animals’ hormones and cause reproductive problems. Local people are already concerned by an unusual number of stranded animals – three seals and a porpoise – that recently washed up on the beach. At this stage, the UK Cetacean Strandings Investigation Programme (CSIP), which investigates strandings, doesn’t think these deaths are linked to the spill.Rye Harbour nature reserve, adjacent to Camber Sands, is Sussex Wildlife Trust’s largest reserve. This special area is “a matrix of wetland habitat”, influenced by and linked to the sea, says site manager Paul Tinsley-Marshall. “The vegetated shingle is a globally threatened habitat.” It is home to more than 4,355 species, including common, sandwich and little terns, oystercatchers, plovers and avocets. Biobead pollution has now been confirmed at Rye Harbour, and the reserve’s team is currently assessing the damage and carefully planning their cleanup of this sensitive habitat.According to Strandliners, there have been two previous large-scale biobead incidents reported to the Environment Agency, in 2010 and 2017.“This is the worst microplastic spill we’ve seen this year,” says Beech. Worse even than the spill of nurdles (pre-production plastic pellets) in March, when two ships collided in the North Sea. The plastic beads washed up on Norfolk beaches and the surrounding coastline.The harm caused by the biobeads at Camber may depend on their composition. Beads like these used to be recycled from potentially toxic e-waste until regulatory legislation in 2006. No one knows when these beads were made, Dinsdale says.With the sun due to set at 4.20pm, time on the beach is limited. “We’re fighting against the sunlight,” says volunteer Cate Lamb who has travelled from London with her partner, Khalid Flynn, and eight-year-old Maya Flynn. “We feel like we’re fighting a losing battle, a little, because of the scale of the challenge.”At that moment, her bucket splits.Rother district council says attempts to remove all the pellets have “proven impossible” and that they “expect further large amounts to be deposited in the coming weeks and months”.Beech and the Nurdle team hope to return after the next spring tide brings in more, but this is dependent on them being able to cover the costs of a second clean.The money they make selling recycled sheeting made from the beach plastics to fund future cleanups isn’t enough. “We can’t afford to come back,” says Beech. “But the environment needs us back.”Southern Water has apologised for the spill but Helena Dollimore, the MP for Hastings and Rye, wants it to go further by funding the cleanup and any future nature restoration. She is also calling for an independent investigation. “Southern Water cannot be trusted to mark their own homework,” she says.

London judge rules BHP Group liable for Brazil’s 2015 Samarco dam collapse

About 600,000 people seeking compensation a decade on from disaster that killed 19 and devastated villagesA London judge has ruled that the global mining company BHP Group is liable in Brazil’s worst environmental disaster, when a dam collapse 10 years ago unleashed tons of toxic waste into a major river, killing 19 people and devastating villages downstream.Mrs Justice O’Farrell said at the high court that Australia-based BHP was responsible despite not owning the dam at the time. Continue reading...

A London judge has ruled that global mining company BHP Group is liable in Brazil’s worst environmental disaster, when a dam collapse 10 years ago unleashed tons of toxic waste into a major river, killing 19 people and devastating villages downstream.Mrs Justice O’Farrell said at the high court that Australia-based BHP was responsible despite not owning the dam at the time.Anglo-Australian BHP owns 50% of Samarco, the Brazilian company that operates the iron ore mine where the tailings dam ruptured on 5 November 2015, sending as much as 40m cubic metres of mining into the Doce River in south-eastern Brazil.Sludge from the burst dam destroyed the once-bustling village of Bento Rodrigues in Minas Gerais state and badly damaged other towns.The disaster also killed 14 tonnes of freshwater fish and damaged 370 miles (600 miles) of the Doce River, according to a study by the University of Ulster in the UK. The river, which the Krenak Indigenous people revere as a deity, has yet to recover.About 600,000 Brazilians are seeking £36bn ($47bn) in compensation, although the ruling only addressed liability. A second phase of the trial will determine damages.The case was filed in Britain because one of BHP’s two main legal entities was based in London at the time.The trial began in October 2024, just days before Brazil’s federal government reached a multibillion-dollar settlement with the mining companies.Under the agreement, Samarco, which is also half owned by Brazilian mining company Vale, agreed to pay 132 billion reais ($23bn) over 20 years. The payments were meant to compensate for human, environmental and infrastructure damage.BHP had said the UK legal action was unnecessary because it duplicated matters covered by legal proceedings in Brazil.

MIT senior turns waste from the fishing industry into biodegradable plastic

Jacqueline Prawira’s innovation, featured on CBS’s “The Visioneers,” tackles one of the world’s most pressing environmental challenges.

Sometimes the answers to seemingly intractable environmental problems are found in nature itself. Take the growing challenge of plastic waste. Jacqueline Prawira, an MIT senior in the Department of Materials Science and Engineering (DMSE), has developed biodegradable, plastic-like materials from fish offal, as featured in a recent segment on the CBS show “The Visioneers with Zay Harding.” “We basically made plastics to be too good at their job. That also means the environment doesn’t know what to do with this, because they simply won’t degrade,” Prawira told Harding. “And now we’re literally drowning in plastic. By 2050, plastics are expected to outweigh fish in the ocean.” “The Visioneers” regularly highlights environmental innovators. The episode featuring Prawira premiered during a special screening at Climate Week NYC on Sept. 24.Her inspiration came from the Asian fish market her family visits. Once the fish they buy are butchered, the scales are typically discarded. “But I also started noticing they’re actually fairly strong. They’re thin, somewhat flexible, and pretty lightweight, too, for their strength,” Prawira says. “And that got me thinking: Well, what other material has these properties? Plastics.” She transformed this waste product into a transparent, thin-film material that can be used for disposable products such as grocery bags, packaging, and utensils. Both her fish-scale material and a composite she developed don’t just mimic plastic — they address one of its biggest flaws. “If you put them in composting environments, [they] will degrade on their own naturally without needing much, if any, external help,” Prawira says. This isn’t Prawira’s first environmental innovation. Working in DMSE Professor Yet-Ming Chiang’s lab, she helped develop a low-carbon process for making cement — the world’s most widely used construction material, and a major emitter of carbon dioxide. The process, called silicate subtraction, enables compounds to form at lower temperatures, cutting fossil fuel use. Prawira and her co-inventors in the Chiang lab are also using the method to extract valuable lithium with zero waste. The process is patented and is being commercialized through the startup Rock Zero. For her achievements, Prawira recently received the Barry Goldwater Scholarship, awarded to undergraduates pursuing careers in science, mathematics, or engineering. In her “Visioneers” interview, she shared her hope for more sustainable ways of living. “I’m hoping that we can have daily lives that can be more in sync with the environment,” Prawira said. “So you don’t always have to choose between the convenience of daily life and having to help protect the environment.”

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