Rising seas fueled by climate change to swamp $34B in US real estate in just 30 years, analysis finds
Dinah Voyles Pulver, USA TODAY – September 8, 2022
Higher high tides, supercharged by rising sea levels, could flood all or parts of an estimated $34 billion worth of real estate along the nation’s coasts within just 30 years, a new report concludes.
Within the span of a 30-year mortgage, as many as 64,000 buildings and roughly 637,000 properties along the ocean and its connecting waterways could be at least partially below the tidal boundary level, the nonprofit Climate Central stated in a report released Thursday morning.
Seas are forecast to rise from 8 inches to 23 inches along the nation’s coasts by 2050, with the higher increases along the northern Gulf Coast and mid-Atlantic. As the oceans rise, every inch of additional water is expected to move farther inland making flood events worse and putting more properties at risk.
Tax dollars flowing into local governments will sink as rising water claims homes and land, lowering property values and sending a ripple effect through communities, said Don Bain, an engineer and Climate Central senior adviser.
The analysis concluded such losses could triple by 2100 in counties connected to the sea, depending on whether the world can rein in warming temperatures
The nonprofit looked at tax assessment data for 328 counties throughout the U.S. and tidal level property boundaries and elevation. Here’s what its analysis found:
Underwater
More than 48,000 properties could be entirely below the high tide lines by 2050, mostly in Louisiana, Florida and Texas.
Nearly 300,000 buildings could be at least partially under water by 2100. The value of buildings and properties below the high water level could rise to $108 billion, not including some 90 counties where the nonprofit couldn’t get tax assessor data.
Parishes under pressure
Parishes in low-lying Louisiana – where sinking ground compounds the effects of rising sea levels – are forecast to feel the brunt of the impacts. The analysis shows some 8.7% of the state’s total land area could be below water level by 2050.
Thirteen parishes rank in the top 20 among all counties and parishes for the most acres potentially below water level by 2050. More than half of the land in six parishes could be below water level by then, including Terrebonne, LaFourche, St. Charles, St. Mary, St. Bernard and St. John the Baptist.
A scattering of counties in five other states also could feel bigger impacts.
New Jersey’s Hudson County, across the Hudson River from Manhattan, is among those, with more than 15% of its total acreage below the predicted higher water levels. It leads all counties in the nation with an estimated value of land and buildings at risk: more than $2.4 billion.
Also among the top 20 counties with the most acres predicted below water level by 2050 are:
Middlesex, along the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia
Monroe, home of the Florida Keys
Jefferson, Texas, on the northern Gulf coast at Beaumont
Dare, Tyrell and Currituck counties along North Carolina’s Outer Banks and Albemarle Sound
Among the counties with the greatest property values at stake are:
Galveston, Texas, $2.37 billion
Honolulu, Hawaii, $2.3 billion
Washington, DC, $1.4 billion
Miami-Dade, Florida, $1.3 billion
Losing land
As much as 4.4 million acres could fall below the shoreline boundaries that mark the line between private property and public land by 2050, a number the report estimated would double by 2100. The majority of that land in 2050 – 3.8 million acres – lies in just four states: Louisiana, Florida, North Carolina and Texas.
“Your land is going to be taken from you by the rising seas,” Bain said. “Nobody’s talking about that.”
The analysis used the relevant tidal boundary for each state, whether it’s the mean low water line, the mean high water line or the mean higher high water line, then calculated the land within each property that could fall below that boundary as seas rise.
They calculated the exposed tax-assessed value for properties that could be newly affected by higher water and multiplied the value of each property by the fraction forecast to be below the line. They used an entire building’s value when any of the building is at or below the line.
The loss of taxable value could greatly impact the budgets of many towns and counties, said A.R. Siders, an assistant professor in the University of Delaware’s Disaster Research Center. “If a town has no other income and is relying solely on property tax values, that town is not sustainable.”
Risky business
Climate Central is among numerous groups working to better define the nation’s climate risk.
The need for such information is huge as mortgage lenders, insurers and others try to discern what the future holds and what it means for business, said Bain, adding it’s important to balance sheets for governments, individuals and corporations.
“Climate change impacts are real,” said Mark Rupp with the Georgetown Climate Center at Georgetown University. “They are happening now, and they are affecting even the business world.
“How many mortgage lenders want to be lending for home mortgages in flood-prone areas, if they don’t think that they’re going to get paid back?”
Rupp also pointed to the number of insurance carriers who have pulled out of the market in Florida or become insolvent. He said it’s critical for local governments to get support from state and federal governments to plan and prepare in advance.
Inspire not frighten
The report’s conclusions aren’t meant to frighten or discourage people, Bain said. He hopes they give people information to influence outcomes and push officials at every level of government to begin working together now to adopt needed laws and regulations.
“I’s not too late to make course corrections,” Bain said. “Solving this problem is important because it’s a choice between better outcomes and really bad outcomes.”
It’s important to educate and inform people about what they’re facing so they can do the rest, Bain said. “I think we can have a bright and prosperous future but only if we put our minds and shoulders to it, and are well-informed and get after it.”
Into the zone of death: 4 days spent deep in Idaho’s remote Yellowstone backcountry
Clark Corbin – September 7, 2022
The ranger warned us before we attempted to enter the “zone of death.”
Millions of people visit Yellowstone National Park each year, but one of the least visited parts of the park, the so-called zone of death, lies in Idaho.
It’s rugged and remote, with no roads, a place where the trail grows faint and grizzly bears or cascading waterfalls could be just around the corner. Nobody lives there, and almost nobody camps there overnight. There are even rumors that you can get away with murder there.
Most of Yellowstone is located in Wyoming, but small portions extend into Montana and Idaho.
The narrow slice of Yellowstone in Idaho is situated in the roadless southwest corner of the park. It sees few human visitors because of how far it is from the main park roads and because it is overshadowed by the more popular, Instagram-friendly waterfalls, rivers and geothermal features located relatively close by in the Wyoming section of Yellowstone.
It is truly one of the last wild places in the American West.
“Other than a few changes, improvements in trails and some of the backcountry cabins, most of which were built in late teens and early ‘20s, most of the backcountry is just the same way people would have seen the park 150 years ago when the park was established,” Yellowstone backcountry ranger Michael Curtis told the Idaho Capital Sun. “That is what is pretty unique. You can go and get a sense of what people saw 150 years ago and experience it and know that it is largely unchanged.”
Another ranger warned us that the Idaho section of Yellowstone we planned to access off the Robinson Creek Trail saw so little traffic that the trail grew faint and overgrown and could be hard to follow. Rangers even had a hard time finding the Robinson Creek backcountry campsite when they traveled that way to clear trails and inspect backcountry sites earlier in the spring.
It sounded perfect.
So earlier this month, I set out with Boise journalist Heath Druzin, host of the Extremely American Podcast, to leave the crowds behind and backpack deep into Yellowstone’s backcountry. We hoped to see a side of Yellowstone that few tourists see, and we planned to finish our trip with one night in the Idaho section of Yellowstone.
We took the hard way, backpacking a total of 52 miles in just under 72 hours.
Idaho Capital Sun reporter Clark Corbin navigates a crossing of the Bechler River in Yellowstone National Park.
Day 1, Wyoming: A gushing geyser and a long slog over the Continental Divide
There were a lot of logistics that went into planning our hike, which we staged as a sort of thru-hike rather than an out-and-back or looped trip. We mapped out our route and applied for the required backcountry permit and campsites months in advance. We practiced Leave No trace principles, including packing in and packing out everything we needed and used, especially our trash. We stashed one vehicle at our finish line, the Bechler Ranger Station near the Wyoming-Idaho border, the night before we started backpacking.
We drove the other vehicle into the West Entrance of Yellowstone National Park at West Yellowstone, Montana, early on our first morning. We stopped at Old Faithful but quickly jumped back in the car when we learned it wasn’t predicted to erupt for more than an hour. A couple miles later, we left our remaining vehicle at the Lone Star Trailhead, shouldered our 35- to 40-pound packs, holstered our bear spray and began walking south, saying goodbye to roads and motorized vehicles.
We followed the Firehole River for the first couple of miles, swatting away the first of thousands of mosquitoes that would feast upon us for the remainder of the trip.
After 45 minutes, we reached the Lone Star Geyser and encountered a small crowd of about 20 hikers waiting with anticipation.
The Lone Star Geyser is a 12-foot cone that erupts about once every three hours, according to Yellowstone National Park. By comparison, Old Faithful erupts about every 75 to 90 minutes.
Lone Star is just far enough from the road and takes just long between eruptions that it doesn’t draw near the crowds of Old Faithful, which regularly attracts hundreds of people to its viewing platform.
Our trip was already starting strong.
“You’re just in time,” a child yelled out as Druzin and I approached and Lone Star Geyser began churning and splashing, belching a melange of steam, sulfur and hot water from its geothermal cone.
Within 15 minutes of our arrival, Lone Star was in full eruption, blasting scalding hot water more than 45 feet into the air.
After photos and a snack, it was time to hit the trail and begin climbing toward the Continental Divide. The Continental Divide stretches from Alaska down through Mexico and beyond, a crest following high mountain ranges that separates the waters that flow to the Pacific Ocean from the waters that flow to the Gulf of Mexico. The Continental Divide frequently crosses trails and roads through Yellowstone National Park and can be thought of as an invisible line, where raindrops falling on one side will eventually flow to the Pacific Ocean and raindrops falling on the other side will eventually flow to the Gulf of Mexico, as Annie Carlson, a research coordinator for the Yellowstone Center for Resources previously wrote in the Sun.
We hiked uphill through the hottest part of the day on one of the hottest days of the summer, moving slowly under heavy packs, seemingly inching forward up to an elevation of about 8,600 feet before the trail leveled off and then quickly turned downhill.
By the time I reached our destination and first backcountry campsite, Gregg Fork, I was exhausted and my shoulders burned with a searing pain.
Neither of us ate a full dinner, but just before dark we slung our heaviest pack high up a tree to lighten our loads and set out on another exploratory hike. The extra mission brought our total mileage for the day to 20 miles, but it also led us to confirm the location of one of the true highlights of the trip, a backcountry hot spring nestled deep in a geothermal zone.
An influx of cold water from the connecting creek make it possible to enjoy a soak in Mr. Bubbles hot spring, which is located in Yellowstone National Park’s backcountry.
Day 2, Wyoming: A magical backcountry hot spring, big river crossings and an unrelenting thunderstorm
Even though the secret is out, there is no sign pointing the way to Mr. Bubbles hot springs, our first destination on our second day in Yellowstone’s backcountry.
At one point along the Bechler River Trail, there is a fork offering three different directions hikers can travel. A sign points to destinations in two different directions. Take the third option, an unsigned spur trail that looks like a spot to rest horses. Follow it for about half a mile and the steam from a geyser basin soon appears. Continue to follow the trail, stepping carefully over and across shallow pools and creeks of geothermal water until reaching Mr. Bubbles, a large swimming pool-sized hot spring where cold waters from a nearby creek mix with a bubbling geothermal feature that gives the hot spring its namesake.
Yellowstone prohibits bathing, soaking or swimming in water entirely of thermal origin, but the cold waters of the creek mixing with the hot geothermal water make it safe and legal to soak in Mr. Bubbles.
Our second day on the trail started off cloudy with much cooler temperatures and the threat of rain. We had fewer miles to cover, so we soaked lazily for about 90 minutes in Mr. Bubbles’ warm waters. As we waded waist-deep nearly up to the bubbling water at the center of the pool, we felt the ground at the bottom of the pool subtly rock and shift, almost as if a small earthquake was concentrated right under the hot spring.
As we soaked, steam rose from the much hotter nearby geothermal features and their orange prismatic pools. We felt as though we’d left civilization behind for the warm waters of an alien planet.
As tempting and relaxing as Mr. Bubbles was after a long first day in the backcountry, we knew we had to get moving. Our day’s agenda called for covering another 15 miles along The Bechler River Trail, a journey that we knew would include at least three river crossings.
We ended up getting a bonus river crossing.
The trail crosses rivers and creeks several times, but many of the crossings feature bridges, strategically placed logs that span the gaps or large stones arranged to enable a hiker to hop across and stay dry. Sometimes, there was no bridge, log or stone path, and we had to ford the river, wading across at what we hope is a relatively shallow spot.
The first crossing allowed us to ease into it. A footbridge over a modest creek had washed out. We took our boots off and slipped on river sandals and water shoes, respectively, unbuckled the straps on our packs for safety and waded gingerly across the 40-foot creek. It was barely knee-deep and not as cold as we were warned to expect following spring snowmelt and runoff.
We felt alive and rejuvenated as we crossed.
Our confidence continued to increase just as the weather turned bad and the river crossing became bigger and burlier. We navigated two more crossings of the Bechler River, crossing 60-foot sections of river where the water reached the top of our thighs.
Descending through the Bechler Canyon, thunderclaps began to boom and lighting flickered overhead as a cool rain started to fall. The canyon section of our hike was full of lush, leafy vegetation that absorbed all the rainwater and soaked us thoroughly as we hiked. We trudged through the unrelenting thunderstorm for almost four hours, quickly passing by scenic landmarks such as the 45-foot Iris Falls. With about five miles still to travel and lightning overhead, we lingered just long enough to snap a few photos of the waterfall and complain about how quickly our Gore-Tex boots became soaked and squishy.
Every hour we consulted our map, and every hour it seemed like we still had another three or four miles to go.
Finally, I smelled smoke and we came across a group of horses tied to a hitching post below some trees, just off the trail. Just around the corner we came across a camp of cowboys who were beginning a multi-day guided horseback trip through the Bechler Meadows.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” I called out in the most cheerful voice I could muster up.
“Care to join us and warm up for a bit?” one of the cowboys responded.
They had a huge, crackling fire roaring in their camp.
“Thanks! We’ll be right up,” Druzin said.
Standing beside the fire our pants and boots began to dry out and our spirits were buoyed. One of the men on the horseback trip identified himself as a Ukrainian minister, and told us of his unwavering belief in the goodness of people. When Russian forces invaded Ukraine in February, members of Russian churches immediately stepped up and donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to help Ukrainian people, the man said. No matter how bad things get, he told us, continue to have faith in people’s capacity to do good.
Sufficiently warm and full of a new optimism for life, we thanked our cowboy hosts, wished them luck on their adventure in Yellowstone and jumped back on the trail to finish the remainder of our day’s hike in the rain.
Our optimism continued unabated for about half an hour until we encountered the remaining members of the cowboy posse at our final river crossing of the day.
Starting out from the opposite river bank that we were standing on, two cowboys leading a team of pack animals crossed the river on horseback. Initially, the crossing looked smooth and easy, with the water never rising above the horses’ knees. But as they neared our side of the bank, the water became much deeper, rising above the horses’ knees and touching their bellies.
As soon as the first cowboy reached dry land, we exchanged greetings and he began to complain about being wet and cold.
“Not as wet as we’re about to be,” Druzin said, motioning to the river.
“You’re crossing here?” the cowboy said in disbelief.
All we could do was nod and say that our campsite was on the other side of the river. The cowboys left us behind, with the first cold, wet cowboy saying he would keep his ears open for any high-pitched screaming coming from this direction.
Great.
We were intimidated by the depth of the water and spent 20 minutes looking for a shallower spot to wade across. Druzin initially set out cautiously on a precarious log that was balanced a little too delicately over deeper, fast moving water. Druzin noticed the danger in time and backed slowly off the log.
With darkness about to settle in and our campsite, Lower Boundary Creek, situated on the far side of the river, we regrouped and headed back to the spot where the cold cowboys and their horses had just crossed. We hoisted our packs entirely over our head in an effort to keep our packs, tents, sleeping bags and remaining clothing dry and waded into the water. The water reached the top of our thighs and soaked our behinds, but it was calm and the riverbed wasn’t too slippery. Before we knew it, we had safely walked across.
It took a total of 16 miles to reach camp on our second day, and the mosquitoes set upon us immediately. I was cold and wet and knew my clothes and boots wouldn’t dry until the sun came out the next day. My sleeping pad was soaked and unusable for the night. My frustration and self pity didn’t subside until my second healthy pull off the whiskey in camp.
I perked up just before crawling into my tent, knowing that next day’s adventure would lead us into the zone of death.
What is the zone of death?
The zone of death (highlighted in red) is defined by the intersection of Yellowstone National Park (highlighted in green) with the state of Idaho, in the southwest corner of the park. The grey dotted line represents the approximate path followed for this article, starting south of Old Faithful, traveling toward the southwest. The trip covered 52 miles.
Michigan State University’s College of Law professor Brian C. Kalt wrote a 2005 research paper published in the Georgetown Law Journal called “The Perfect Crime,” which suggested Yellowstone’s zone of death might be a place “where one might commit felonies with impunity.” The idea behind the theory is that nobody lives in the roughly 50-mile section of Yellowstone that lies in Idaho. Therefore, prosecution for certain federal felonies could become tricky if a defendant evoked their Sixth Amendment right to be tried by a jury from the state and district where the crime occurred.
The Idaho Legislature even debated the issue and adopted House Joint Memorial 3, which calls on Congress to close the zone of death “loophole,” during the 2022 legislative session.
State Rep. Colin Nash, the Boise Democrat who sponsored House Joint Memorial 3, told the Sun last month that he has not heard any feedback or received a response from Idaho’s congressional delegation on the matter.
For their part, Yellowstone officials aren’t worried that there is a loophole to close.
“We don’t talk in theoretical terms,” Yellowstone spokeswoman Linda Veress told the Sun. “If a crime occurs there, we will treat it like a crime occurred anywhere else in the park.”
Veress and Curtis, the backcountry district ranger, said the United States government has exclusive jurisdiction in Yellowstone and the states don’t even get involved. Yellowstone has its own law enforcement rangers, and there is also an investigative services branch within the National Park Service that focuses on more complex crimes, Curtis said.
“All crimes that are either detected when we are out on patrol or get reported, we investigate through the law enforcement rangers assigned to the park,” Curtis said. “If they are felony-level cases, a lot of times those are investigated with the National Park Service.”
Once a potential crime is investigated, law enforcement rangers or agents with the investigative services branch of the National Park Service work with an assistant U.S. attorney. Curtis and Veress said they aren’t aware of any issues or concerns with the current practices.
Day 3, Idaho: Into the zone of death
After tearing down camp at Lower Boundary Creek and wiggling into my still-damp clothing and boots, we hit the Bechler Meadows Trail. We made a quick stop at the Bechler Ranger Station to switch reservations to the Little Robinson Creek backcountry site in the zone of death, hoping it would be easier to find than our original site the rangers warned us could be tricky to locate.
With the new permit in hand, we headed up Robinson Creek Trail, which also appears to be identified as the West Boundary Trail on some maps and trail signs.
It was immediately obvious we were stepping off the beaten path. Whereas the trail in the Bechler River and Bechler Meadows sections of Wyoming was clearly defined, cleared of debris and trodden with fresh footsteps, the Robinson Creek Trail was overgrown and lush. We had to engage in some bushwhacking and a series of little guessing games to continue to follow the trail.
If we didn’t have electronic and paper maps, the ranger’s warning and know for sure we were heading the right way, we would have turned around thinking we were about to get hopelessly lost or surprise some big animal.
“It was more of a suggestion than a trail,” Druzin said.
Few people visit the Idaho section of Yellowstone National Park.
There is no “welcome to Idaho” sign in this section of Yellowstone marking the entrance to the zone of death. Instead, we relied on GPS to figure out the boundary, deciding it was just before a large boulder situated just off the trail in a thick tangle of brush and vegetation.
We passed a huckleberry bush and ate handfuls of plump, purple huckleberries. At about that same spot, we encountered our first pile of soft, fresh bear scat.
We continued on, passing meadows the size of NFL stadiums and giant marshes covered in lily pads.
“It’s amazing,” Veress said. “People say the park is so crowded, but you don’t have to go far from the road to have solitude.”
We reached our campsite, Little Robinson Creek, by early afternoon on our third day in the Yellowstone backcountry. To avoid conflicts with bears and other wild critters, we hung all of our packs, trash and food high above the ground on trees and logs that had been specially arranged for storage at backcountry campsites.
The first thing we saw at Little Robinson Creek camp was a giant pile of soft, fresh bear scat located directly under the food storage poles.
Even though it looked like a ridiculous prank or a throwaway gag in a comedy movie, the bear scat was a fresh reminder that we were truly in the backcountry, visitors in this wild place.
“I don’t think this bear learned the lesson about not sh—— where you eat,” I joked to Druzin, partially to help alleviate my own anxiety.
Druzin grabbed his fly rod and fished for trout in Robinson Creek as I sat on the edge and let the water wash over my tired legs and feet.
We ate two dinners and finished even more whiskey that night.
I told Druzin that for as hard as different aspects of the first two days of the trip were, I didn’t want to leave Yellowstone.
This trip and this place were special.
We weren’t the only people to go to the zone of death. In fact, everybody who completes the Continental Divide Trail through-hike between Canada and Mexico (a journey that could take five months) enters the Idaho section of Yellowstone, rangers told me.
Later in the week we were there, a different crew on horseback had plans to travel through the Idaho section of Yellowstone, a ranger told us.
But for us, the whole time we were in the zone of death, we didn’t see another person. We were almost certainly the only people to sleep inside the zone of death the night we stayed and we may have been some of the only people to sleep in the Idaho section of Yellowstone National Park to that point in 2022. (The park was closed for about a week and a half in June following historic flooding and many of the river crossings outside of the zone of death that we forded on our journey are not passable until, generally, mid-July each year. A ranger at the Bechler Ranger Station told us very few people camp in the two Idaho campsites off Robinson Creek Trail, and she couldn’t remember offhand the last time someone stayed there.)
That last night in Yellowstone, I left the rainfly off my tent and stared up at the stars for a long, long time.
We were almost five miles from the Bechler Ranger Station, which meant we were almost five miles from the closest place that any other person could have conceivably been. We were even farther from any real roads or artificial lights.
Feeling that small in such a big wide open space put a smile on my face, and as my eyes grew heavy, shooting stars traced the night sky.
The next morning, we walked out of the zone of death in less than two hours without incident.
We shuttled ourselves back to the starting point of our hike, but not before stopping off for a greasy cheeseburger at the suggestion of a father from Clifton, Idaho, who was hiking with his wife and two children.
Even though we were two different people on two different journeys, I immediately felt at ease around the man and his family after he mentioned cheeseburgers and the reason he decided to go on his hike.
Years ago he started out on a simple day hike in the Bechler Meadows, where he said he encountered a sign showing that Old Faithful was about 30 miles away, just like I did. And just like I did, for years he dreamed about what lies beyond that sign — the possibilities and the adventures that would await in the Yellowstone backcountry.
How has climate change hit Boise? What 150 years of weather data tells us
Nicole Blanchard – September 7, 2022
Sarah A. Miller/smiller@idahostatesman.com
After a scorching August — the hottest ever recorded here — the effects of climate change may feel closer to Boise than ever. And according to local weather statistics, temperatures, precipitation and other environmental factors have shifted noticeably in the last few decades and the 150 years since record-keeping began.
National Weather Service data shows Idaho’s summers are becoming hotter, overnight low temperatures are warming, and the average number of days with temperatures over 100 degrees has more than doubled in the last 30 years.
“It’s a totally different climate than our parents and grandparents grew up in,” Jay Breidenbach, a meteorologist at the Weather Service Boise office, told the Idaho Statesman in a phone interview.
Boise heats up
Breidenbach said scientists tend to look at climate change in 30-year periods. That gives them enough data to detect trends while still measuring the shifts in a way the public can understand.
“It helps us see (climate change) relative to our lives,” Breidenbach told the Statesman.
Data from the last 30 years is telling. The National Weather Service has been keeping weather records in Boise since the 1870s, and records show many of the hottest summers in that period have happened in the past three decades. Every summer in the last decade would make the list of Boise’s 30 hottest summers since the 1870s, Breidenbach said.
This summer is Boise’s second-hottest on record, following last summer, when a record-breaking heat wave hit the Northwest. The average temperature this August was 81.9 degrees — more than 3 degrees hotter than the previous record of 78.7, which was set in 2001. Breidenbach said average temperatures are calculated by taking the sum of each day’s minimum and maximum temperature and dividing it by two.
Numbers from the National Weather Service’s earliest records showed even more temperature shifts. The average annual temperature has risen from 50.3 degrees in the late 1870s to 52.7 in recent years. Average minimum and maximum temperatures have also warmed, meaning Boise’s hottest temperatures are a few degrees hotter, and its coldest temperatures are also toastier.
Breidenbach said extreme hot weather is becoming more common in Boise.
“The number of days each summer with max temperature reaching or exceeding 100 degrees has risen from about six days in 1992 to about 13 days now,” he said in an email to the Statesman.
This summer, Boise reached 100 degrees or hotter 23 times.
Less snow, rain in Boise
Boise has also become drier over the years, data shows. Josh Smith, a meteorologist who focuses on climate change at the Weather Service Boise office, said the temperature and precipitation shifts are linked.
“There is a subtle but noticeable warming that’s affecting precipitation and snowfall,” Smith told the Statesman in a phone interview. “That is really important for our area. We get most of our water from snowfall.”
When record-keeping began, the National Weather Service recorded an average of 13.1 inches of precipitation per year in Boise. By 1992, that number had fallen to around 11.6 inches. In recent years, the average is about 11.2 inches of precipitation annually.
Idaho has been in the midst of a multiyear drought, with nearly 90% of the state experiencing some level of water shortage as of Tuesday, the U.S. Drought Monitor showed.
The drought is due in part to poor snowpack. Weather Service data shows an average of 24.4 inches of snow fell in Boise annually in the late 1800s, but that number has fallen to 18.2 inches of snow on average. Snow depth has also decreased over the years.
How accurate is Boise weather data?
Smith said some Boise residents question the accuracy of the National Weather Service data. The statistics are recorded at the agency’s office, which has changed location over the years.
But Smith said variability caused by change in location is accounted for in the agency’s data, and the office has been around long enough to establish some solid trends.
The meteorologists said the 150 years of data helped show the realities of a changing climate despite the occasional unusual snowstorm or record cold day. Breidenbach said record cold days do still happen, but with much less frequency than new high temperature records.
Smith said the key is to look at the trends.
“When you look at the data without any frame of reference, you could get lost in the variability of each year,” Smith said. “It’s important to look at a larger window of time.”
Climate Change Is Ravaging the Colorado River. There’s a Model to Avert the Worst.
Henry Fountain – September 5, 2022
Apricots from an orchard in the Roza Irrigation District, in Washington State on July 18, 2022. (Ruth Fremson/ The New York Times)
YAKIMA, Wash. — The water managers of the Yakima River basin in arid central Washington know what it’s like to fight over water, just like their counterparts along the Colorado River are fighting now. They know what it’s like to be desperate, while drought, climate change, population growth and agriculture shrink water supplies to crisis levels.
They understand the acrimony among the seven Colorado Basin states, unable to agree on a plan for deep cuts in water use that the federal government has demanded to stave off disaster.
But a decade ago, the water managers of the Yakima Basin tried something different. Tired of spending more time in courtrooms than at conference tables, and faced with studies showing the situation would only get worse, they hashed out a plan to manage the Yakima River and its tributaries for the next 30 years to ensure a stable supply of water.
The circumstances aren’t completely parallel, but some experts on Western water point to the Yakima plan as a model for the kind of cooperative effort that needs to happen on the Colorado right now.
“It’s going to require collaboration on an unprecedented level,” said Maurice Hall, vice president for climate resilient water systems at the Environmental Defense Fund. The Yakima Basin plan, he said, “is the most complete example of what we need that I have observed.”
Rep. Melanie Stansbury, D-N.M., who worked on the Yakima Basin and other water issues for years before being elected to Congress in 2021, said the plan “represents the best of a collaborative, science-based process.”
“It’s a successful model of bringing science and stakeholders to the table,” she said.
But it began out of a strong sense of desperation.
Climate change and recurring drought had wreaked havoc with the water supply for irrigation managers and farmers in the Yakima Basin, one of the most productive agricultural regions in the country. Conservationists were concerned that habitats were drying up, threatening species. Old dams built to store water had blocked the passage of fish, all but eliminating the trout and salmon that the Indigenous Yakama Nation had harvested for centuries. In droughts, water allocations to many farms were cut.
Years of court fights had left everyone dissatisfied, and a proposal in 2008 for a costly new dam and reservoir that favored some groups over others had not helped.
Ron Van Gundy, manager of the Roza Irrigation District at the southern end of the basin, went to see Phil Rigdon, director of the Yakama Nation’s natural resources division. The two had been battling for years, largely through lawyers. They both opposed the dam, but for different reasons.
“I was walking into a meeting,” Rigdon recalled in an interview. “And he said, ‘Hey Phil, can we talk?’ I started laughing and said, ‘I don’t know, can we? Our attorneys would probably freak out if we did.’”
The two met, and eventually other stakeholders joined them in developing a plan for better management of the river. After several years of give-and-take, the result was the Yakima Basin Integrated Plan, a blueprint for ensuring a reliable and resilient water supply for farmers, municipalities, natural habitats and fish, even in the face of continued warming and potentially more droughts.
A decade into the plan, there are tens of millions of dollars’ worth of projects up and down the river designed to achieve those goals, including canal lining and other improvements in irrigation efficiency, increasing reservoir storage and removing barriers to fish.
“It’s an amazing collaboration of all of these different agencies with all of these different interests, coming together and realizing that we can’t just focus on our agenda,” said Joe Blodgett, a fisheries project manager for the Yakama Nation.
Now, hundreds of miles to the south and east, there’s a similar sense of desperation among the users of the Colorado.
With the river’s two main reservoirs at all-time lows, the federal government is asking the seven states that use the Colorado to cut consumption next year by a staggering amount, up to one-third of the river’s normal annual flow. And beyond 2023, as climate change continues to take a toll on the river, painful long-term cuts in water use will be necessary.
All the reductions will have to be negotiated among states that, more often than not have been fiercely protective of their share of the river’s water. Those shares were originally negotiated during wetter times a century ago.
The states have negotiated some important agreements over the years, including one that prescribed cuts, based on water levels at Lake Mead on the lower Colorado, that were first implemented last year. But the demand for much larger reductions has put a spotlight on perennial tensions between the upper basin states of Colorado, Utah, New Mexico and Wyoming, who collectively use less than their allotted share, and the lower basin states of California, Nevada and Arizona, who use their full allotment or more.
The states missed a mid-August deadline to negotiate next year’s cuts. The federal government has effectively given them more time, but is threatening to step in and order the reductions.
The Yakima Basin is far smaller than the Colorado, with a population of 350,000 compared with the 40 million people who rely, to varying degrees, on the Colorado’s supply. While farmland in the basin is important (among other things, it produces about 75% of the country’s hops that impart a tang to countless beers and ales), agricultural production along the Colorado is much larger.
The Yakima River, itself a tributary of the Columbia, is only 210 miles long, one-seventh the Colorado’s length, and lies within a single state, not seven plus Mexico. Thirty Native tribes have rights to Colorado water, compared with just the Yakama Nation.
All of that makes some water managers on the Colorado doubt that the Yakima plan could be much of a model.
“The Colorado River is orders of magnitude more complex and difficult than the Yakima,” said Jim Lochhead, CEO of Denver Water, which supplies drinking water to the city and surrounding communities. “That makes it extremely difficult to sit down a group of stakeholders and agree on a grand solution.”
But those who are intimately familiar with the Yakima plan say the plan’s fundamental principle, of shared sacrifice and cooperation among groups that were often adversaries, can apply anywhere.
“Everyone can’t get everything that they want,” said Thomas Tebb, director of the Columbia River office of the state Department of Ecology. “But if they can get something, that’s really the basis of the plan.”
The Yakima River has a long history of overuse, dating to the early white settlers who arrived after a treaty was signed between the federal government and the Yakama Nation in 1855. The river and its tributaries were dammed and diverted, and irrigation systems were built. Water shortages quickly became an issue, especially in dry years, leading to decades of conflicts among users.
As on the Colorado, there were earlier efforts to ensure a stable supply, especially following droughts in the 1930s and ’40s. After another severe drought, in 1977, state and federal officials developed a “watershed enhancement” plan to try to improve fish passage.
But it wasn’t enough. For one thing, the droughts kept coming, said Urban Eberhart, who grew up on a farm in the basin and now manages the Kittitas Reclamation District in the northern part.
“Instead of just being one of these droughts, we started getting them back-to-back and then three in a row,” he said.
In 2010, the federal Bureau of Reclamation undertook a study of the basin, looking at how it would fare as the world continued to warm. The findings added impetus to the drive to develop a plan.
“What we went through from 1977 to 2009 was nothing in comparison to where we were headed,” Eberhart said. There was a growing sense that drastic action was needed. “We won’t recognize this economy or this ecosystem if we don’t act.”
With so much information to discuss, the meetings on the plan were intense and time consuming, Eberhart said. But that had a benefit: Pressed for time, participants started taking breaks and lunches together.
“Pretty soon, over time, all of us who were very suspicious of each other would talk, and that turned into friendship, trust and respect,” he said.
Rigdon said that now, as likely as not, a project gets widespread support, even from groups that might not see as much benefit from it. Although challenges remain, he said, “We’ve understood what the other side needs. And they’re no longer the other side.”
The fruits of those relationships can be seen throughout the basin, in projects that usually serve more than one purpose and benefit more than one group of stakeholders.
In the Yakama Nation’s irrigation district, canal work and dam improvements are saving water and improving fish habitat.
In his irrigation district, Eberhart has led successful efforts to use the canals to deliver water to long-dried-up streams, to restore fish.
There are several projects, under construction and proposed, to increase water storage to help make it through dry years. And in the city of Yakima itself, Nelson Dam, an old diversion dam on a tributary has been removed, replaced by an engineered channel that will allow passage of both fish and boats, redistribute sediment through the river system and reduce flooding, all while continuing to divert water for the city’s needs.
“It’s not doing one thing — do things that meet everybody’s criteria,” said George Brown, the city’s assistant public works director. “If you do that, everybody agrees.”
On the Gulf Coast, a Quiet Hurricane Season (So Far!) Brings Little Relief
Rick Rojas – September 5, 2022
Susie Fawvor in her family home, which has withstood every major hurricane since its construction in 1915, but was damaged in Hurricane Laura in 2020, in Grand Chenier, La., Sept. 3, 2022. (Emily Kask/The New York Times)
IOWA, La. — In a community still etched with the scars of past storms that charged in from the Gulf of Mexico, the congregants at St. Pius X begin each service this time of year by petitioning God with the same solemn appeal: Please, spare us.
“We live in the shadow of a danger over which we have no control,” they say, repeating the prayer at every Mass from the start of hurricane season in June through the end in November. “The Gulf, like a provoked and angry giant, can awaken from its seeming lethargy, overstep its conventional boundaries, invade our land, and spread chaos and disaster.”
But so far this year, there has been no invasion. Any chaos and disaster are the residuals of devastating hurricanes that pummeled this stretch of the Louisiana coast two years ago.
It has been a hurricane season without hurricanes. But the quiet, however appreciated, does not bring much comfort.
“Who knows what next week holds?” said the Rev. Jeffrey Starkovich, the pastor at St. Pius X, a Catholic parish in Ragley, Louisiana, an unincorporated community about 20 miles north of Lake Charles. “You can’t rest. You can’t be confident it’s going to stay quiet.”
Last month was the first August in 25 years without a named storm in the Atlantic Ocean. No hurricanes have made landfall this year in the United States. And though hurricane season spans six months, it is this time of year — from late August through October — when the season typically packs its most powerful punch.
A weather system named Danielle strengthened last week into a Category 1 storm, becoming the first hurricane of the season; it weakened briefly to a tropical storm before regaining hurricane status. Entering the week, Danielle cut a meandering path over the Atlantic and posed little threat to land.
In a part of the world where so many routines and rituals are shaped by the rhythms of hurricane season, the relative calm has done anything but inspire complacency. Instead, it has offered communities often in the path of hurricanes yet another vivid illustration of how capricious nature can be.
“We really don’t have any sighs of relief until hurricane season is completely over,” said Nic Hunter, the mayor of Lake Charles, a working class city in southwestern Louisiana still staggering its way back from a powerful pair of storms in 2020. “With all we’ve been through, I don’t think anyone wants to test fate.”
The very existence of this article and others like it is a source of considerable unease. Asked about hurricane season while she and a friend were outside working on a lawn mower last week, Ricki Lonidier pressed her finger to her lips and glared.
“Don’t speak it into existence!” her friend, Richelle Wiley, said.
But she knew their luck would last only so long. “We know it’s coming,” she said. “It’s inevitable.”
That evening, the humid air was thick with mosquitoes. She took it as a sign of brewing trouble.
Scientists still expect an “above normal” hurricane season this year, with 14 to 20 named storms in the Atlantic and up to 10 of those strengthening into hurricanes. Last year, there were 21 named storms. The year before that set a record with 30.
On the Gulf Coast, hurricanes are more than just weather events. Their names — Audrey, Katrina, Rita, Ike, Laura — become chronological reference points for marking history. Chain-link fences are often referred to as hurricane fences, and for several years, a newspaper on the Texas coast called its weekly entertainment guide “cat5,” for a Category 5 hurricane, because, well, why not?
Like clockwork, around June, hurricane-themed public service announcements start filling commercial breaks on TV and radio and appearing on highway signs. It is time to start stockpiling water, canned goods and batteries. It is time to use up the food in the freezer so you will not have to toss out too much when a storm surely will knock out power.
Then, the anxiety sets in.
“It’s kind of like the proverbial sword of Damocles — it hangs over your head,” said Bishop Glen John Provost of the Diocese of Lake Charles, who leads worshippers through a “Mass to Avert the Storms” every year at the beginning of hurricane season. “The apprehension grows from the unknown.”
But in recent years, along this slice of the Louisiana coast, the tumult and torment of a hurricane have become far less abstract. A changing climate has intensified the threat, and powerful storms are likely to become more frequent.
In 2020, Hurricane Laura made landfall in Cameron Parish, south of Lake Charles, as a Category 4 storm with 150 mph winds — one of the most powerful storms to strike Louisiana. Roughly six weeks later, Hurricane Delta hit, cutting a nearly identical path. “What wasn’t taken out by Laura was finished by Delta,” Curtis Prejean said last week as he sat on his back porch with his wife, Shirley.
In the communities in and around Lake Charles, the recovery had been long and uneven. Curtis Prejean has a brother who has been living in a camper for two years. Wiley’s home had been stripped down to its studs inside and the outside was still battered. She is in a constant fight to fend off black mold.
The next storm could take what little some have left.
“We were talking about the hurricanes yesterday,” Wiley said, “and reality is stopping me, because I have nowhere to go. I’m about to be homeless.”
During one recent storm, the Prejeans put down a mattress pad in the hallway of the modest home where they have lived for 33 years and rode it out with two dogs and a cat. The house vibrated, and the noise was terrifying. “I told my husband we’re never doing that again,” Shirley Prejean said.
“I’m going to stay for a Cat. 1,” Curtis Prejean said. “A Cat. 2 …” He shrugged. That’s where he was unsure.
No matter the category, Curtis Goodwin — or as everyone knows him, Warrior War Dog — vowed to stay put. Blue tarps covered parts of his roof, and his exterior walls were still damaged. But he had fortified part of his house with the expectation that his family and dogs would pile inside.
“I’m going to stay right here, and I’m going to ride it out,” he said.
He knew what his cousin and her family had gone through when they left town in anticipation of Hurricane Laura. A few frightening hours at home were better than the weeks of frustration and turbulence that come with evacuating, he reasoned.
Katina Jackson, his cousin, was gone for several months. First, she fled her home in Lake Charles for San Antonio. On the way, the axle on her car broke. If it were not for a mechanic giving her a deal, her family would have been stranded. They stayed in hotels in San Antonio and Fort Worth, Texas, before going home.
The return of hurricane season dredged up all of that.
“It’s just going to be catastrophic again,” Jackson said outside her cousin’s house, helping her daughter take out her braids on a hot but otherwise pleasant evening. “I feel like it’s always quiet before the storm.”
A few minutes later, ominous clouds that had been lurking in the distance swarmed the neighborhood in darkness, and a surge of lightning ripped through the sky.
UPDATE: Mill Fire explodes to 3,921 acres with no containment, Mountain Fire at 600 acres
David Benda, Michele Chandler, Jessica Skropanic and Jenny Espino, Redding Record Searchlight
September 3, 2022
The fast-moving Mill Fire erupted on Friday near the area of the Roseburg Forest Products mill in Weed, a small city just over 50 miles from the Oregon border.
There were reports of burn victims and destroyed homes in a neighborhood. Thousands were forced to leave their homes in the communities of Weed, Lake Shastina and Edgewood.
We’ve made these updates free to readers as an important public service to our North State communities. If you are able, help local journalism thrive by subscribing to your local newspaper, and check back here for updates.
10:20 p.m.: Mill Fire still growing, with no containment
Cal Fire on Friday night said sensor aircraft estimated the size of the Mill Fire to be 3,921 acres, roughly 1,300 acres more than fire officials believed earlier in the evening.
The fire, first reported at 12:49 p.m. on Friday, broke out at Woodridge Court and Woodridge Way, near the area of the Roseburg Forest Products mill in Weed. The Cal Fire-Siskiyou Unit via Twitter said the cause of the fire is under investigation.
Evacuations in Weed, Lake Shastina and Edgewood remain in place and Highway 97 remains closed.
8:40 p.m.: Mountain Fire doubles in size, Mill Fire unstable, Sheriff’s Office said
The Mountain Fire grew to 600 acres, twice its size two hours ago, according to Cal Fire.
Both the Mill Fire and Mountain Fire remain uncontained, according to Cal Fire.
“This incident (Mill Fire) is rapidly changing and our staff and partners are doing everything they can to get everyone to safety,” the Siskiyou County Sheriff’s Office said.
The sheriff’s office posted information to help those unable to reach family and friends in evacuation areas. They can call 530-842-8746.
An evacuation shelter is in use at the Yreka Community Center at 810 North Main St. in Yreka.
For information on evacuation zones go to www.zonehaven.com.
8:15 p.m.: Help available for animals in fire evacuation zones
The Siskiyou County Sheriff’s Office is offering animal welfare checks for people who had to evacuate from Mill and Mountain fire areas without their pets or livestock.
Evacuees can go to the Siskiyou County website at bit.ly/3Qc9Hsf and fill out a form to request a welfare check.
6:50 p.m.: Mill Fire explodes Friday afternoon
The Mill Fire exploded in size to 2,580 acres — up from 900 acres at 3 p.m., according to Cal Fire.
There is no containment on the fire, burning north of Weed near Lake Shastina.
The blaze damaged and destroyed multiple structures, including homes, but Cal Fire has not yet released the total number of structures.
The cause of the fire remains under investigation, Cal Fire said.
6:30 p.m.: Mountain Fire grows to 300 acres
The Mountain Fire burned 300 acres of forest eight miles southeast of the small town of Gazelle, according to Cal Fire.
It is not contained, Cal Fire said.
The fire started before 4 p.m. near China Mountain Road, west of Interstate 5, north of Weed.
5:30 p.m.: Some tankers being sent to nearby Mountain Fire
While firefighters continue to battle the Mill Fire burning in the area of Weed and Lake Shastina, six air tankers are being diverted to a second fire that started about an hour ago in the area of Gazelle.
The Mountain Fire is burning in heavy brush on the west side of Interstate 5 north of Weed. Firefighters there have reported that no structures are threatened.
5 p.m.: Wind pushing fire over dry hot terrain
Firefighters continue to battle strong winds while they fight the Mill and Mountain fires.
Those conditions won’t change until Friday night, said Jay Stockton, meteorologist with the National Weather Service in Medford. Weather conditions are ripe for fires to continue spreading until 11 p.m.
Friday afternoon, strong southeast winds blew up to 24 mph, with 36 mph gusts, Stockton said. Temperatures reached 98 degrees in Weed and brush is incredibly dry: 5% humidity.
“That combination of windy and dry is what’s creates conditions for rapid fire growth,” he said.
A red flag warning is in effect until 11 p.m. Friday, at which time the winds should calm down, Stockton said. Temperatures should cool to the mid-50s, increasing moisture in the air.
All that could help firefighters get a better handle on the fires, he said.
4:14 p.m.: Power outage reported in Weed, Mount Shasta, Lucerne
About 8,300 residents in Weed and Mount Shasta in Siskiyou County and Lucerne in Lake County were hit by a power outage shortly before 1 p.m. on Friday, according to electric power company PacifiCorp.
A cause of the outage is under investigation, said company spokesman Brandon Zero. Crews have been dispatched to the area, he said.
A smoke plume from the Mill Fire rises over downtown Weed on Friday, Sept. 2, 2022.
3:55 p.m.: Fire threatening Carrick outside Weed
Firefighters are communicating to each that the fire is threatening to jump Highway 97 and burn into the small community of Carrick just outside Weed.
3:20 p.m.: Mill Fire balloons to 900 acres
The Mill Fire burning north of Weed toward Lake Shastina is now more than 900 acres, Cal Fire reports.
Firefighters are asking for all strike teams to come to the Jackson Ranch Road area. Earlier, the fire jumped Jackson Ranch Road and started burning into Lake Shastina.
Currently, there is no containment.
All zones east of Interstate 5 from Weed to county road A12, south of county road A12 from Grenada to Highway 97, west of Highway 97 from A12 to I-5, Cal Fire said.
There is an evacuation Shelter at the Karuk wellness center in Yreka at 1403 Kahtishraam.
Meanwhile, all remaining Weed High School students were bussed to Mt. Shasta High School for pick up, officials said.
2:50 p.m.: Fire burning into Lake Shastina
The Mill Fire has jumped Jackson Ranch Road and is burning into the community of Lake Shastina, which is north of Weed, crews battling the blaze report. Firefighters also have asked for at least five more strike teams to help fight the fire.
Meanwhile, a temporary evacuation center is being set up at the Siskiyou County Fairgrounds in Yreka, according to scanner reports.
2:45 p.m.: Mill Fire grows to 555 acres
The communities of Weed, Lake Shastina and Edgewood are under evacuation orders as of 2 p.m. Friday due to the Mill Fire, according to the Siskiyou County Sheriff Office’s Facebook page.
Residents in those areas are asked to leave immediately.
Use caution, as emergency vehicles are assisting with evacuations, structure protection and fire suppression efforts. For more information, call 2 1 1. Real-time evacuation zone statuses are available on aware.zonehaven.com.
The Mill Fire near Weed has grown to 555 acres since first being reported on Friday afternoon, officials said.
The wildfire broke out the same day that the area was under a red flag warning due to high temperatures, gusty winds and low humidity. The chance of rain in the area remains in the single digits through Tuesday.
The wind was blowing north at 20 mph in the Weed and Lake Shastina areas on Friday afternoon, according to Windfinder.com.
Southerly winds of about 20 mph, with gusts as high as 30 mph, could emerge through Friday night, according to the National Weather Service.
The Mill Fire as seen from Interstate 5. The fire started on Friday afternoon, Sept. 2, 2022.
Saturday’s forecast calls for sun with widespread haze and a high near 89. Calmer winds becoming northwest at between 5 to 8 mph are expected in the afternoon, according to the weather service.
Pacific Power had not reported any outages in greater Weed as of mid-afternoon on Friday.
1:55 p.m.: Students to stay on campus
Firefighters battling the Mill Fire are recommending not to release students at Weed High School. They are asking the students to stay on campus for now, according to scanner reports.
Meanwhile, mandatory evacuations are being called for all residents east of Interstate 5 to Jackson Ranch Road. Firefighters say the blaze has reached Jackson Ranch Road.
Also, all of Lake Shastina is under a mandatory evacuation order.
Evacuation warnings are in place along Highway 97 in the Mt. Shasta Vista neighborhood.
1:49 p.m.: Evacuations ordered
Evacuation orders have been issued in the community of Weed due to a fire that started Friday afternoon in the area of Roseburg Forest Products mill.
Highway 97 is closed from the junction of Highway 265 in Weed to south of Macdoel due the Mill Fire, the California Department of Transportation said.
Firefighters are also asking for Jackson Ranch Road to be closed so residents who are evacuating in that area have a clear route out of the neighborhood, according to emergency scanner reports.
The fire also has reached Hoy Road.
Firefighters report that traffic in the area is backed up due to all the evacuations.
At least one ambulance has been dispatched to treat a burn victim and a medical triage has been set up to treat other burn victims, scanner reports said.
Thousands flee, several hurt as Mill Fire scorches Weed, Lake Shastina in Northern California
Adam Beam – September 3, 2022
Thousands of people remained under evacuation orders Saturday after a wind-whipped wildfire raged through rural Northern California, injuring people and torching an unknown number of homes.
The fire that began Friday afternoon on or near a wood-products plant quickly blew into a neighborhood on the northern edge of Weed but then carried the flames away from the city of about 2,600.
Evacuees described heavy smoke and chunks of ash raining down.
Annie Peterson said she was sitting on the porch of her home near Roseburg Forest Products, which manufactures wood veneers, when “all of a sudden we heard a big boom and all that smoke was just rolling over toward us.”
Very quickly her home and about a dozen others were on fire. She said members of her church helped evacuate her and her son, who is immobile. She said the scene of smoke and flames looked like “the world was coming to an end.”
A house in the Lake Shastina Subdivision, northwest of Weed, burns up on Friday, Sept. 2, 2022. The Mill Fire erupted that afternoon in the area of the Roseburg Forest Products mill in Weed and raced out of control, forcing residents in that Northern California community, Lake Shastina and Edgewood to flee their homes.
Suzi Brady, a Cal Fire spokeswoman, said several people were injured.
Allison Hendrickson, spokeswoman for Dignity Health North State hospitals, said two people were brought to Mercy Medical Center Mount Shasta. One was in stable condition and the other was transferred to UC Davis Medical Center, which has a burn unit.
Rebecca Taylor, communications director for Roseburg Forest Products based in Springfield, Oregon, said it is unclear if the fire started near or on company property. A large empty building at the edge of company property burned she said. All employees were evacuated, and none have reported injuries, she said.
The blaze, dubbed the Mill Fire, was pushed by 35-mph winds, and quickly engulfed 4 square miles of ground.
The flames raced through tinder-dry grass, brush and timber. About 7,500 people in Weed and several nearby communities were under evacuation orders.
Dr. Deborah Higer, medical director at the Shasta View Nursing Center, said all 23 patients at the facility were evacuated, with 20 going to local hospitals and three staying at her own home, where hospital beds were set up.
Gov. Gavin Newsom declared a state of emergency for Siskyou County and said a federal grant had been received “to help ensure the availability of vital resources to suppress the fire.”
Cal Fire firefighters try to stop flames from the Mill Fire from spreading on a property in the Lake Shastina Subdivision northwest of Weed on Friday, Sept. 2, 2022. The Mill Fire erupted that afternoon in the area of the Roseburg Forest Products mill in Weed and raced out of control, forcing residents in that Northern California community, Lake Shastina and Edgewood to flee their homes.
At about the time the blaze started, power outages were reported that affected some 9,000 customers, and several thousand remained without electricity late into the night, according to an outage website for power company PacifiCorp, which said they were due to the wildfire.
It was the third large wildfire in as many days in California, which has been in the grip of a prolonged drought and is now sweltering under a heat wave that was expected to push temperatures past the 100-degree mark in many areas through Labor Day.
Thousands also were ordered to flee on Wednesday from a fire in Castaic north of Los Angeles and a blaze in eastern San Diego County near the Mexican border, where two people were severely burned and several homes were destroyed. Those blazes were 56% and 65% contained, respectively, and all evacuations had been lifted.
The heat taxed the state’s power grid as people tried to stay cool. For a fourth day, residents were asked to conserve power Saturday during late afternoon and evening hours.
The Mill Fire was burning about an hour’s drive from the Oregon state line. A few miles north of the blaze, a second fire erupted Friday near the community of Gazelle. The Mountain Fire has burned more than 2 square miles but no injuries or building damage was reported.
The whole region has faced repeated devastating wildfires in recent years. The Mill Fire was only about 30 miles southeast of where the McKinney Fire — the state’s deadliest of the year — erupted in late July. It killed four people and destroyed dozens of homes.
Olga Hood fled her Weed home on Friday as smoke was blowing over the next hill.
With the notorious gusts that tear through the town at the base of Mount Shasta, she didn’t wait for an evacuation order. She packed up her documents, medication and little else, said her granddaughter, Cynthia Jones.
“With the wind in Weed everything like that moves quickly. It’s bad,” her granddaughter, Cynthia Jones, said by phone from her home in Medford, Oregon. “It’s not uncommon to have 50 to 60 mph gusts on a normal day. I got blown into a creek as a kid.”
Hood’s home of nearly three decades was spared from a blaze last year and from the devastating Boles Fire that tore through town eight years ago, destroying more than 160 buildings, mostly homes.
Hood wept as she discussed the fire from a relative’s house in the hamlet of Granada, Jones said. She wasn’t able to gather photos that had been important to her late husband.
Scientists say climate change has made the West warmer and drier over the last three decades and will continue to make weather more extreme and wildfires more frequent and destructive. In the last five years, California has experienced the largest and most destructive fires in state history.
Associated Press reporters Olga R. Rodriguez and Janie Har in San Francisco and Stefanie Dazio and Brian Melley in Los Angeles contributed to this article.
Danielle’s path will be an untraditional one, with the hurricane forecast to trace a small loop over the waters of the North Atlantic through the weekend, according to AccuWeather.
Spaghetti models for Hurricane Danielle as of 11 a.m. Sept. 2, 2022.
The Hurricane Center also is monitoring two other tropical waves in the Atlantic, Invest 91L and Invest 94L.
Chances have dropped overnight for the development of 91L, the closest disturbance to the U.S.
Here’s the latest update from the NHC as of 11 a.m. Sept. 2:
Location: 885 miles west of the Azores; 2,238 east of Daytona Beach
Maximum wind speed: 75 mph
Direction: west at 1 mph
Maximum sustained winds have increased to near 75 mph, with higher gusts.
Some additional strengthening is forecast during the next couple of days. Winds are expected to reach 100 mph within 48 hours.
Hurricane-force winds extend outward up to 15 miles from the center and tropical-storm-force winds extend outward up to 115 miles.
What else is out there and where are they?
Hurricane Danielle becomes the first hurricane of the 2022 Atlantic hurricane season.
Invest 91L: Shower and thunderstorm activity has slightly increased since yesterday in association with an area of low pressure located several hundred miles east of the Leeward Islands.
Invest 94L: Shower activity associated with a broad area of low pressure located northwest of the Cabo Verde Islands has slightly increased since yesterday.
How likely are they to strengthen?
Tropical conditions 5 a.m. Sept. 2, 2022.
Invest 91L: Overnight satellite-derived wind data indicate the circulation remains broad. Although environmental conditions are only marginally conducive, any additional development of the system over the next few days would lead to the formation of a tropical depression.
The disturbance is expected to move slowly west-northwest, toward the adjacent waters of the northern Leeward Islands.
An Air Force Reserve Hurricane Hunter aircraft is scheduled to investigate the system this afternoon, if necessary.
Formation chance through 48 hours: medium, 50 percent.
Formation chance through 5 days: medium, 70 percent.
Invest 94L: This system is moving into an area of less favorable environmental conditions, and significant development is not expected.
Formation chance through 48 hours: low, 10 percent.
Formation chance through 5 days: low, 10 percent.
Who is likely to be impacted?
Invest 91L: Regardless of development, locally heavy rains may occur over portions of the Leeward Islands during the next couple of days, and residents in that area should monitor the progress of the system.
Invest 94L: It’s too early at this time to determine if there will be any impact to the U.S. from Invest 94L.
Forecasters urge all residents to continue monitoring the tropics and to always be prepared during what’s expected to be an active hurricane season.
Colorado State University’s two-week hurricane forecast for Sept. 1-14 calls for a 70% chance of near-normal activity, a 25% chance of above-normal activity and a 5% chance of below-normal activity.
When is the Atlantic hurricane season?
The Atlantic hurricane season runs from June 1 through Nov. 30.
When is the peak of hurricane season?
Hurricane season’s ultimate peak is Sept. 10 but the season goes through Nov. 30. Credit: NOAA
Although the season has gotten off to a quiet start, the peak of the season is Sept. 10, with the most activity happening between mid-August and mid-October, according to the Hurricane Center.
Weather watches and warnings issued for your area
If you can’t see any local weather warnings here, you’ll need to open this story in a web browser.
The next five days
See the National Hurricane Center’s five-day graphical tropical weather outlook below.
Excessive rainfall forecast
What’s out there?
Systems currently being monitored by the National Hurricane Center.
Dirty water, drying wells: Central Californians shoulder drought’s inequities
Hayley Smith – September 2, 2022
A gauge shows only a few pounds of pressure in the well at Jesús Benítez’s home near Visalia. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
On a hot morning in August, the pressure gauge on Jesús Benítez’s well read about 10 pounds per square inch — barely enough for a trickle.
The 74-year-old has been living just outside of Visalia, in the heart of California’s San Joaquin Valley, for about 14 years, ever since he decamped from Downey in search of bigger skies and more space. But the once-green three-acre property that was meant to be his retirement haven is now dry, brittle and brown.
Like a growing number of Central Californians, Benítez is bearing the brunt of the state’s punishing drought, which is evaporating the state’s surface water even as a frenzy of well drilling saps precious reserves underground. As a result, the number of dry wells in California has increased 70% since last year, while the number of Californians living with contaminated drinking water is at nearly 1 million.- ADVERTISEMENT -https://s.yimg.com/rq/darla/4-10-1/html/r-sf-flx.html
The majority of those people live in low-income communities and communities of color, state data show — and experts say heat, drought and climate change are only making those inequities worse.
“We’re fighting an uphill battle due to climate change,” said Gregory Pierce, director of the Human Right to Water Solutions Lab at UCLA. “Even with the progress we’re making, there are other losses that few people anticipated when it comes to heat impacts on water quality … and the pace at which people, and even larger systems, are at risk of running out of water entirely.”
Jesús Benítez, who has little water, stands near a spot where an underground pipe carrying city water ends just 100 feet from his home outside Visalia. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
Benítez is one of the unlucky people dealing with both. His sputtering well — the only source of water on his property — is polluted with nitrates, uranium and hexavalent chromium, which are becoming more concentrated as the water draws down. He and about 60 other residents in the area are trying to get connected to the water system that services the city of Visalia, but officials have told them the work may not be complete until 2024.
“I hope I don’t die without water by then,” Benítez said. The nearest municipal pipeline ends just about 100 feet from his property.
His story is becoming increasingly common in California, where an audit last month found that the State Water Resources Control Board “lacks the urgency necessary to ensure that failing water systems receive needed assistance in a timely manner.” The audit also noted that more than two-thirds of the water systems that have fallen below basic quality standards are in disadvantaged communities of significant financial need.
“California is one of the largest economies in the world, and yet this is happening here,” said Pedro Calderón Michel, a spokesman with the nonprofit group the Community Water Center. All too often, he said, “the browner your skin, the browner your water will be.”
Jesús Benítez’s home, top center, sits on a dry dusty lot where he has little water. A neighboring farm growing silage corn, bottom, is green. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
The problem is multifaceted. On the surface, climate change-fueled heat and dryness are contributing to a thirstier atmosphere that is sapping the state’s water, while a persistent lack of rain and snowpack means mounting deficits are not getting replenished. More than 97% of the the state is under severe, extreme or exceptional drought, and officials have said the first half of the year was the driest it’s ever been.
But much of the problem is happening underground, where California’s aquifers have long served as a reliable source of water, especially during dry times. In 2014, the state passed the Sustainable Groundwater Management Act, a historic law intended to address the overpumping of those supplies. But the act laid out a timeline that spans more than two decades, and set off a rash of well drilling among those trying to beat the deadline, particularly in agricultural areas where wells are the lifeblood of the industry.
Residents who rely on domestic wells are increasingly paying the price. Benítez’s well, for example, dried up after a neighbor installed a new, deeper well to help water 25 acres of silage corn, or corn used to feed dairy cows and other livestock.
That neighbor, Frank Ferreira, said he spent $160,000 on the well, and he may need to dole out even more to dig deeper when it dries up. When asked whether the state has placed any limits on how deep he can go, Ferreira said, “not yet.”
Frank Ferreira pulls a handful of fresh water from a large open pipe at his farm near Visalia. Ferriera says the water from his well is delicious. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
While agriculture is a leading factor in groundwater depletion and contamination, the added layer of drought is exacerbating the problem, according to Joaquin Esquivel, chair of the State Water Resources Control Board.
“As you draw down your aquifers, you get left with more and more of the undesirable constituents,” he said. “In water quality control, it’s often said, ‘The solution to pollution is dilution.’ When you have the opposite — very little amounts coming in, little recharge happening with fresher flows — you get an increase in contaminants.”
Esquivel acknowledged that some conclusions from the state audit were fair, including some findings around delayed response times for funding and other assistance for drinking water systems. Systems can receive funds to help with the design and construction of new infrastructure, the maintenance of existing infrastructure or other projects that address or prevent public health risks. Over the past five years, the average length of time for water systems to complete applications and receive funding from the board nearly doubled from 17 to 33 months, the audit said.
An equestrian rides along Jesús Benítez’s driveway. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
But he also called the top-line conclusion that the board lacks urgency “bombastic” and inaccurate. Since 2019, the board has reduced the number of Californians served by failing systems by 40%, from 1.6 million to 950,000, he said. It also doubled the amount of community construction grants to $700 million and increased technical assistance funding for small disadvantaged communities by 150%.
“I think what we have is a really good down payment and a good start,” he said. “What’s helpful here is we need to continue to really be clear about how long it takes to get projects done.”
Critically, Esquivel also noted that many of the challenges the state is facing when it comes to clean, safe and affordable drinking water are the result of generations of racist policies.
“There’s a complicated context to all of this,” he said. “That’s not the excuse for why it takes the time it takes, but I think I do have to mention here that there were explicit redlining policies that purposely didn’t extend service to our communities.”
Redlining was the institutional practice of denying homeownership and financial services to residents based on race.
One Central Valley community that still feels the weight of those policies is Tooleville, which is home to about 200 residents, nearly half of whom are Latino, according to the latest U.S. Census.
In 1973, Tooleville was one of 15 communities that the Tulare County general plan deemed as having “little or no authentic future,” and for which public commitments should be “carefully examined,” one study noted.
“These non-viable communities would, as a consequence of withholding major public facilities such as sewer and water systems, enter a process of long term, natural decline as residents depart for improved opportunities in nearby communities,” the plan documents read.
But that’s not what happened. Instead, residents there have for decades depended on two wells that have become increasingly contaminated with nitrates, arsenic, hexavalent chromium, 123 trichloropropane and other pollutants. Sometimes, they sputter to a stop.
“Water flows toward money and power,” says Susana de Anda, director of the Community Water Center in Visalia. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
“If you’re low income and a person of color and you live in the Central Valley, you’re going to have higher chances of having to pay for toxic water and a very expensive water bill for water that can get you sick,” said Susana De Anda, co-founder and executive director of the Community Water Center.
“It’s no surprise you go into our communities and you don’t see a thriving community, because water limits growth,” she said. “The most basic thing is, without safe drinking water, it blocks all economic development.”
The Community Water Center has spent the last 16 years working with residents on the ground in communities like Tooleville and fighting for legislation such as California’s Human Right to Water Act and the Sustainable Groundwater Management Act. They also helped achieve a moratorium on unpaid water bills during the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic, De Anda said.
But while there have been many victories, the drought has created a new layer of difficulty, she said, and more than 90% of San Joaquin Valley residents are now relying solely on groundwater.
“Unfortunately the drought only worsens the already dire conditions that our community is faced with — which is they don’t have safe drinking water,” De Anda said. “That’s constant stress. Now on top of that, some are losing water. So you add the layer, again, on top of this disproportionate impact when it comes to water quality.”
Jesús Benítez looks at his dropping water pressure at his home near Visalia. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
In March, Gov. Gavin Newsom issued a drought order intended to slow the drilling of new wells. The order prohibits local governments from granting well-drilling permits if the proposed well is inconsistent with an area’s groundwater management plan. A piece of legislation, AB 2201, would have made that permanent, requiring groundwater sustainability agencies to weigh in on all well permit applications, but the bill didn’t come up for a final vote and died in the Legislature.
De Anda said it’s an important step in securing clean, safe water for everyone. But she also noted that all too often, “water flows toward money and power.”
“We’re talking about millions of families in California that don’t have safe drinking water and domestic wells,” she said. “The narrative should be, how do we help prioritize these communities to have a resilient community? How do we make sure that they’re part of water planning? How do we make sure that they’re at the top of the list with resources? That’s what we should be thinking about.”
Maria Olivera, who is living with chromium and arsenic in her well and is showering with contaminated water, washes dishes at home in Tooleville. Her family drinks and cooks with bottled water supplied by the state. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
Pierce, of UCLA, shared a similar sentiment.
“The impact of not having sufficient water is not just that you have to spend a bunch of money and get very little water, or you can’t use water for X, Y and Z purposes,” he said. “It’s a mental health and stress impact far beyond that, and a ‘dignity as a resident of the state’ impact. It’s hard to overstate that.”
Maria Olivera, who has lived in Tooleville since 1974, today relies on bottled water that she receives in jugs from the state — 60 gallons every two weeks — which she uses primarily for cooking and drinking. But she still has to shower in contaminated water, and she has to remind her visitors not to drink it.
“It’s hard, the way we live,” said Olivera, 68. “You always have to carry the gallons.”
Recently, the state ordered the neighboring community of Exeter to connect Tooleville to its water system after more than 20 years of refusing to do so. But the project could take two years to complete, Olivera said, and until then, she’ll keep relying on the plastic gallons.
Despite the challenges, Olivera shook her head when asked about the prospect of leaving. Tooleville has been her home for nearly 50 years.
“This is it for me. Where else am I going to go?” she said. “It’s a really nice community — we just need water.”
Death Valley keeps breaking records, but is it really the hottest place on Earth?
Nathan Solis – September 2, 2022
A view of Mesquite Dunes inside Death Valley National Park, where the temperature hit 127 degrees on Thursday at Furnace Creek. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
California’s Death Valley is one of the hottest places on Earth.
But was it in fact the hottest place on the planet Thursday when the giant thermometer at Furnace Creek in Death Valley National Park hit an eye-popping 127 degrees?
Officials caution that this is not an entirely accurate reading.
“The thermometer reading is taken literally from that site. It’s on the back of the digital display and it’s not even sheltered properly,” said Daniel Berc, a meteorologist with the National Weather Service in Las Vegas. “It’s more of a ‘Boy, wow! Look at this number.’ It’s not exactly what happened here.”
It’s a bit of an exaggeration when news stories point to the digital thermometer and claim Death Valley is the hottest place on Earth, Berc said. Meteorologists are usually not comfortable claiming one place is the hottest on the planet because that involves lots of data and research to confirm.
“But this is a hot one, I’ll give you that,” Berc admitted.
The official reading on Thursday for Death Valley was 124, beating the record set in 1996 by one degree. Forecasts show that Friday and Saturday could also break records set in the last 20 years by one degree. Friday’s standing record was set at 122 in 2017 and Saturday’s record was set at 121 in 2007, according to the National Weather Service.
But there’s always the possibility that the temperatures could fall just above or below whatever record was set that day, Berc said.
This latest heat wave is a late one for the season, landing at the tail end of the monsoon season. Earlier this month, Death Valley and the surrounding Mojave landscape were submerged in water as record rainfall gave way to flash floods. Flash floods hit the Las Vegas Strip at the end of July and returned in early August.
A heat wave butting in during the monsoon season is not unheard of, according to meteorologists. But a late heat wave is notable, with record temperatures reaching 8 to 10 degrees above normal, Berc said.
“People in Las Vegas don’t bat an eye at 100 degrees. But they take notice at 110 after Labor Day,” Berc said. “This one is a longer-lasting heat wave, which brings accumulative effects of not cooling down at night and particularly harming the homeless population.”
With less time to cool down, people don’t have the luxury of recuperating at night and might not notice they’re being negatively affected by the hotter weather.
This can be dangerous, even life-threatening.
“Heat is the No. 1 weather killer,” Berc said, “because people know not to go outside and stand in front of a tornado. Sometimes they don’t know better with the heat.”
