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The EPA’s data on cancer risk from air pollution has gone dark
Darya Minovi was mapping pollution from medical sterilization plants across the country when many of the communities she was speaking to began asking the same question. The facilities emit ethylene oxide, a potent carcinogen, and those who lived nearby wanted to know how much the emissions were increasing their cancer risk. She turned to data compiled by the Environmental Protection Agency to find out.
The resulting maps, published in 2023 by the Union of Concerned Scientists, a nonprofit where Minovi is a researcher, revealed that more than 14 million people lived in a 5-mile radius of ethylene oxide-emitting facilities. Crucially, the map highlighted 23 sterilization facilities that the EPA had found emit ethylene oxide at levels that definitively contribute to elevated cancer risk. The project helped raise awareness and was used to push the government to tighten limits on ethylene oxide emissions.
But now, the cancer risk data that made Minovi’s analysis possible has quietly gone offline. After more than two decades of sharing this information with the public, the Environmental Protection Agency has omitted cancer risk estimates from its latest update to national air pollution data. The agency is continuing to release raw pollution figures, but it is no longer providing information on the additional cancer risk that the emissions cause. It has also not updated its searchable U.S. map of cancer risk from air pollution with the most recent data.
The risk assessments are routinely used by communities to understand the effects of the pollution in their neighborhoods, as well as by journalists and nonprofits to inform the public and hold polluters accountable. Withholding this information would shift the burden of interpreting pollution data — a technically demanding task requiring specialized experience and an understanding of EPA protocols — onto the public, Minovi said, making it harder for communities to access this vital public health information.
“At the end of the day, the people who are living in communities with concentrated sources of pollution are frankly the ones to lose,” she said. “They end up caught in a bureaucratic and political tug of war, and they’re not being protected as they should be.”
An aerial view of Louisiana’s “Cancer Alley,” an 85-mile stretch of land along the Mississippi River with hundreds of industrial facilities that pose a higher risk of cancer for local residents. Giles Clarke / Getty ImagesThe Trump administration has made it significantly more difficult to access environmental data. So far, the administration has modified or removed nearly 2,000 webpages and datasets on science, climate, and environmental topics. Last year, the EPA discontinued a tool that allowed the public to search its inventory of facilities that handle large volumes of hazardous substances by ZIP code. It also shut down an environmental justice screening tool known as EJScreen, which was the EPA’s flagship tool for tracking environmental hazards across the United States and mapped industrial pollution hot spots alongside demographic data, revealing which communities face the greatest health risks. And some of the agency’s webpages about pollutants, like ethylene oxide, have been modified to remove information about cancer risks and emphasize their industrial usefulness.
Inyang Uwak, a research and policy director for Air Alliance Houston, a nonprofit advocacy group in Texas, said that the administration’s cuts tend to prioritize industries at the expense of public health.
“It’s unfortunate because this data is highly useful to organizations such as ours that use it,” she said, adding that scientists and policymakers also need the data to make informed decisions. “It’s a disservice to public health in general.”
Left: The Environmental Protection Agency’s webpage on ethylene oxide in 2024. Right: The updated page in 2026, which removes mentions of health risks and emphasizes the carcinogen’s industrial usefulness. Grist / EPA.govThe EPA has been publishing the cancer risk data periodically since 2002 as part of a program called the Air Toxics Screening Assessment, which details the concentrations of dozens of toxic pollutants across the country down to the census block level. The agency began releasing the data on an annual basis in 2022, but the information is typically several years out of date because of the time required to compile the information. As factories and other polluting facilities are built, shut down, or expand, local pollution levels can change dramatically. The yearly updates to the cancer risk data provided communities with the most current information available about those changes.
Had the updates arrived on schedule this year, the agency would have released data on the cancer risk from emissions in 2022. Instead, the most recent update was published a year late and represents emissions data from 2021.
It was only made available on a public-facing webpage this summer after Tai Lung, a senior advisor for federal data policy at the Federation for American Scientists, reached out to the agency. Lung had previously worked at the agency for more than a decade as the lead of EJScreen, which also used the data, before the Trump administration suspended him alongside 170 colleagues.
Carolyn Holran, an EPA spokesperson, told Grist that the agency “will continue posting the annual nationwide air toxics emissions and concentrations data when it becomes available,” but did not address the missing cancer risk data. Holran also did not answer Grist’s questions about why it did not release the cancer data this year and whether the agency is still making this calculation internally.
“EPA is committed to fulfilling our core mission of protecting human health and the environment and ensuring clean air for all Americans, while following gold standard science,” she said.
Lung said the agency’s decision will make it harder for the public to understand how pollution affects their health. “So now we’re just sharing this raw data, which really means nothing to anybody,” he said.
Read more about ethylene oxide Breast cancer, dizziness, headaches: El Paso residents ask if a warehouse’s toxic emissions are to blame Naveena Sadasivam & Diego Mendoza-MoyersThe United States has one of the highest cancer incidence rates in the world. Nearly 40 percent of all Americans will receive a cancer diagnosis at some point in their life, and more than 2 million new cases are diagnosed each year. Living near industrial sources of certain pollutants, like benzene, formaldehyde, and ethylene oxide, can increase a person’s chances of developing cancer. Louisiana’s so-called “Cancer Alley,” neighborhoods near the Houston Ship Channel, and the southeast side of Chicago are all home to a concentration of industrial operations and have become cancer hotspots.
Cancer risk assessments are at the core of the regulatory work that the EPA does. The EPA has long set “acceptable thresholds” for how much exposure to industrial pollution is allowed in an area. The agency’s generally follows limits of one additional cancer case per 10,000 people exposed over their lifetime. (The agency has also said that cancer exposure would ideally be far lower, at one in a million.) When a new polluting facility applies for a permit or when the agency considers new rulemaking, it assesses whether the change will raise the cancer risk in the area above this threshold.
Many of the administration’s regulatory changes fall into one of two patterns, said Denice Ross, director of the Data Policy Institute at the Federation of American Scientists and a former U.S. chief data scientist during the Biden administration.
An Earth Day rally outside the EPA offices in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in 2025.Jeff Kowalsky / AFP via Getty Images Protesters rally against a global energy conference in Houston earlier this year. Ronaldo Schemidt / AFP via Getty Images
The first is the deliberate removal of data that conflicts with the administration’s priorities, or casts its policies in an unfavorable light. Information and projects that focused on diversity, social justice, gender, and climate issues were among the first to disappear, she said.
The second trend is data being lost as a consequence of the sweeping funding and staffing cuts to scientific research at agencies and institutions. There is now more red tape and political approval needed to accomplish tasks that were once routine, she said.
The services that agencies provide “have historically been invisible infrastructure,” Ross said. “There’re so many things that we take for granted about federal data in our lives, and the people aren’t taking that for granted anymore.”
Some of these cuts contradict President Donald Trump’s own policies. In 2019, during his first term in office, Trump signed the OPEN Government Data Act, a law that established government-wide requirements to make federal data more useful and accessible to the public. Federal law also requires agencies to provide adequate notice when substantially changing or ending significant sources of information, such as the Air Toxics Assessment. But many of the recent changes are “just sort of quietly happening behind the scenes,” Ross said. “And if you don’t know where to look, you won’t find it.”
Read more about ethylene oxide Trump EPA moves to repeal regulation of cancer-linked chemical ethylene oxide Naveena SadasivamRecently, some organizations have begun preserving lost EPA tools, like EJScreen, by recreating them or releasing unofficial copies. But these versions still rely on updates to federal data and do not carry the same authority as government assessments. Many communities also don’t have access to the expertise or training necessary to interpret raw EPA data, said Elizabeth Bechard, a public health manager at Moms Clean Air Force, a nonprofit advocacy organization. The group often uses EPA data to equip families fighting against polluting industries in their communities with the data they need. Ending the cancer risk assessment, Bechard said, will make it harder for people to get involved.
“The public deserves to have that information about that risk so that they can be equipped to push back,” she said. “We’re trying to protect people. It’s not just a math equation.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline The EPA’s data on cancer risk from air pollution has gone dark on Aug 14, 2026.
Congress may kill the federal heat rule before OSHA can
July was the hottest month on record in the United States, with three heat domes — slow-moving, high-pressure systems that trap heat and humidity in place — afflicting large swaths of the country. The most recent of these contributed to an 18-day extreme heat warning in Phoenix, Arizona, the state’s second-longest stretch on record. Yet, in the face of these extreme heat events, representatives in Congress last month advanced a bill that would block the nation’s workplace regulator from finalizing a rule to protect workers from heat stress. What gives?
H.R. 6213 was introduced last year by Representative Mark Messmer from Indiana, who celebrated the House Committee on Education and the Workforce’s recent vote in support of the legislation. The bill seeks to undermine a proposed federal rule that has been languishing under the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, or OSHA. The rule — which would ensure workers have access to rest, shade, and water on the job — was drafted under the Biden administration. Messmer has described the proposed rule as “unnecessary,” saying it would present a burden to employers.
In response to a request for comment, the communications director for the House Committee on Education and the Workforce, Audra McGeorge, did not share a timeline for a full vote on the bill. “The Committee doesn’t control the Floor schedule,” she said. But labor advocates are nevertheless alarmed by the progress H.R. 6213 has made, especially at a time of record-breaking summer temperatures.
“The passage of this bill would set a terrible precedent,” said Juanita Constible, a senior advocate on environmental health at the Natural Resources Defense Council. “It signals a shift away from our current deliberate, data-driven process to kind of a Wild West, where Congress decides whether workers are at risk or not. And I don’t think that’s its role.”
Since OSHA first went public with its proposed rule on preventing heat illness and injury in 2024, the agency has been through multiple comment periods, including public hearings. Experts say the proposed rule’s requirements are relatively straightforward and commonsense. Objections tend to come from pro-business groups, which argue that such regulation would be onerous, stifle growth, and cost too much money. But advocates like Charlotte Brody, vice president of health initiatives at the BlueGreen Alliance, insist that “the OSHA rule, like most OSHA rules, is based on good science.”
For example, the proposed rule would require employers to develop safety plans for workers that would kick in when the heat index reaches 80 degrees Fahrenheit, the point beyond which the vast majority of heat deaths in the workplace occur. (The heat index, which takes into account humidity as well as air temperature, is sometimes referred to as the “feels like” temperature.) When the heat index surpasses 90 degrees, additional measures would then be required. The rule would also instruct employers to create plans to acclimatize workers to laboring under extreme heat. As Brody noted, 3 out of 4 occupational heat deaths happen within the first week of work.
Read Next The climate movement gave this Texas tribe millions and a global platform. No one checked its story. Tristan AhtoneThe vote in the Republican-controlled committee fell along party lines. In a statement to Grist, Representative Adelita Grijalva, a Democrat from Arizona, argued that H.R 6213 erases “the progress we’ve made to establish one, uniform national heat standard,” she added. Before being elected to Congress last year, Grijalva spearheaded a heat safety ordinance for Pima County, Arizona — a first of its kind in the state — while serving on the Pima County Board of Supervisors. Representative Mark DeSaulnier, a Democrat from California, referred to the outcome of the vote as “just another example of how the balance of power between capital and labor has become dangerously skewed in this country, increasingly favoring the interests of big corporations over the safety of workers.”
In a press release, Messmer stated a federal rule as “rigid” and “one-size-fits-all” as the Biden-era standard is redundant when states can pass and enforce their own workplace safety regulations. But that isn’t necessarily true. Texas and Florida, for example, have preempted municipalities within their states to create standards that would keep workers safe from heat illness and injury. Representatives for Representative Messmer did not respond to a request for comment.
Texas and Florida notwithstanding, Constible says, the fight to ensure worker safety during extreme heat has shifted to the state level. Virginia, for example, recently kicked off its own rule-making process on this issue. Unions and labor groups also have an important role to play, she added.
“At the state level, they’re hearing loud and clear from workers that it’s dangerous and scary out there and that they should be doing something about it,” Constible said. “Certainly the hot weather we’ve had the last two years has helped, I think, change hearts and minds on this issue.”
Legal experts say it is surprising that Congress would move to prohibit OSHA from enacting a rule that hasn’t even been finalized yet. In fact, OSHA had already indicated the agency was pivoting away from the Biden-era heat rule and would publish a supplemental proposal toward the end of this year. As Jordan Barab, a former OSHA deputy assistant secretary, noted on his blog, a supplemental proposed rule is used when OSHA seeks to make “significant substantive changes” to an original proposal. Representatives for OSHA did not respond to a request for comment.
“It’s unusual, I would say,” said Romany M. Webb, deputy director at the Sabin Center for Climate Change Law at Columbia University. “It would not be beyond the Congress’ authority to do something like this. It just doesn’t normally do this.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Congress may kill the federal heat rule before OSHA can on Aug 14, 2026.
The climate movement gave this Texas tribe millions and a global platform. No one checked its story.
In May of 2017, Juan Mancias became an overnight sensation in France. Standing over 6 feet tall with a mane of salt-and-pepper hair, a medicine wheel-emblazoned ribbon shirt, beaded belt, and feathered medallion bearing the seal of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas, he was conspicuous on the streets of Paris, and he had a message: French banks were financing the desecration of sacred Native lands and burial sites. They were, he said, aiding in the ongoing ethnic cleansing of Indigenous people in Texas through their support of natural gas pipelines and export terminals.
“It’s the same thing for 500 years,” Mancias told Observatoire des Multinationales. “We were occupied by the Spanish, by the Mexicans, then by the Texans, then by the Americans. And now it’s the oil industry.”
Three months before Mancias arrived in France, the last camps at Standing Rock emptied. For nearly a year, thousands of Indigenous water protectors and environmental allies had gathered near the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in North Dakota to protest the Dakota Access Pipeline, or DAPL. Oil was now flowing through DAPL, but activists and environmental organizations kept the momentum of the protests going.
In South Texas, Mancias had been fighting the same battle on a different front. He and Bekah Hinojosa, a grassroots activist in the Rio Grande Valley, spent weeks organizing against the proposed Rio Grande terminal and Rio Bravo Pipeline. The $18-billion projects would carry tens of millions of tons of natural gas each year to the export terminal in Brownsville, where it would be liquefied and shipped overseas as LNG. The battle led them to collaborate with Rainforest Action Network on a study documenting what it identified as the projects’ threat to the area, which included Carrizo/Comecrudo lands. The proposed industrial corridor, Mancias said, threatened the tribe and Garcia Pasture, a village site near Brownsville with human burials, ruins, and a rare coastal ecosystem the World Monuments Fund, an organization dedicated to raising global awareness of endangered cultural heritage sites, declared “threatened by natural resource extraction.”
“It used to be one of the places that we would gather as different clans and set up our lean-tos and be there for awhile while we were fishing,” Mancias said. “That’s why we were real concerned.”
The report circulated. People were paying attention.
Read Next 5 takeaways from our investigation into the ‘ghost’ tribe that got millions in climate funding Tristan AhtoneLes Amis de la Terre, or Friends of the Earth France, saw an opportunity: French banks — including BNP Paribas and Société Générale — were, at the time, still financing DAPL and petrochemical industries in South Texas, including the Rio projects. Organizers believed they could pressure them to stop.
“We had a broad objective of trying to prevent more financial flows and loans going from France to this project,” said Lorette Philippot, with Les Amis de la Terre, who worked on the campaign. “We had the difficulty to try to mobilize people on a project that was happening far away with impact on people that were far away.”
By early spring of 2017, Rainforest Action Network, Sierra Club, and Les Amis de la Terre had a plan: Mancias and Hinojosa, who was a Sierra Club campaigner at the time, would travel to France to help launch an international divestment campaign. They would work alongside Indigenous activists and allies involved with Stand Up With Standing Rock, a European solidarity tour aimed at demanding banks divest from oil and gas projects in North America.
Over the next week, they appeared in nearly a dozen print and radio outlets, including Le Monde and Radio France. They spoke at rallies. They built a symbolic oil pipeline inside a Paris branch of the bank Société Générale. A video of Mancias discussing Indigenous rights went viral. The pair were applauded by shareholders at BNP Paribas and booed by those at Société Générale. Mancias even secured a meeting with newly elected President Emmanuel Macron’s diplomatic advisors, where he explained how the United States government ignores Indigenous rights in Texas.
“It was a very strong narrative and it helped us mobilize a lot of media at the time because there were these chiefs coming to France to address French companies,” said Philippot. “It was very strong, it was very new, so it helped really create attention.”
Juan Mancias, center, appears at a demonstration in front of the George R. Brown Convention Center ahead of Super Bowl Live events in Houston in 2017. Marie D. De Jesus / Houston Chronicle via Getty ImagesIn the wake of Standing Rock, the global climate movement was eager to elevate Indigenous voices in the fight against fossil fuels, and Mancias stepped up. By leveraging the story of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe as a victim of ethnic cleansing at the hands of fossil fuel interests, the European campaign eventually helped push the two banks to withdraw from U.S. oil and gas projects. This high-profile victory launched Mancias and the tribe into the international media ecosystem, transforming them into environmental media darlings.
Mancias’ visit to France was a massive public relations victory for the climate movement.
But an extensive review of historical and genealogical records reveals that key documents underpinning Mancias’ claims to being of Carrizo/Comecrudo descent contain significant historical inconsistencies and cannot be verified or authenticated. His platform instead rests on family lore that has generated immense financial and social capital for Mancias, who is the group’s chairman, while fueling a broader trend that has detrimental global repercussions for Indigenous Peoples and the fight to address climate change.
“At the time we met him in the United States, Juan Mancias was clearly recognized as a representative of Indigenous communities,” said a spokesperson for Amis de la Terre France. “Regardless of his origins or ancestry, we believe that everyone has the right to oppose LNG projects and their financiers.”
Everyone had a reason to believe the story Mancias told. And somewhere in the years of campaigns and headlines, the question of whether it was true fell away. The story worked, and that was enough.
If you’re a Native reader, you know the word pretendian — its history, the personalities attached to it, and the debates over identity and “pretendian hunting.” The next two paragraphs are not for you. Feel free to skip ahead.
Pretendian — a portmanteau of “pretend” and “Indian” — describes someone who poses as Indigenous but is not. The term has broken out of Indian Country in recent years, with coverage, unmaskings, and think pieces by Indigenous and non-Indigenous writers alike in outlets ranging from The Atlantic and National Public Radio to the New York Post and others as far away as Aotearoa, New Zealand. You know these people; some of your friends and family may even be pretendians, and the problem is bigger than your weird aunt with high cheekbones waving the results of a recent DNA test. Instead, tribal nations and international bodies agree that Indigeneity is a political identity requiring verifiable citizenship within a historically continuous community.
The consequences of false claims to Indigenous identity are not abstract and have brought pretendians significant financial, professional, and cultural benefits. In 2017, three fake Cherokee tribes received $300 million in federal contracts by claiming minority-owned business status. Twin sisters Amira and Nadya Gill received more than 158,000 Canadian dollars earmarked for Inuit kids after pretending to be tribal members. Scholars Elizabeth Hoover and Andrea Smith built careers on bogus claims of Indigenous identity. Perhaps most famously, an investigation by the Canadian Broadcasting Corp. in 2023 found that Buffy Sainte-Marie, the internationally known singer whose career spanned nearly six decades, had falsified her claims of tribal identity and was born in Massachusetts to Italian and English parents.
Tribal Recognition 1011 of 5Stories are powerful, and in the world of climate action, an idealized Indigenous narrative can be more malleable, and more valuable, than facts. In France, the story of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe provided exactly what activists needed to pressure international banks into divesting from oil and gas: a moral front line. It was a victory built on a collective willingness to believe a story that no one bothered to question, let alone investigate.
In the years since he returned from Paris, Mancias has transformed the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas, which lacks federal and state recognition, into a formidable environmental force. He has raised more than $5 million from major philanthropic foundations and joined heavyweights like Earthjustice and World Monuments Fund, and he has engaged with several United Nations agencies to battle oil and gas terminals, President Donald Trump’s border wall, and Elon Musk’s SpaceX.
Those partnerships have allowed the Carrizo/Comecrudo to behave as a tribal nation in the public eye while evading the responsibilities — and burdens of proof — genuine sovereign nations must bear. That has brought financial windfalls and international influence, revealing a troubling shadow recognition system, one in which well-heeled environmental organizations, well-meaning but unwitting journalists, and trusting international human rights bodies unknowingly prop up unverified Indigenous groups and pretendians to wage the climate war at the expense of legitimate Indigenous Peoples, tribes, and organizations.
For Indigenous policy experts, the elevation of unverified groups by environmental organizations represents a systemic issue that extends far beyond any single region. Speaking broadly about the nationwide trend of illegitimate actors and unverified groups entering the environmental movement, Kyle Whyte, a member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation and a climate justice scholar at the University of Michigan, noted the widespread damage caused by this dynamic.
“It’s actually hurting, I would say at an exponential rate, the possibility for Indigenous people to be major players in climate change,” said Whyte. “It’s completely undermining the potential that tribal nations and Indigenous people have.”
Juan Mancias, as seen in the Carrizo/Comecrudo YouTube video “Teaching of the Hands.” Courtesy of Juan ManciasThe Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas, which also goes by Esto’k Gna, claims historical connection to the Texas Gulf Coast and Rio Grande Delta, a region with a thin record of its Indigenous history. While many primary documents about tribes in the region exist in the official archives of Spain, Mexico, and Texas, as well as parish records and municipal files, these threads have rarely been woven into a cohesive narrative.
Spanish archives from the 16th through 18th centuries contain information on more than six dozen distinct groups in the region, but do not describe a unified “Comecrudo” or “Carrizo” tribe. Instead, Comecrudo, which is Spanish for “eats food raw,” and Carrizo, which translates as “river cane,” were simply derogatory, catchall descriptors colonizers applied to bands, tribes, communities, and groups that likely knew little of each other. These fragmentary colonial records capture little of the lived history of South Texas Indigenous communities, reducing complex human beings and societies to scattered chalk outlines of births, baptisms, and geographic displacements.
Indigenous homelands in South Texas have played a reluctant host to the shifting, militarized edge of the Spanish, Mexican, and, later, Texan and American frontiers. Nearly 50 years of perpetual war against Native peoples into the late 19th century ended in forced removal and genocide. By the 1870s, many surviving tribal nations had been pushed out of the state altogether, including the Waco, Kiowa, and Tonkawa, all of which are now based in Oklahoma — a brutal reminder of Texas moxie. Historians have called the state “a cauldron of racist violence.”
These landscapes appear in the Carrizo/Comecrudo video ‘Teaching of the Hands.’ Courtesy of Juan Mancias
Few authoritative books compile the Indigenous history of South Texas. The most prominent, Martín Salinas’ Indians of the Rio Grande Delta, was praised for painstakingly compiling what one reviewer called the “recorded sherds of Indian existence” in the lower Rio Grande Valley. Those sherds, created by Spanish colonizers and military leaders, document Carrizos and Comecrudos at Spanish missions into the 19th century, and is punctuated by an 1886 visit from noted Swiss ethnologist Albert Gatschet, who found elderly Comecrudos living on the riverbanks of the border town of Reynosa Diaz. Some could still speak their language, which he wrote down, but after Gatschet the tribe disappears from the historical record.
For more than a century, the prevailing academic and historical consensus has held that Gulf Coast groups like the Carrizo, Comecrudo, and Karankawa ceased to exist as distinct societies by the late 1800s. According to the Texas State Historical Association, leading anthropologists, and historians, the surviving populations of South Texas died from colonial violence and disease, or they were assimilated into Mexican and Tejano society, leading to their de facto extinction as distinct cultural groups. To modern scholars, these tribes simply do not exist today.
According to Mancias, those scholars are wrong. He insists the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe and its history, culture, and language survived.
Mancias claims that in the 1940s, his grandfather, Juan Ramirez Mancias, a Carrizo/Comecrudo chief, led 29 tribal families from their traditional homelands along the Rio Grande 600 miles north to the Texas Panhandle. There, the families adopted identities as Mexican farmworkers and deliberately assimilated into the Hispanic population. The Mancias family, however, secretly maintained its Indigenous identity, language, and oral histories — the only people to keep the tribe alive. Mancias has said he knew as a child that he was Indigenous, and that he was dismissed and marginalized for it. He claims to have endured anti-Indian racism and expulsion from school for fighting his tormentors, but he never abandoned his convictions or his grandfather’s orders to “go get our land back.” Mancias says he is the hereditary leader of the tribe due to his family’s singular role in preserving its identity and history, and that those convictions have fueled his mission of protecting his ancestors’ homelands from billionaires, pipeline companies, banks, and the federal government, while rebuilding those homelands one parcel at a time.
“They almost annihilated us,” Mancias told a reporter in 2024. “That genocide continues.”
The story Mancias tells echoes the Book of Exodus in the Bible: a multigenerational quest to return home that requires concealed identities, years in hiding, and a history physically carried forward — ending, at last, in a hard-fought, triumphant return.
“This is pretty standard for people to make a life out of a story like this,” said Kim TallBear, who is Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate, author of Native American DNA: Tribal Belonging and the False Promise of Genetic Science, professor at the University of Minnesota, and an expert in Indigenous self-definitions. “This is a pretty standard hiding-out-in-the-wilderness kind of thing, and it is very common in the South.”
When ‘Hiding’ Doesn’t Hold Up1 of 4Mancias said around a dozen of the 29 families who moved north remain active in the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe, but would not provide a full list or contact information for them. But he said his ancestral claims go back even further. He has told journalists his lineage starts with Chief Naz’tazea, a Carrizo/Comecrudo warrior, and his son, Manuel Cavazos — the lone survivor of an alleged massacre of more than 300 Carrizo/Comecrudo people in 1801 at the hands of Spanish soldiers, acting with Catholic priests, along the Devils River in South Texas.
The sole basis for this claim is an unverified 19th century document that Mancias insists he discovered in the archives of the Texas Railroad Commission — a find he has repeatedly said corroborates his family’s oral history and confirms his relation to Naz’Tazea and Cavazos. According to Mancias, the report details an 1871 incident in which surveyors for the Gulf, Western Texas, and Pacific Railway stopped work after excavating an earthen mound containing the skeletal remains of more than 300 people. The document chronicles a subsequent military investigation during which an elderly Cavazos testified through a Spanish and Apache interpreter about the slaughter and his miraculous survival.
Mancias has recounted the story many times. In 2002, he read the alleged report aloud while testifying before the Texas Senate on the need for a state agency for Native American affairs, including a quote he attributed to Cavazos: “As I have said many times before, even though I am old, it will never pass in my eyes on what happened to my family when I was a little boy of 11.” In 2019, Mancias provided additional passages to a reporter, including a particularly graphic recollection from Cavazos that Spanish soldiers “put our little ones on spear tips and held them up for all to see. My sister was with child and Long Spears cut her with their knives where her unborn baby slept.”
‘I didn’t make it up.’
Juan ManciasMancias has been inconsistent about when he discovered the document. He told Grist that he had to threaten the state Railroad Commission to release it in the late 1980s, but also told Texas state senators that he’d discovered it only the week before his 2002 testimony. He has also placed the discovery in 2005, and in a recent interview claimed the report was not translated until 2023 because it was written in what he called “Castilian/Galego” Spanish. That translation, Mancias said, was done with the help of reporter Frank Hopper at Indian Country Today, now ICT, but the article in question was published in 2019.
“I didn’t translate the story,” Hopper wrote in an email. “I don’t have the original document. I tried researching the massacre online but could find very little.”
Mancias would not share the document despite repeated requests, blaming technological issues and suggesting that state officials may have altered or removed it from public viewing. “I know that it exists somewhere, and maybe they changed it, so I can’t do anything about them changing it,” he said when confronted with our findings.
Extensive searches of digital and physical repositories within the Texas State Library and Archives Commission found no evidence that the report exists. Instead, it revealed multiple discrepancies and historical anachronisms in Mancias’ story.
Mancias has been inconsistent on where the massacre occurred, with the railroad report naming two counties that did not exist at the time it was allegedly created and hundreds of miles from the traditional territory of the Carrizo/Comecrudo. He claims the document was written in a dialect of Spanish that would not have been used by an American railroad company operating in Texas almost 30 years after statehood. His chronology has also been historically illiterate: There weren’t any railroads operating in the area until nearly a decade after the discovery of the human remains purportedly occurred. None of the individuals named in the deposition, including the interpreter and a former Civil War captain, were found in the military and genealogical databases examined.
“I doubt any railroad survey crews would have been in such a remote area 10 years before the tracks were being laid,” said Rick McCaslin, the Texas state historian. “I strongly doubt that an Anglo company would have a deposition in Spanish without a translated version to accompany it.”
Don Hofsommer, a railroad historian and author of several books on the topic, also noted that the Texas Railroad Commission — the agency Mancias claims held the report — was not established until 1891, two decades after the alleged survey. “Typically, railroads did not move that sort of information to the public domain,” said Hofsommer. “It’s extremely unlikely that such a document would have migrated, and I can’t see any reason why it would have migrated to the Texas Railroad Commission. Improbable.”
“I didn’t make it up,” said Mancias.
The Texas Railroad Commission did not respond to repeated requests for comment.
Mancias has cited the purported document as evidence to his claims in federal court. In 2019, he sued the federal government, alleging genocide against the Carrizo/Comecrudo people, the desecration of sacred sites, and the use of discriminatory waivers to expedite border wall construction. He asserted “absolute land sovereignty” over six South Texas counties and sought sweeping remedies: an immediate halt to border wall and energy development, the transfer of land from corporations to the tribe, and $1 trillion in reparations — including $400 billion up front and $200 billion annually for 500 years.
When a judge required Mancias to specify the basis for alleging that the Carrizo/Comecrudo held a legal interest in the territory, Mancias submitted the text of the alleged Devil’s River report but did not produce a physical copy. Mancias later dismissed the lawsuit after the government challenged his legal standing to sue as an unrecognized tribe. In 2020, Mancias cited the railroad report in a Sierra Club lawsuit challenging the Trump administration’s border wall, but neither he nor the environmental group provided the original document in the court filings, instead referencing the article Hopper wrote for ICT in 2019.
The alleged report is the only documentary evidence Mancias has publicly referred to in order to establish his connection to the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe.
A lack of proof extends to his other ancestral claims, including the foundational lore of his activism: a childhood command from his grandfather to “go get our land back.” When pressed by the judge in his 2019, $1-trillion lawsuit against the federal government about whether he held traditional title to the lands he was suing over, Mancias admitted that while his grandfather claimed to own land in Peñitas, Texas, the family had “never been able to find a recorded deed or a document verifying this.”
A typed transcription of the purported 1871 interview with Manuel Cavazos, submitted by Juan Mancias as an attachment in the federal lawsuit Mancias v. United States of America. PACERGrist also reviewed census, birth, baptism, marriage, and death records spanning the mid-18th century to the end of the 20th century from across Texas and in Tamaulipas and Nuevo León, Mexico. They show Mancias descends from a well-documented colonial family with deep roots in northern Mexico, including at least three documented Indigenous ancestors born in Mexico between approximately 1770 and 1800. They lived six to seven generations ago and are among the roughly 64 to 128 direct ancestors a person has at that generational depth. However, parish records show this Indigenous ancestry likely originates from the Sierra Madre Oriental mountains, not the Rio Grande Delta, the historic territory of the Carrizo/Comecrudo. More crucially, those ancestors are found on Mancias’ maternal line, not paternal — the foundation of his Indigenous claim. Those genealogical records also do not support Mancias’ assertion that he is related to Manuel Cavazos — the historical paper trail breaks at the precise generational link required to connect Mancias to the Devil’s River survivor. Nobody by that name, or the name Naz’tazea, appears in any records, including those by Gatschet, the Swiss ethnologist. Mancias did not respond to a detailed request for comment outlining our findings.
“If you go back six generations, that’s a lot of ancestors,” TallBear said. “Why are you focusing on the one who might or might not have been Indigenous? Even if there’s an actual Indigenous person, who cares? That’s not a claim. Ancestry alone is not a claim.”
That point is essential to understanding Indigenous identity. Tribal nations, the federal government, and international human rights bodies agree that Indigeneity is fundamentally a political and collective identity, not a private matter of individual racial descent or even blood quantum. As recognized by both the Bureau of Indian Affairs and international bodies like the United Nations, a group cannot simply self-identify into existence or reexistence; legitimate Indigenous Peoples must demonstrate historical continuity by tracing an unbroken line of political authority, typically through formal treaties, acts of Congress, or historical archives that document unbroken, collective lines to preinvasion and precolonial societies. When recognition politics shift from collective, land- and place-based rights toward individual rights that rest on ancestral claims, Indigenous Peoples, rights, and movements face compounding harms — a point scholars emphasize. To avoid that, and distinguish inherently sovereign tribal nations from groups composed merely of individuals claiming descent, the United States relies on a formal, if imperfect, legal system to vet claims of nationhood.
It’s important to note that recognition status indicates whether a group has governmental authority and collective political rights as a sovereign nation. It does not, in and of itself, validate individual Indigenous heritage, just as the lack of federal recognition does not invalidate it. But it does determine whether a group is a sovereign governmental authority or merely an association or nonprofit organization. Indigenous leaders and scholars say that failing to respect those political boundaries enables individuals and groups fraudulently claiming Indigenous heritage for professional, political, and financial gain, ultimately harming legitimate Native communities.
Mancias rejects these bedrocks of Indigenous identity.
“We don’t abide by the colonial mentality of a procedural recognition process,” he said, referring to the tribe’s lack of political status.
Still, Mancias submitted a letter to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, or BIA, in 1998 with the intent of petitioning for federal recognition of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe. Although Mancias frequently cites the multimillion-dollar cost of the process as the primary barrier to proceeding, documents obtained through the Freedom of Information Act show the group continues to interact with the agency. In March 2016, Mancias and his daughter Christa Mancias submitted a signed letter to the BIA to officially update their tribal council roster and maintain the petition.
This is a scanned copy of an envelope, postmarked March 28, 2016, containing an update to the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe’s 1998 letter to petition the Department of the Interior for federal acknowledgment. Grist obtained it through a Freedom of Information Act request. United States Department of the Interior via FOIAThe financial barriers and public condemnation of the recognition process haven’t stopped Mancias from emulating those federal systems. Since the 1990s, when Mancias established a nonprofit under the tribe’s name and began fundraising, he has created a tribal government with himself as the hereditary leader, recruited members, and issued identification cards. During the Texas Senate hearing in 2002, Mancias claimed the tribe had 352 members. By 2009, that figure had risen to 9,000 and by 2017 to 17,000 before tumbling to 2,500 four years later. It jumped again to 6,500 in 2024. This year, Mancias claims 30,000 members, a surge that would require adding roughly 65 members every day for an entire year. Mancias said membership is granted through lineal descendancy.
“It’s family connections,” said Mancias. “Because of the blood that runs through us.”
That recruitment strategy helped bring in Christopher Basaldú, one of the tribe’s most prominent and outspoken members. Basaldú grew up in South Texas hearing family stories of his Indigenous heritage, but that changed when he met Mancias. According to an article featuring Basaldú, who did not return requests for comment, Mancias asked for his family names and where his relatives were born, then declared: “Those are my families, too. We’re related. You’re Carrizo.” Basaldú has since co-founded the tribe’s closest ally fighting oil and gas terminals, the South Texas Environmental Justice Network, along with frontline activist Bekah Hinojosa, whom Mancias also claims is a “distant cousin.”
Presented with our findings, Hinojosa said, “I’m not aware of any familial ties with Juan Mancias.”
Over the last two decades, global leaders have increasingly looked to Indigenous Peoples for solutions to climate change. That shift started in 2004 with the release of the landmark Arctic Climate Impact Assessment, which pushed Indigenous ecological expertise into the mainstream. Three years later, the United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues — among the largest global gatherings of Indigenous leaders and advocates — dedicated its annual session to climate change, helping establish Indigenous stewardship as a pillar of global environmental policy.
Institutional acceptance deepened in 2014, when the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change formally recognized Indigenous expertise as an important resource for climate adaptation, a stark departure from earlier reports that marginalized or ignored those perspectives. The following year, the Paris Agreement wove Indigenous ecological knowledge into its framework.
Then came Standing Rock. Nearly a year of intense protest put Native people in the international spotlight and pushed the Indigenous climate movement to the fore.
Juan Mancias addresses a crowd in Zuccotti Park during an environmental justice rally in New York City in June 2024. Gina M. Randazzo / ZUMA Press Wire / ShutterstockEventually, the federal government caught up. In 2021, the Biden administration elevated Indigenous traditional ecological knowledge to federal policy and established an interagency working group to ensure Native stewardship informs decision-making. “Tribal and Native communities have stewarded these lands since time immemorial,” said Brenda Mallory, who chaired the White House Council on Environmental Quality, at the time. “Their voices and their expertise are critical to finding solutions to address the climate crisis, an issue that disproportionately affects tribal and Native communities.”
Mounting recognition brought an unprecedented flood of money. In 2021, a coalition of governments and private funders unveiled a $1.7 billion pledge to support Native-led land defense, the largest investment ever in Indigenous climate action. By the time world leaders gathered in Brazil last year for the COP30 international climate summit, that commitment had expanded to an additional $1.8 billion for Indigenous and locally led conservation efforts. If the climate crisis is a defining marker of this century, Indigenous Peoples are becoming keystone parties in the fight to address it.
How an Indigenous Claim Can Attract Millions1 of 5When that unprecedented funding reaches legitimate tribal nations, the impact is undeniable. “One million dollars that goes into an entity with accountability and due process and cultural integrity could allow [it] to actually do things that lower carbon footprints or protect themselves from the fossil fuel sector,” said Whyte, the University of Michigan professor.
But the sudden influx of money also created a lucrative new pathway for bad actors. That shift led some funders and advocacy groups to unwittingly elevate people and organizations with no legitimate claim to indigeneity, said Whyte. “After Standing Rock and during the Biden administration, you have philanthropy and federal resources focused on Indigenous people,” he said. “They didn’t have a lot of long-term relationships with tribes or with Indigenous people with legitimate organizations.”
Historically, financial support for Indigenous people and organizations has been dismal. A 2019 Native Americans in Philanthropy report found that between 2002 and 2016, large U.S. foundations gave, on average, 0.4 percent of their total funding to such communities and causes. Similarly, tribal leaders quoted in a 2021 study from the Center for Effective Philanthropy reported that nonprofits had denied requests because program participants were already deemed successful.
“We interpreted that as, They just want to fund drunk, starving Indians on the reservation or on skid row in the city. They’re not interested in what Native American leaders can contribute to society,” said one survey participant. These misconceptions, fueled by racist stereotypes, have been documented in other studies. Research has also found that philanthropy fundamentally misunderstands Indigenous experiences, tribal sovereignty and governance, and organizations operating in Indian Country — to say nothing of the growing problem of people fraudulently claiming Native identities.
“They didn’t understand, for example, that maybe in a certain region there was a legitimate tribal nation or Indigenous organization that was representing actual communities,” Whyte said of philanthropy in general. “They didn’t understand that there’s a difference between a group that is a nonprofit and a state-recognized tribe and a federally recognized tribe. Or in another country, a group that has a certain status. They didn’t know anything about it, and often, they were sucked in by these very powerful stories.”
Those same blind spots plague news coverage, where journalists with little or no understanding of Indigenous affairs are ill-equipped to engage in critical reporting or recognize when sources mislead them.
Vetting Indigenous Identity1 of 3Media access is essential for the well-being and civic participation of legitimate Indigenous nations. But it can also grant visibility and credibility to illegitimate individuals and groups whose claims go unscrutinized, and non-Native reporters often feel overwhelmed by the complexities of Indigenous identity, a vulnerability that is easily exploited. Many fail to do basic research or ask tough questions about a source’s tribal ties for fear of causing offense or because they are rushing to meet a deadline, said Sunnie Clahchischiligi, who is Diné and president of the Indigenous Journalists Association. “I think it’s just carelessness and laziness,” she said.
That can create an echo chamber because, as the Indigenous Journalists Association warns, “once a fraudulent claim is published in one news article, especially in Indigenous-led media, other media tend to follow without verification.”
That echo chamber has benefited Mancias and the Carrizo/Commecrudo Tribe, which have appeared in more than 70 stories, blogs, and press releases since 2016. They have received frequent coverage from outlets ranging from ICT and Inside Climate News to PBS, The Guardian, and The Texas Tribune.
Inside Climate news and ICT were among the most prolific outlets covering Mancias and the tribe. Grist presented the findings of this investigation to them and asked about their editorial policies for covering unrecognized groups and whether reporters examined primary documents to corroborate Mancias’ claims. Both outlets provided statements but did not answer the questions or explain their fact-checking protocols or policies covering unrecognized Indigenous groups.
“The issues you raise about identity are ones [the reporter] included with nuance in his reporting on displaced and marginalized people seeking justice,” the executive editor at Inside Climate News told Grist in an email.
ICT also declined to discuss its vetting process or its publication of the unverified 1871 Spanish railroad document. Citing an organizational restructuring that occurred in 2021, the president of IndiJ Public Media, which runs ICT, said she “can’t speak to decisions made in the past” but added that the outlet “is committed to integrity and the highest journalistic standards.”
The Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe operated on a tight budget for years after incorporating as a registered 501(c)(3) nonprofit in 1999. The IRS repeatedly revoked and restored that status, and tax filings show the tribe reported less than $50,000 in annual revenue between 2012 and 2018. In 2016, a GoFundMe campaign raised just $3,000 to support a monthslong pipeline protest encampment.
Everything changed in 2019.
As Mancias’ celebrity grew on the heels of his 2017 Paris trip, the tribe began attracting philanthropic support. The Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe has raised more than $5 million since 2019, largely from environmental and social justice funders like the Schmidt Family Foundation, First Nations Development Institute, Rockefeller Family Fund, and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.
First Nations Development Institute, the Rockefeller Family Fund, and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation did not respond to detailed requests for comment. The Schmidt Family Foundation defended its funding and said identity verification is beyond its philanthropic mandate.
“While we resource many movements run by, and in service of, historically excluded demographics, we do not fund based on identity,” said Joseph Sciortino, executive director of the Schmidt Family Foundation. “Furthermore, it is not our place to interrogate the identity of those we support. Federal tribal recognition and matters of cultural legitimacy are incredibly complex and important subjects with significant social, cultural, and political implications. Our job as a philanthropy is to support important work, not to serve as the arbiters of who does and doesn’t get to be Indigenous.”
Philanthropic support helped the tribe in many successful campaigns. The tribe pushed French and Japanese banks to divest from LNG, disrupting financing for projects worth billions. It joined German activists to blockade European imports of fracked gas. It engaged in direct action to stop construction of the border wall and challenged Elon Musk’s plans to expand SpaceX operations in South Texas. As an accredited nongovernmental organization at the United Nations, the Carrizo/Comecrudo have weighed in on international negotiations, including a global plastics treaty.
Tori Cress, who is Beausoleil and a member of the Society of Native Nations, and Juan Mancias attend the International Indigenous Peoples Forum on Plastics in Busan, South Korea, in 2024. Kiara Worth / IISD / ENBMancias said the tribe is now working to protect threatened peyote habitats in South Texas, one of the few places in the U.S. where the psychoactive cactus, used as a sacrament in the Native American Church, grows wild. A spokesperson for the Native American Church declined to comment on this story.
It has accomplished all of this, Mancias said, with just five full-time employees, including his daughter. He also said much of the tribe’s money has gone toward buying land and paying taxes on it, a financial burden stemming from the tribe’s unrecognized status.
The Sierra Club has been one of the tribe’s most important allies. It has provided nearly $200,000 in grants and ongoing legal support, most recently in a lawsuit targeting SpaceX. The suit, filed by the environmental group SaveRGV in 2021 and later joined by the Sierra Club and the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe, challenged the closures of Boca Chica Beach on the Gulf Coast. The shutdowns can last as long as 12 hours and are meant to safeguard the public from any falling debris from the rocket company’s launches. The plaintiffs argued the closures violated the Texas Constitution’s guarantee of access to public beaches.
In June, the Texas Supreme Court unanimously ruled against them, holding that private parties do not have the right to sue to enforce public beach access.
Mancias has argued publicly that the closures infringe on rights protected under the federal American Indian Religious Freedom Act — but that law applies to citizens of federally recognized tribes.
“The Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe are the original people of the Boca Chica Beach region,” Mancias has claimed. “The river is sacred to us. When we call for the rains, we go to the river because that’s where the rains come from. And we’ve been stopped, prevented from giving our prayers at Boca Chica beach by a billionaire’s pet project and the police.”
But the litigation wasn’t fought on that ground. The suit rested on Texas beach-access law, not federal Indian law, and the tribe appeared in the case not as a sovereign nation but as an incorporated nonprofit organization.
The Sierra Club did not respond to a detailed request for comment.
As an unrecognized group, the Carrizo/Comecrudo lack the legal standing to compel developers or governments to consult with them on projects impacting their claimed ancestral lands. Instead, Mancias has turned to international frameworks, specifically invoking the U.N. Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, or UNDRIP, and the legal principle of free, prior, and informed consent, or FPIC. By leveraging these standards, the tribe has forged an effective strategy to legitimize its identity claims on the world stage, pressure international financial institutions, and attract philanthropic support.
Representatives of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe have argued that because companies like SpaceX haven’t consulted tribal leaders, they are violating UNDRIP. As part of its legal tactics, the tribe has demanded federal agencies obtain its free and informed consent before launching oil and gas projects. It has used similar arguments to pressure investors in France and Japan, contending banks are violating that standard by failing to consult with the tribe.
Although UNDRIP is universal in scope, its practical significance is greatest where Indigenous Peoples lack meaningful domestic protections, legal recognition, or recourse against state violence. In much of Latin America, Africa, and Asia, weak protection of Indigenous land rights — compounded by extractive pressure, organized crime, and impunity — has made defending Indigenous territory deadly. Indigenous people make up roughly 6 percent of the world’s population but account for nearly a third of the environmental defenders attacked in 2024.
The U.N. special rapporteur on the rights of Indigenous Peoples, Albert K. Barume, has tied that violence directly to the absence of secure land rights. “There is a crisis Indigenous people are currently experiencing, and it’s because many Indigenous Peoples are killed, many are under arrest, many live in hiding,” he told the U.N. Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues in 2026. “This is because Indigenous Peoples’ land and territory are often not protected enough.”
Critics argue the framework was never intended to legitimize identity in the United States, where a system for establishing and recognizing tribal sovereignty already exists.
“They are literally using an argument that people in the world, that are being killed right now, actually need,” said Whyte.
The tribe’s closest ally in its international work has been the Society of Native Nations, or SNN, a Texas nonprofit founded in 2016 to combat historical erasure and promote the idea that “Indigenous peoples are still here in Texas.” It represents unrecognized tribes that receive no federal funding or support, including the Tap Pilam Coahulitecan Nation, Lipan Apache, Chichimeca, Tobotolobal, Mexica, and Purepecha.
The society started with help from Mancias.
For more than a decade, Mancias led the Central Texas chapter of the American Indian Movement, or AIM, a historic and controversial Native American grassroots civil rights organization. During that time he recruited Frankie Orona, an information technology entrepreneur from California who identifies as Tongva, Chumash, and Borrado, and is an enrolled member and environmental liaison for the San Gabriel Band of Mission Indians, which does not hold federal recognition status.
“Frankie became a member because he met me,” said Mancias.
Frankie Orona, who leads the Society of Native Nations and is co-chair of the Major Groups Facilitating Committee, is shown here at a committee forum in Nairobi, Kenya, on December 7, 2025. Anastasia Rodopoulou / IISD / ENBIn early 2016, Orona filed the paperwork required to incorporate their chapter, the American Indian Movement Of Central Texas, as a nonprofit. Riding the momentum of Standing Rock, the chapter mobilized against the Trans-Pecos Pipeline in West Texas. Later that year, AIM Central Texas members, including Mancias, protested at a resort owned by the CEO of Energy Transfer Partners, the company behind the Dakota Access and Trans-Pecos pipelines. Two weeks later, on October 20, Orona renamed the organization the Society of Native Nations because, he said, AIM’s radical history made it “very, very difficult” to work with other organizations.
In a written response to an email outlining our findings, Orona said the “AIM Central Texas chapter was not renamed or replaced by SNN,” the organization still exists, and it “remains entirely separate from SNN.”
That claim does not align with legal filings available through the IRS and the Texas Secretary of State. Those documents show that AIM Central Texas and the Society of Native Nations share the same incorporation date, state file number, and federal tax identification number. SNN’s own governing documents reveal a shared origin: SNN’s by-laws — including its entire preamble, structural goals, and mission statements — are drawn almost verbatim from bylaws the Des Moines, Iowa chapter of AIM used in the 1970s, many of which are found in contemporary AIM materials.
The bylaws of the American Indian Movement of Des Moines, left, as printed in the record of a 1976 U.S. Senate subcommittee hearing, are shown alongside the bylaws adopted by the Society of Native Nations in November 2016. Highlights indicate passages the two documents share, including the organizations’ purposes and both lists of objectives. U.S. Senate Committee on the Judiciary; Society of Native NationsOrona also insisted that “Juan Mancias was not part of creating SNN.”
The society’s financial growth has mirrored the rise of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe. After filing rudimentary tax returns for several years, the organization’s fortunes changed dramatically in 2019 when it began securing climate-action grants, including funding to “address threats of fossil fuel infrastructure and border wall construction on ancestral lands of the Carrizo Comecrudo Tribe.” By 2024, its reported annual revenue had reached nearly $777,000 with money coming from many of the same philanthropic funders supporting the Carrizo/Commecrudo Tribe.
A review of the organization’s tax filings reveals a history of reporting inconsistencies and revisions. The society has on three occasions between 2018 and 2024 reported different revenue for the same tax periods, and later filings reported substantially higher revenue for earlier tax years. In 2024, the society’s tax forms misattributed historical revenues to the wrong years and left the current year’s income column blank.
In his written response to Grist, Orona said SNN is aware of the discrepancies and is working with a new accountant to review its filings for the past three years. “This corrective process began before we learned of your investigation,” he said. “We acknowledge that the public filings contain reporting inconsistencies that need to be corrected. However, the placement of figures in incorrect year columns or inconsistent presentation across returns should not, without further evidence, be characterized as intentional misconduct or as proof that funds were missing, improperly received, or misused.”
Asked to speak in general about the structural risks of funding unverified organizations rather than sovereign nations, Whyte noted that such groups frequently lack the infrastructure to handle large grants. “When a group comes in that has no potential for self-governance, they often lie about who their members are,” he said. “It might be a few figureheads, usually one person that’s the point person for everything, and a few other followers, and if they do get money, they often don’t have the capacity to manage those funds, and the entire thing gets wasted.”
Ongoing financial support helped propel the Society of Native Nations onto the global stage alongside the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe. Both organizations gained accredited nongovernmental status within the United Nations, allowing them to participate in global conversations, forums, and negotiations.
Within the United Nations system, legitimate tribal governments can, and do, participate as sovereign nations in specific Indigenous-focused spaces, such as the Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues. However, at the highest levels of global diplomacy — including the U.N. General Assembly, Human Rights Council, and Economic and Social Council — the U.N. remains exclusively for recognized Member States.
Frankie Orona is shown here attending a meeting of an International Institute for Sustainable Development working group in Geneva on June 20, 2024. Mike Muzurakis / IISD / ENBBecause the U.N. excludes Indigenous governments from participating as sovereign nations in these broader arenas, Indigenous Peoples have fought for years for “enhanced participation” — the ability for tribal governments to hold a dignified, permanent status to negotiate on global policies that directly affect them. Until that happens, the system forces a workaround: To gain access to high-level bodies and specialized agencies, Indigenous Peoples must participate through nongovernmental organizations, or NGOs.
Both the society and the Carrizo/Comecrudo have used this loophole to gain a level of international power and influence they could not exert in the United States. The society secured accreditation with UNESCO — the U.N. body protecting cultural heritage — in 2024 by highlighting its partnership with the Carrizo/Comecrudo. It also won recognition from the U.N. Environment Programme, or UNEP, where Orona now co-chairs the Indigenous Peoples Major Group, a position that helps shape high-level negotiations like the global plastics treaty that represent the interests of Indigenous Peoples worldwide.
Just 24 Indigenous-focused organizations are accredited observers to the United Nations Environment Assembly, the world’s highest decision-making body for environmental matters. Only four are from the U.S. One is the International Indian Treaty Council, which is among the oldest and most established Indigenous NGOs at the U.N. The others are the Society of Native Nations, Humanculture, and the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas.
The society holds similar standing at UNESCO. Of the 10 NGOs from the United States with accreditation, only three focus on Indigenous issues: the Pacific Traditions Society, Cultural Survival, and the Society of Native Nations.
As accredited observers, NGOs cannot negotiate as sovereign governments. But groups like the Society of Native Nations and the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe receive a wide range of institutional privileges. Among other things, they can provide oral and written contributions to draft resolutions, access internal documents unavailable to the public, and interact directly with government delegations.
“The U.S., when they come with a delegation, you have members from the [Department of Justice] there sometimes, or [Health and Human Services],” said Orona. “You speak to states and you are able to influence policy that can impact generations and generations and generations yet to come.”
Read Next As climate change threatens their lands, Indigenous nations demand more power at the UN Dionne PhillipsYet despite granting this high-level diplomatic access, the U.N. does not verify whether these organizations actually represent historical Indigenous communities. In an emailed statement to Grist, a UNEP spokesperson confirmed that the agency “respects the principle of self-identification” and relies purely on standard nonprofit eligibility requirements for accreditation.
“UNEP, like other U.N. mechanisms, does not conduct determinations regarding the sovereign status, federal recognition, historical continuity, ancestry, or genealogical claims of organizations or individuals,” the spokesperson wrote, adding that accreditation “does not constitute endorsement or validation of such claims.”
That policy creates a structural conflict of interest for anyone looking to challenge a group’s credentials. Indigenous participation at UNEP is managed through the Indigenous Peoples Major Group. Because Orona currently serves as its co-chair, internal guidelines recommend that any official complaints or clarifications be brought to “one or both” co-chairs privately before being elevated to the broader group. A UNEP representative confirmed there is no specific conflict-of-interest procedure for this scenario, but did say that such a case wouldn’t be required to pass through a co-chair’s hands. Instead, concerns could be raised with the other co-chair or bypass the internal governance entirely by consulting UNEP’s Civil Society Unit.
Orona has become a fixture at U.N. summits, attending more than a dozen international events since 2024 in places like Geneva; Nairobi, Kenya; and Busan, South Korea. Mancias has also traveled internationally on behalf of the tribe and has, among other events, attended global conferences on fossil fuels and plastics in Kenya and Uruguay. He also participated in the 2024 plastics treaty negotiations in South Korea.
For Indigenous delegates, the presence of individuals and groups with unverified claims exercising this level of influence has been a longstanding source of frustration. Because the U.N. system relies heavily on NGO credentials and self-identification, it inadvertently creates a pathway to undeserved international legitimacy.
“This has been an issue of concern throughout the U.N. system regarding the representation of Indigenous Peoples, and it is really hard to know how to deal with it,” said Andrea Carmen, executive director of the International Indian Treaty Council. “None of us know everybody, and definitely we don’t know Indigenous Peoples’ from every region. We don’t want to exclude anyone unfairly, but we do hear these concerns expressed.”
The Right of ‘Peoples,’ Not Groups1 of 4The U.N. has no formal mechanism to verify if participants, tribes, or organizations are who they say they are. But having illegitimate actors in the system takes diplomatic oxygen and means from legitimate Indigenous Peoples.
“It is concerning when you hear about entities whose claims to being Indigenous aren’t substantiated, that may be taking funding, time, representation, and resources away from Indigenous Peoples’ and their organizations that are really struggling to participate,” said Carmen. “If some are truly not bona fide, they should not be speaking as Indigenous Peoples.”
Orona and Mancias have known each other for more than a decade. “We do a lot of ceremony together, we spend a lot of time up in South Dakota together, we Sun Dance together,” Orona said in an interview with Grist earlier this year. Later, Orona said in an email that their collaboration has been largely a professional relationship before later saying it was largely a ceremonial one.
“My association with a person through environmental and Indigenous rights advocacy should not be presented as proof that I authenticated every historical or genealogical claim made by that person,” he wrote. “Participation in SNN does not confer Tribal citizenship, federal recognition, sovereign status, or validation of a person’s genealogy. Likewise, SNN membership should not be portrayed as evidence that the organization has formally authenticated every identity claim made by every member or affiliated individual.”
Mancias’ ability to garner headlines and funding has required sharing the spotlight. Just up the Gulf Coast near Galveston, the unrecognized Karankawa Tribe of Texas has also been focused on environmental justice and protecting ancestral lands and artifacts from the petrochemical industry. This work has been led primarily by Sandra Love Sanchez, who claims Karankawa and Lipan Apache descent and is the tribe’s environmental liaison. She has cited Standing Rock as the catalyst for the tribe’s work.
The Karankawa are well documented in Texas history and once controlled nearly 300 miles of coast from Corpus Christi Bay to Galveston Bay. Yet for more than a century, history books and roadside historical markers deemed them “extinct,” like the Carrizo/Comecrudo. That narrative held until 2009, when retired U.S. Army veteran Enrique Gonzalez came forward and claimed to be Karankawa.
According to Gonzalez, rather than being wiped out in the mid-1800s, a band of Karankawa retreated to the Rio Grande Valley and secretly preserved the tribe’s culture. Gonzalez’s account marked a turning point. Since then, a growing network of people identifying as Karankawa Kadla — Kadla meaning “culturally mixed” to encompass other bloodlines, including non-Indigenous ones — has begun connecting online and with local historians.
“For many centuries we have been in hiding,” the tribe’s website declares. “We are hiding no longer.”
‘I think if you’re going to be doing these kinds of things, you have to be honest about who or what you are.’
Juan ManciasThe Karankawa have found common cause with the Carrizo/Comecrudo in a fight to save Donnel Point, a 2,300-year-old shell midden rediscovered along the La Quinta Ship Channel after having been assumed destroyed by dredging in the 1950s. When a local geologist stumbled across the intact site in 2025, organizers realized it was in immediate danger of development. The Karankawa and Carrizo/Comecrudo enlisted attorneys at Earthjustice to challenge the federal permitting process.
“By stopping this project, that would be protecting the land,” said Love Sanchez in an interview.
Earthjustice responded to a detailed list of questions about its vetting protocol with a statement reading, “At Earthjustice, we represent impacted communities across Texas to defend their health and significant places. We will continue to fight in the courts for our clients’ legal rights to protect their longstanding, generational legacy of stewardship.”
But Mancias has dismissed the Karankawa as fakes and latecomers riding the wave that followed Standing Rock. “If you follow the paperwork, they just got together, like, what, three or four years ago,” he said. “It became a fad after NODAPL. A lot of people got into the environmental stuff.”
Mancias claims that he too is Karankawa, and that the word comes from the Carrizo/Comecrudo language. “I know that we’re Karankawa for a fact,” he said. “The documentation is there. I think it’s just poor research, and people are just trying to fight and justify their Indigeneity.”
The Karankawa are not alone in facing Mancias’ skepticism. He has questioned the historical presence and true identity of the Lipan Apache in South Texas, an unrecognized tribe also heavily engaged in climate and environmental work at the domestic and international level. He claims that historical records provide no evidence the Lipan Apache ever lived in South Texas, and he attributes the name “Apache” to the Spanish word mapache: “A racoon,” said Mancias. “Everybody sees the racoon as a mischievous little thief and that’s what they would call a lot of the Native groups that had already started losing their identity.”
Mancias has also dismissed the legitimacy of the Miakan-Garza Tribe, arguing that the unrecognized group based in San Antonio is not a distinct nation but a Carrizo/Comecrudo clan. He claims it was formed by “old men” who emerged from the Chicano movement, discovered they were Indigenous, and sought to identify with a tribe. “If you know anything about the Garzas, it’s not really a tribe,” he said.
“I’m not going to fight anybody that claims to be Native because we got bigger fights to fight,” Mancias added. “But I think if you’re going to be doing these kinds of things, you have to be honest about who or what you are.”
A landmark study in the journal Science found that Indigenous nations in the United States have lost 98.9 percent of their land, the result of centuries of violence, unratified or broken treaties, and racist federal policy. The Dawes Act of 1887 alone stripped tribes of roughly 90 million acres, of which only 8 percent has been reacquired. Today, 42 percent of tribal nations have no land base at all, and those that do hold, on average, less than 3 percent of their historic territory.
Regaining stolen land is a long process. Tribes can often wait decades to see even the smallest parcel placed into trust — the legal step that turns public or private property into sovereign territory. Records obtained from the Bureau of Indian Affairs show the Ely Shoshone Tribe’s 1995 application to put land into trust was approved in 2024. The Pala Reservation’s 2003 filing was completed in 2023; the same year saw a 2006 submission from the Wind River Reservation approved.
The Carrizo/Comecrudo haven’t had to wait that long. Between 2022 and 2024, the tribe bought four properties in Cameron County, Texas, totaling 22.61 acres along the route of a proposed Enbridge pipeline. The deals were funded by grants from the Hive Fund for Climate & Gender Justice, Equation Campaign, the Schmidt Family Foundation, and NDN Collective.
“We selected these grantees for the demonstrated effectiveness of their organizing against fossil fuel expansion and related harms in South Texas and elsewhere,” Katie Redford, executive director of the Equation Campaign, said in an emailed statement. “That record, not a claim to Indigenous identity, is why we funded them.
“We do not adjudicate who is or is not Indigenous, and we would not consider it legitimate to try,” Redford said. “We find the premise of these questions — that a funder should be auditing a person’s bloodline — offensive. A tribe’s determination of its own membership is a core attribute of its sovereignty, and federal acknowledgment under 25 C.F.R. Part 83 is a political and administrative process, not a genealogical one. There is no single accepted standard a funder could apply, and any standard we invented would be our own imposition — which is the reason philanthropy has no business in this.”
Melanie Allen, CEO of Hive Fund, said in an emailed response that the organization’s grantmaking is focused on the transition to clean energy in the South. “We fund the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas as part of a broader ecosystem of grantee partners in South Texas working to protect the health and safety of communities by opposing fossil fuel buildout,” Allen said. “Specifically, we have funded the Tribe to contest the construction of several liquefied natural gas (LNG) terminals in the Rio Grande Valley. We evaluate prospective grantee partners for charitable status, legal compliance, financial management, organizational capacity, and alignment with our mission, not Indigenous status.”
NDN Collective did not respond to requests for comment.
A $1.2 million check from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation was supposed to underwrite the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe’s plan to acquire 170 acres in Laredo for a community center and land trust. That deal fell through, according to Mancias, and most of that grant was rescinded, but a purported 3,400-acre donation in Sierra Blanca to restore the tribe’s traditional land base remains a work in progress. That land, he said, has been willed to the tribe, but the required paperwork is still being completed; around 700 acres of the donation is currently being leased, though Mancias would not say by whom.
Mancias hopes these acquisitions will make the tribe more “self-determining.” To that end, he said he is founding “the first Native American university in Texas,” which conceivably would teach future generations of Carrizo/Comecrudo to be financially and academically independent. “We want to say, ‘You can’t tell us what to teach anymore, we don’t accept your ideas of invasion and colonization because we’re not a conquered people,’” he said.
Mancias said he’ll work with Rice University or the University of Houston to obtain accreditation, and claims to have been in contact with the American Indian Higher Education Consortium, a nonprofit composed of the presidents of the nation’s 37 tribal colleges. The University of Houston said it was unaware of the project and is not an accrediting agency. The consortium declined to comment, and Rice University did not respond.
Still, Mancias’ efforts have attracted support from global institutions. For decades, Garcia Pasture — a sprawling, pre-Columbian village site and burial ground near Brownsville — has been listed on the National Register of Historic Places. But as plans for a massive oil and gas export terminal advanced on the site, international advocates took notice. In 2022, the World Monuments Fund designated Garcia Pasture an irreplaceable cultural site and “traditional territory of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas threatened by natural resource extraction” that “requires formal legal recognition to ensure its future.” The organization accompanied its announcement with a sprawling online exhibit supporting the tribe’s history and pledged to support its quest for federal recognition, citing “overwhelming historical evidence” that proves its connection to South Texas.
According to Frankie Orona, the Society of Native Nations plans to leverage its UNESCO accreditation to one day see Garcia Pasture formally recognized.
“We have had conversations about how we can help to support the tribe in doing that,” said Orona. “To acknowledge Garcia Pasture as a sacred site and try to help to recommend it to be seen and recognized as a UNESCO heritage site.”
In his written response, Orona said that statement was not a commitment to pursue a UNESCO nomination, only a reflection of “SNN’s general practice of looking for appropriate ways to support issues affecting Indigenous Peoples and culturally significant places.” He also said the society had not authenticated the historical or genealogical documents the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe cited.
The World Monuments Fund declined to comment on the findings of this investigation, and UNESCO did not respond.
Taken together, the tribe’s acquisitions are, relatively speaking, significant. A few tribes have managed to see vast tracts placed in trust — nearly 60,000 acres for the Santa Ana Pueblo in New Mexico, for example, and almost 39,000 for the Osage Nation in Oklahoma. But BIA data show nearly 70 percent of applications filed between 1995 and 2014 were for less than 50 acres. Many sought tiny slivers of land. The Puyallup Tribe, in what’s currently Washington state, filed paperwork for just 0.57 acres, and applications filed by the Shakopee Mdewakanton Sioux Community in Minnesota included parcels as small as 0.684 acres.
“Rampant land dispossession has not been addressed with actual tribes,” said Whyte. “That’s well documented. It’s clear. I think the remedies are clear. Yet somebody that spins this narrative is then receiving resources and having a public profile, but there’s nothing behind it.”
Read Next The extractive industries filling public university coffers on stolen land Tristan Ahtone, Robert Lee, Amanda Tachine, An Garagiola, Audrianna Goodwin, Maria Parazo Rose, & Clayton AldernMancias’ side-stepping of the process that recognized tribes must endure limits how that land is protected. A community land trust, like the one the Mellon Foundation initially supported, can offer limited protection from fossil fuel and other development. Land placed into trust, however, is placed under the jurisdiction of a federally recognized tribe. It is no longer subject to state and local taxes, zoning laws, or eminent domain, and officially becomes “Indian Country,” allowing a tribe to exercise its inherent sovereign powers, manage land and resources as it sees fit, and deploy traditional ecological practices.
That has profound implications for biodiversity and the climate. A review of more than 600 studies shows conservation is vastly more successful when Indigenous Peoples and local communities have primary control or equal partnership over their lands. Positive outcomes have been achieved in 85 percent of the cases where that happens, compared to just 18 percent when Native peoples are treated merely as stakeholders or a community to be consulted.
“The Indigenous climate justice movement is all about the fact that you have, across the world, thousands of groups that for generations have been self-governing,” said Whyte. “These self-governing entities, in the territories where they are self-governing or where legally they should be able to self-govern, have a tremendous impact on climate change.”
Juan Mancias addresses attendees at a climate protest in New York City on September 19, 2023. Gina M. Randazzo / ZUMA Press Wire / ShutterstockIn a warming world, Indigenous identities — warped by centuries of abuse and misuse — have become potent vehicles for capturing public attention and sympathy. This too often includes recycling of old tropes, including the ecologically minded Indian made popular by Espera Oscar de Corti. Among the most well-known pretendians, de Corti is famous for his appearance as “The Crying Indian” in a Keep America Beautiful ad that aired on Earth Day 1971. De Corti, dressed as a Plains-style Indian in buckskin and braids, paddles a canoe past ship channels filled with trash before pulling up to a debris-strewn beach. “Some people have a deep, abiding respect for the natural beauty that was once this country, and some people don’t,” the narrator intones as trash thrown from a passing car lands at de Corti’s feet. The camera pans up to his face, where a single tear rolls down his cheek.
But that trope endures beyond nostalgia. Today, it appropriates and repackages genuine Indigenous scholarship, worldviews, and political struggles into simplified archetypes that can be easily consumed, circulated, and capitalized upon, from the crying Indian to the righteous water protector.
“The appropriation and use of that imagery can be attractive to NGOs entering into this space,” said Monte Mills, director of the Native American Law Center at the University of Washington. “Some of that is so deeply ingrained in the national consciousness. It’s hard to uproot.”
Members of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas gather outside the White House following President Joe Biden’s October 2021 proclamation of Indigenous Peoples Day. Andrew Harnik / AP PhotoIndigenous Peoples have long been imagined or appropriated to serve settler needs and anxieties. Phil Deloria, a Yankton-descended Harvard historian and author of Playing Indian, argues that Americans have always needed constructed images of “Indians” to define their own history and identity. From sports mascots to the Boy Scouts’ appropriation of Indigenous culture, Native iconography has been woven into narratives of national belonging.
“In the ’70s, you’ve got this ecological Indian thing happening,” Deloria said. In the 1980s, the self-healing, New Age Indian was in vogue. And then, “In the ’90s and aughts, you’ve got the postmodern Indian, who’s sort of ironic and hip and kind of cool,” Deloria added. “So one way to think about this is that climate change is just another one of these modernist crises where people imagine certain kinds of Indian-ness.”
For Mancias, that kind of Indian-ness has meant replacing buckskin with ribbon shirts and ball caps, trash by pipelines, tears by righteous anger.
“I’m no f*cking activist,” said Mancias. “I’m protecting our land and protecting our principles and our teachings and who we are. Cuz I was told, ‘Go get our lands back.’”
In February of this year, the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe graduated from press releases, niche blogs, and climate reporting to Hollywood with the release of Gaslit. The documentary, hosted by Jane Fonda and produced by Greenpeace, chronicles her travels through Texas’ oil fields, documenting “fossil fuel profiteering, environmental racism, and the lives of everyday people.” During her journey, Fonda visits the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe, and between sweeping images of the Gulf Coast and fossil fuel infrastructure, footage of Juan Mancias and Frankie Orona carrying an American Indian Movement flag flashes across the screen.
For viewers, there are no missing records, genealogical gaps, questionable family histories, or factual anachronisms. Instead, they see exactly what Mancias has manifested: a moral, Indigenous front line in the battle to stop climate change, with a story the world is eager to believe.
In the film, that story is delivered by Christopher Basaldú, the co-founder of South Texas Environmental Justice Network and alleged relative of Mancias. “We have the port selling us out, not listening to the tribe when we tell them these are sacred lands and we actually do have villages and archeological sites in the area that are being destroyed,” he says. “On top of that, in comes the billionaire conman of the world, Elon Musk. He’s polluting and destroying the area where we remember our creation.”
“When Gaslit was produced and published, our editorial review surfaced no dispute over the region’s Indigenous communities and gave us no reason to doubt Mr. Mancias’ statements,” said a spokesperson for the film. “Greenpeace USA respects Indigenous sovereignty and the right to self-determination as outlined in our Indigenous Peoples Policy, and also recognizes that Indigenous identity is a complex issue due to the far-reaching effects of colonialism. Therefore, we believe decisions on claims of Indigenous identity belong to tribal nations and communities, and follow that leadership.”
The fight against Musk and his company SpaceX has become Mancias’ primary focus these days. With the Texas Supreme Court dismissing the tribe’s claims earlier this year, the tribe has opened a new front: Working with the Center for Biological Diversity, South Texas Environmental Justice Network, and SaveRGV to sue the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. The groups hope to block a land swap that would give SpaceX more than 700 acres of a national wildlife refuge.
“Our Mothman prophecies come straight out of Texas and they talk about the coming of fracking,” Mancias said of prehistoric and historic petroglyphs found in the state. “It shows horizontal fracking and it shows the actual land movers, and then there’s the other ones that show SpaceX and Blue Origin and they show the rockets there.”
Of this, as with everything, belief is the only evidence he can offer.
Correction: This story originally misstated Joseph Sciortino’s title.
CREDITSThis story was reported and written by Tristan Ahtone and edited by Chuck Squatriglia and Katherine Bagley. Story art by Marty Two Bulls Jr., with art direction by Teresa Chin. Fact-checking was conducted by Elisângela Mendonça of Mongabay through the Indigenous News Alliance, as well as Angely Mercado. The story was copyedited by Jaime Buerger and Laura Mallonnee assisted in searching Texas state archives.
DISCLOSURES
- Tristan Ahtone contributed to the IJA Indigenous Identity Reporting Guide, the UNESCO Indigenous Peoples and the Media report, and the Vermont Public Radio Series “Recognized” cited in this story. He has delivered lectures through the Mellon Foundation’s Sawyer Seminar.
- Grist included Nick Tilsen, CEO of NDN Collective in its 2019 Grist 50 list of climate innovators. Bekah Hinojosa appeared on the 2022 Grist 50 and in our Looking Forward newsletter.
- Grist receives funding from Hive Fund, the Rockefeller Family Fund, 11th Hour Project, and the Schmidt Family Foundation. Funders play no role in Grist’s editorial decisions.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline The climate movement gave this Texas tribe millions and a global platform. No one checked its story. on Aug 13, 2026.
5 takeaways from our investigation into the ‘ghost’ tribe that got millions in climate funding
In 2017, Juan Mancias, the chairman of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas, traveled to France to help pressure two of the country’s largest banks into divesting from oil and gas projects in South Texas. He cast the fight as a new chapter in a centuries-long struggle to protect the tribe’s sacred lands. The campaign succeeded, and helped make Mancias an international climate figure. Over the next several years, he would use that status to bring more than $5 million in philanthropic funding to the unrecognized tribe.
An investigation by Grist found that the historical and genealogical evidence underpinning Mancias’ claim that he is the hereditary chief of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe cannot be verified. The foundational document he cites cannot be located or authenticated, and Mancias failed to provide it after multiple requests. Genealogical records trace his documented Indigenous ancestry to Mexico in the late 1700s on his maternal line, not the paternal line his claim rests on.
Read Next The climate movement gave this Texas tribe millions and a global platform. No one checked its story. Tristan AhtoneMancias’ case reveals an unofficial “shadow” recognition system, one in which environmental nonprofits, journalists, and international human rights bodies support unrecognized, and unverified, individuals and groups in the fight against climate change. Although the short-term gains are real — Mancias and his allies have stymied LNG expansion in South Texas — experts said they often come at the expense of legitimate Indigenous Peoples, tribes, and organizations.
Here are five takeaways from our investigation:
Marty Two Bulls Jr. / Grist The Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas has raised more than $5 million for climate- and environmental-related efforts since 2019 despite holding neither federal nor state recognition.After incorporating as a nonprofit in 1999, the tribe operated on a shoestring for two decades and reported less than $50,000 in annual revenue for several years beginning in 2012. That changed soon after the protests at the Standing Rock Indian Reservation, when Mancias’ campaign in France made him an international climate figure. Philanthropists gave him money, environmental nonprofits provided legal assistance, and journalists chronicled his work.
Mancias’ primary evidence supporting his claims of Indigeneity — an 1871 railroad report describing an 1801 massacre — cannot be located or authenticated, and historians doubt its plausibility.Mancias has cited the document for two decades, including in federal court, as proof of his lineage and the tribe’s connection to South Texas, but he would not produce a physical copy. Extensive searches of repositories within the Texas State Library and Archives Commission found no evidence it exists, and Grist identified multiple anachronisms in its timeline and provenance with historians describing its existence as “improbable.”
Between 2022 and 2024, the tribe used philanthropic grants to buy four properties totaling nearly 23 acres along a proposed pipeline route in Cameron County, Texas.The purchases allowed the tribe to purchase land it describes as ancestral territory — a claim that cannot be verified — and sidestep the arduous federal process recognized tribal nations must navigate to reacquire land. That contrast is stark. Federal policies like the Dawes Act and the Morrill Act seized and redistributed millions of acres of expropriated tribal land to settlers and state institutions — dispossessions that have been exhaustively documented and largely unremedied. But records obtained through a Freedom of Information Act request show that recognized nations seeking to recover even a fraction of an acre can wait decades to acquire land, while the Carrizo/Comecrudo, with philanthropic backing, bought land in a matter of months. Unlike land reacquired by recognized tribes, parcels in Cameron County remain subject to property taxes and carry only limited protection from development.
The Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe of Texas and its closest ally, the Society of Native Nations, a Texas-focused intertribal organization, hold accredited observer status at the United Nations.Twenty-four Indigenous-focused organizations are accredited observers to the U.N. Environment Assembly, or UNEA, the world’s highest decision-making body on environmental matters. Four are based in the United States, including the Carrizo/Comecrudo and the Society of Native Nations.
SNN also holds accreditation at UNESCO, where it is one of three U.S. nongovernmental organizations focused on Indigenous issues. It secured that status by highlighting its partnership with the Carrizo/Comecrudo. Because the U.N. bars Indigenous Peoples and governments from participating as sovereign entities in its highest bodies, NGO accreditation is a convenient workaround that carries real privileges. These organizations can submit language to draft resolutions, access documents unavailable to the public, and engage directly with government delegations, including U.S. authorities that Orona told Grist have at times included officials from the Justice Department and Health and Human Services. Such access typically is reserved for the elected officials of federally recognized tribal nations.
At the U.N., the person who would consider challenges to the legitimacy of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe or the Society of Native Nations leads the society itself.Frankie Orona co-chairs the Indigenous Peoples Major Group at the U.N. Environment Programme, or UNEP, whose internal guidance calls for referring complaints about participants to its co-chairs. Orona is executive director of the Society of Native Nations, which he built out of an American Indian Movement chapter that Mancias recruited him into. UNEP told Grist it does not have a procedure for addressing such a conflict of interest, though it said concerns could go to the other co-chair or directly to its Civil Society Unit.
This post has been updated to clarify SNN’s Texas-focused mission.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline 5 takeaways from our investigation into the ‘ghost’ tribe that got millions in climate funding on Aug 13, 2026.
As Montana warms, Missoula’s first heat map reveals hidden hotspots
Researchers have found that the amount of green space and shade in a neighborhood can significantly shape temperatures. On average, neighborhoods with more trees and green space — instead of impermeable surfaces like pavement — can run anywhere from 1 to 7 degrees Fahrenheit cooler. The phenomenon, which has been well studied in major urban cities, is called the “heat island effect.” But researchers have done far less work examining how those trends play out in more rural parts of the country.
Missoula, Montana, is helping fill that gap. In 2024, Climate Smart Missoula, a local nonprofit, teamed up with the city and county of Missoula and secured federal funding for a heat mapping initiative. Last summer, teams of volunteers drove countywide transects with sensors recording second-by-second measurements of temperature and humidity. Then analysts with the climate adaptation consulting firm CAPA Strategies turned the data into a now-publicly available heat map for the county. It’s the first of its kind for the state and this region of the Rockies. (Cities in Wyoming, North Dakota, and South Dakota also do not have heat maps.)
A humidity and heat sensor attached to a car window collect data to create Missoula County’s heat map.Ellis Juhlin
The research is especially important because Missoula has historically had warm, dry summers. Temperatures in the western Montana county climb into the 80s, with occasional stretches in the 90s, before cooling off sharply after sunset. But that pattern has shifted in recent years, with hotter summers and warmer nights. The area is already experiencing more days with temperatures above 90 degrees F each year. The county’s average annual temperature is projected to increase by 4 to 5 degrees F by 2050.
The change poses particular challenges for places like Missoula, where homes, buildings, and other public infrastructure were built for cooler climates. Montana has one of the lowest rates of residential air conditioning in the country. When the heat builds, Montanans don’t have the same infrastructure as Arizonans or Texans to keep cool.
The researchers found that temperatures can vary by nearly 20 degrees across Missoula County depending on the prevalence of shade from trees and other green spaces. Susan Teitelman, with Climate Smart Missoula, said their findings mirror heat maps in other larger cities across the country.
“What we’re seeing in Missoula mimics larger cities like New York and Boston,” she said. “You see the same thing happening everywhere: Poorer, hotter neighborhoods have fewer trees; wealthier, greener neighborhoods have lower temperatures.”
Alli Kane, the county’s climate action program coordinator, said some of the results weren’t surprising. Neighborhoods like the University District or the Rattlesnake, where large, mature trees provide shade, were significantly cooler than the Northside or Westside.
“Places where we anticipated we would have heat islands were downtown Missoula, around Southgate Mall, those areas that are more urban and more built up,” Kane said.
But there were surprises, too, including how dry, brown open lands, like an empty lot in town, acted as heat islands, according to Kane. These unmanaged and undeveloped spaces tend to be a magnet for invasive species that quickly adapt to hot and dry conditions. When they’re left unwatered and not replaced with native species, they can act as heat islands, Kane said. The research showed heavily forested places like Seeley Lake and Evaro, a rural area north of the city center with dense trees, also held on to heat overnight.
“You’ll see, especially in the morning map, they are retaining heat from the day before because of that really dense canopy, and so that effect is resulting in some of our highest-recorded morning temperatures,” Kane said.
Agencies like the National Weather Service have consistently identified heat as the most deadly weather Americans experience. Research from the University of Montana published in 2024 found that for every 1 degree Celsius temperature increase, 911 calls increased correspondingly by 1 percent. Many of those calls came from rural areas with older, retired populations that are more susceptible to extreme heat.
Read Next These psychedelic images reveal what your weather app isn’t telling you Matt SimonThe city and county of Missoula and Climate Smart launched a campaign called Stay Cool Missoula to build community resilience for extreme heat and attempt to prevent those deaths. Teitelman with Climate Smart Missoula pointed out that it’s critical to prepare communities for what is coming.
“Extreme heat is dangerous,” she says. “It is impacting Missoula and Montana. It’s impacting northern climates, and it’s an issue of equity.”
Teitelman leads Climate Smart’s efforts to plant trees in lower-income neighborhoods where tree cover is sparse or nonexistent. Having access to the heat map has helped her target those planting efforts. The map has been put to use in other ways too, like conversations around the proposed data center in Bonner on the banks of the Blackfoot River. That project was ultimately canceled by the property manager. But Kane said being able to showcase just how much warmer that area is, due to the amount of land cleared for industrial use, will help inform the county on future regulations and decision-making.
Missoula was one of 11 communities — including New Orleans, Memphis, Buffalo, and Moab, among others — that NOAA funded as part of a nationwide effort to map heat islands in 2025. But the work almost didn’t happen.
Like many federally funded projects related to climate change, it was targeted by the Trump administration. Kane, Teitelman, and their other partners had been awarded the grant from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Center for Collaborative Heat Monitoring Program in 2024. The money was allocated in the Inflation Reduction Act, the 2022 climate law passed by Congress. The Trump administration then terminated the funding in May 2025.
Read Next What federal cuts to science funding could mean for the Great Lakes Vivian LaAbout half of the money was spent or allocated to partners before the grant’s cancellation, but Teitelman said it was a team effort to carry out the work after funds were rescinded. Climate Smart, along with the city and county of Missoula, had the staff to continue the work, but they also relied on free assistance from CAPA Strategies and other national collaborators.
“They’ve done all this pro bono work for our community and other communities. That’s just been a boon for us and communities across the U.S. who got to do this heat mapping in light of federal funding being revoked,” Teitelman said.
Kane said the lack of funding doesn’t change the reality of a warming world.
“There has been so much disruption overturned because of what’s happening at the federal level,” she said. “But I do think that our local governments and our local organizations are pretty uniquely positioned to continue to work on this, and so we’re putting everything we can behind it.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline As Montana warms, Missoula’s first heat map reveals hidden hotspots on Aug 13, 2026.
Scientists define a new category of heat wave: ‘Snow eaters’
Matthew LaPlante doesn’t have to go to a lab to see his research in action. On some mornings, he can just look out his own window in the mountains high above Salt Lake City. After a warm night when the temperature stays above freezing, he’ll wake up and see that the snow level has dropped by inches, revealing more of the aspens he taps for syrup.
“It feels like a monster came and just in the middle of the night, took a bite out of a snowpack,” said LaPlante, a journalist and climate scientist at Utah State University.
So it’s fitting that scientists have started calling these kinds of heat waves, marked by unusually high temperatures in the spring and early summer, “snow eaters.”
LaPlante was part of a recent study, published in the journal Science Advances, that attempted, for the first time, to identify what conditions exactly make for a “snow eater.” Compared to normal warm spells or heat waves, the researchers determined that these events happen when temperatures stay above freezing through both day and night for multiple days, typically three to five. These events can roughly double the rate at which snow melts, causing flooding and making it challenging to manage water resources.
“Snow eaters” appear to be occurring earlier in the year and becoming more widespread in the Western United States as the climate warms. Since the 1850s, the study found, the area affected by snow eaters has increased by an average of about 40,000 square miles per century, and the first snow eater of the season has been arriving about one month earlier per century.
The term “snow eater” has a murky history. By at least the 1880s, people in the West were talking about “snow-eating” chinooks, warm mountain winds that make snow disappear quickly. More recently, the phrase “snow-eater heat wave” first made headlines in March, when an early heat wave enveloped much of the West, quickly wiping away snowpack in the Colorado Rockies and California’s Sierra Nevada. The scientists hope the catchy, evocative term can help draw more attention to this type of heat wave, since there’s still a lot to learn. The study only looked at the Western U.S., but snow eater heat waves almost assuredly occur elsewhere, LaPlante said.
Solar radiation is a major, but sometimes overlooked, driver of snowmelt, said Noah Molotch, a professor of geography at the University of Colorado Boulder who was not involved in the new study. When it interacts with heat waves, those impacts are amplified. As snow crystals warm up, they lose some of their structure and light-reflecting abilities, causing snowpacks to absorb more sunlight and melt faster. “It’s a little bit of a — no pun intended — a snowball effect,” he said.
Much of the Western U.S. saw record-low snowpack this spring. What was really unusual about it, Molotch said, was how widespread it was. Colorado received less precipitation than normal this winter, while California got lots of precipitation, but in the form of rain instead of snow. But across the region, “the one thing in common was above-average air temperatures,” Molotch said.
These conditions have likely helped fuel exceptionally severe wildfires in the West, from Utah to Spokane, Washington, where hundreds of homes burned earlier this month. “Drought stress for mountain forests around the Western U.S. is heavily dictated by the snow that accumulates each winter and then melts through the spring and summer,” Molotch said. “There is a direct connection there in terms of the water availability and drought stress that can provide one of the important ingredients for increases in wildfire intensity and frequency.”
If scientists are able to better predict what will happen to snowpack, it could help water managers plan for what’s coming. Early or rapid snowmelt poses problems for managing water resources in the West, where snowpack serves as a key source of fresh water in the drier summer months. “Water that would otherwise be stored as snow comes out early, and then we have to deal with it as a hazard instead of a resource at our reservoirs and along the rivers and streams,” said Ben Hatchett, a co-author on the study and a scientist at Colorado State University’s Cooperative Institute for Research in the Atmosphere.
Snow-eater heat waves also may pose risks to skiers, hikers, and anyone else on or near mountains. They could be linked to hazards such as avalanches, glacial collapses, and permafrost melt, Hatchett said, though scientists are still investigating those connections. He lives in the Sierra Nevada, and he’s noticed one tangible change over his lifetime: The soundscape has changed.
“At night, it used to be quiet,” he said. “And now it’s not quiet, because everything’s melting all the time.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Scientists define a new category of heat wave: ‘Snow eaters’ on Aug 12, 2026.
Some Nebraska communities are cashing in on renewables. Others are being left behind.
In 2017, after about 10 years of discussions, then-superintendent Amy Shane finally got to see a much needed expansion at the O’Neill Public School District’s aging junior-senior high school get approved. Expanded classrooms, state-of-the-art science labs, a new gym. The difference-maker that helped push the $13.2 million project from proposal to reality: taxes on renewable energy developments. Over nine years, the school district has taken in about $7.6 million, which Shane said helped offset the expansion cost.
“We could get something good for our students without putting a huge burden on our taxpayers,” Shane said.
The project is an example of what economic development and renewable energy proponents have long argued: Renewable energy projects can help communities diversify their revenue streams and offset property tax burdens. The Nebraska excise tax, known as the nameplate capacity tax, requires qualifying renewable energy developments to annually pay $3,518 per megawatt of power that the facility can generate. The money flows to counties whose treasurers allocate it amongst local jurisdictions, including the county governments, community colleges, and school and natural resource districts.
But in recent years, a number of Nebraska counties have enacted strict regulations on renewable developments, as opponents have raised concerns about property values, noise, health, safety, and fire risks.
About 15 years after the tax was implemented, it’s worth looking at where the money has actually gone. Revenue distributed from the tax and the number of counties receiving it has risen over the years. In 2015, just nine counties received nameplate capacity tax revenue, which totaled $2.03 million, including penalties and interest, according to data from the Department of Revenue. In 2025, communities received over $13.6 million. But there’s an imbalance. More than 88 percent of that money went to just 10 of Nebraska’s 93 counties.
Lawmakers created the nameplate capacity tax in 2010 to replace personal property tax for renewable developments. This allows local taxing authorities to continue to receive a steady amount of tax revenue, said Jon Cannon, executive director of the Nebraska Association of County Officials. The landowner still pays property taxes.
“In county budgets, nameplate capacity tax revenue functions like other general fund revenue,” said Candace Meredith, deputy director of the Nebraska Association of County Officials, in a statement. “It helps offset the amount that would otherwise need to come from property taxes, allowing counties to keep up with state mandated essential services and inflationary costs.”
On average, counties get about 23 percent of the nameplate tax revenue, Cannon and Meredith said.
Recently, lawmakers have discussed increasing the rate. A 2025 proposal would have raised it from $3,518 per megawatt to $6,560. But the bill, part of a larger tax package, ultimately died. However, lawmakers did pass a bill this year that expands the tax to include qualifying battery energy storage developments.
According to the state, 1 in 4 jobs in Nebraska are tied to agriculture. The state’s top commodities include cattle and calves, corn, soybeans, and hogs. So it may be no surprise that Nebraskans have raised concerns that renewable energy projects, specifically solar, will reduce farmland. However, there are areas of the state where the land isn’t productive and landowners could benefit from the added revenue. John Hansen, president of the Nebraska Farmers Union, said urban sprawl and acreage housing developments are leading threats to farmland in Nebraska.
“The one thing that we know in the ag sector is that we continue to be extremely dependent on off-farm jobs to subsidize our farming operations that are not working, and so every wind turbine is like an off-farm, part-time job, except that the farmer or rancher doesn’t have to leave their farm or ranch to get paid for it,” said Hansen, who chairs the Nebraska Wind and Solar Conference.
Some Nebraska counties have gone so far as to adopt moratoriums or strict zoning regulations that have effectively banned renewable energy developments or made them more difficult to site.
But with rising power demand, advocates and experts see renewables as a contributor to future economic development in Nebraska. Pushback against renewables comes as utilities in Nebraska and across the country wrestle with an energy crunch caused by skyrocketing demand from electrification, manufacturing, and data centers.
Renewable developments, like this solar farm in Nebraska’s Saunders County, can help the utility manage energy costs and address peak demand when the grid is stretched thin.Lily Smith / Flatwater Free Press
The Omaha Public Power District, which serves a large swath of eastern Nebraska, is taking an all-of-the-above approach, where coal remains on the grid, natural gas assets are expanding, and the utility plans to have more power purchase agreements with renewable energy developments.
Renewables can help the utility manage energy costs and address peak demand when the grid is stretched thin, said Dustin Marvel, manager of government and community relations at OPPD.
Right now, renewables are affordable compared to other energy sources and can be built quickly, said Kenneth Gillingham, a professor of environmental and energy economics at Yale University. This is especially important for utilities since new nuclear plants can take time to build and the natural gas generator supply chain remains tight.
For Nebraska, adding more power to the grid now isn’t just about serving existing customers, it could also spur more economic growth from other industries, said Hunter Traynor, an executive vice president at Nebraska Chamber of Commerce and Industry. A recent report commissioned by the Nebraska Chamber Foundation recommended the state take a more active role in promoting energy development.
“We have a lot of stated economic goals in Nebraska, and energy and public support for energy infrastructure, in particular, is a bedrock necessity right now to keep our economies all across the state flourishing and growing,” Traynor said.
Nevertheless, these projects face a few challenges. Currently, the infrastructure that transmits energy across the state is limited, which restricts where new energy generation can be located. It also takes time for new projects to connect to the grid. And then there’s community opposition.
“We do see oftentimes where a developer has an opportunity, maybe the project is advantageously located. However, due to community opposition or feedback, maybe that project loses steam or loses the ability to actually come to market,” Marvel said.
Cannon, with the Nebraska Association of County Officials, said that in order for renewable developers to actually make headway with communities that are skeptical, they need to be transparent about their intentions and address concerns early on.
Traynor said that these projects involve layers of regulatory approvals that can allow communities to assess if they are suitable. However, some projects get stopped by local resistance before they go through the regulatory process. He is concerned these experiences could cause a chilling effect on companies that are considering moving to Nebraska.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Some Nebraska communities are cashing in on renewables. Others are being left behind. on Aug 12, 2026.
Canada’s wildfire season is taking a heavy toll on First Nations
This story is published through the Indigenous News Alliance.
When the chief of the Okanagan Indian Band looked down on his community from a helicopter last week, much of what he had known all his life was gone.
Homes had burned. Photographs, memorabilia, and Salish baskets had disappeared with them. More than 30 band members had lost their homes, naspəpʕásəs Dan Wilson said, along with around 200 homes and other structures belonging to non-band members.
“Our loss is measured in the family histories that have been lost — especially the Elders who have lost their homes,” he said.
The destruction left by the Bradley Creek wildfire at nk̓maplqs (the head of Okanagan Lake) comes amid a wildfire season that has repeatedly forced Indigenous peoples across Canada from their homes. As of Tuesday, 601 wildfires were burning across the country, including 113 classified as out of control and another 371 that remained out of control but were being monitored rather than actively suppressed.
Those numbers have translated into a summer of evacuations, displacement, and, in some communities, devastating losses for First Nations. Wildfires have affected at least 81 First Nations and forced 9,131 people from their communities since April 1; 2,524 people remained evacuated as of Tuesday. As fires have threatened communities from British Columbia to Ontario, Indigenous leaders have raised concerns about inadequate firefighting equipment, delays in emergency assistance, and the information used to make evacuation decisions.
In Ontario, a fast-moving fire devastated Namaygoosisagagun First Nation in July as residents fled by boat. At least 12 First Nations in the province have been fully or partially evacuated because of wildfires this summer, according to Chiefs of Ontario. The organization is demanding an independent public inquiry into what Ontario Regional Chief Abram Benedict called a “catastrophic and systemic failure” in the response.
And last week, leaders of Kiashke Zaaging Anishinaabek were still fighting an Ontario government decision to withdraw wildfire implementation and evacuation orders while massive fires remained out of control nearby.
For the Okanagan Indian Band, the immediate danger has eased. The wildfire, which started July 31 on reserve lands near Vernon, British Columbia, had burned about 6,550 acres as of Monday. It was classified as being held over the weekend, meaning it was expected to remain within its existing boundaries under prevailing and forecast conditions. Some evacuation orders have since been rescinded or downgraded.
Although the community faces a long recovery, it “is getting stronger every day,” Wilson said last week. “We’re holding up. We’re very resilient. We have a long history — we’ve been here for 10,000 years.”
Read Next Wildfire season is changing. Spokane is showing how. Sachi Kitajima MulkeyWilson praised the band’s firefighters, who were first on the scene and worked alongside provincial wildfire crews. “They went above and beyond. I can’t say enough,” he said.
Wilson said the band’s fire department, which consists of around 30 trained firefighters, was equipped only with a fire truck designed to tackle structural fires. “If we had a proper wildland firefighting truck that’s able to access rough terrain … I’m told that if we had that equipment, our first responders would’ve been able to put that fire out immediately,” he said.
He said that concern was relayed to Mandy Gull-Masty, the federal minister of Indigenous Services.
Wilson noted that the one bright spot from the helicopter tour was seeing the Komasket powwow arbour grounds — as well as the nearby daycare and Nk̓maplqs Iʔ Snm̓am̓ay̓aʔtn Iʔ K̓l Sqilxʷtət Cultural Immersion School — unscathed by the fire.
The disaster comes five years after the Whiterock Lake wildfire destroyed 10 homes belonging to Okanagan Indian Band members and displaced the community for weeks.
For communities facing this summer’s fires, the challenges have extended beyond escaping the flames. The devastation of Namaygoosisagagun, also known as Collins First Nation, has raised questions about whether the remote community will receive federal recovery and rebuilding assistance. Although its residents are recognized as First Nations people under the Indian Act, Namaygoosisagagun is not recognized as a First Nation. A lawyer representing the community wrote to Gull-Masty that denying it the emergency and rebuilding assistance available to recognized First Nations could threaten its ability to rebuild.
Ontario Regional Chief Abram Benedict also criticized bureaucratic obstacles First Nations encountered while trying to access emergency assistance. On July 30, Chiefs of Ontario called for an independent public inquiry into the province’s response, saying at least 12 First Nations had been fully or partially evacuated during the wildfire season.
“There has been a catastrophic and systemic failure at nearly every level and at nearly every step of this process,” Benedict said in a statement. “We need to know how and why this happened. But most importantly, we need to learn from it so it never happens again.”
Read Next A ‘crisis communication gap’ threatens Indigenous peoples Dionne PhillipsCommunication has emerged as another concern. When an out-of-control wildfire threatened Xeni Gwet’in First Nation in British Columbia in April, authorities did not provide emergency alerts in Tŝilhqot’in — the only language spoken by many Elders in the community — leaving the Nation’s own forestry crew to alert them directly.
Sara Wilson, a communications researcher at Simon Fraser University, has described such shortcomings as part of a broader “crisis communication gap,” pointing to language barriers, underfunding, and the exclusion of Indigenous communities from decision-making during emergencies.
Those concerns extend beyond how emergency information is communicated to questions about who decides when a First Nation is safe. That question remained at the center of a dispute last week at Kiashke Zaaging Anishinaabek, also known as Gull Bay First Nation, in northwestern Ontario. The Nation’s leaders objected to the government decision to withdraw wildfire implementation and evacuation orders around the community. “Our members are still at risk and our infrastructure is at risk,” Chief Wilfred King told CBC Thunder Bay.
Several large fires remained near the community, and King said one of the community’s greatest concerns was that one of them could block its only road out, leaving residents trying to flee across Lake Nipigon. “The only escape would be jumping on boats and crossing Lake Nipigon, and that’s not an alternative,” he said.
King said the community was also concerned about delays in receiving information about changing fire conditions. Before residents return, he said, the Nation also must ensure its water treatment and sewage systems are functioning safely.
Ontario’s Ministry of Natural Resources told CBC that changes to evacuation orders would be made only when fires no longer posed a risk, based on advice from fire behavior experts. But King said the provincial order should have remained in place until the community was confident it was safe. He told CBC that Indigenous Services Canada supported the Nation’s decision to maintain its own evacuation order.
At Okanagan Indian Band, support came from other First Nations and Indigenous leaders. Penticton Indian Band and Westbank First Nation opened their communities to evacuees, while leaders from across the syilx Okanagan Nation Alliance reached out.
At an emotional community meeting in Vernon, drummers Bruce Manuel and his sister Trish Manuel, sent by Upper Nicola Band Chief Dan Manuel, performed a closing drum song. Wilson said the response was “really bolstering our spirits here.”
“We say our prayers,” he said. “We have a strong faith in kʷuləncútn, the Creator.”
This story was originally published by IndigiNews and updated with additional information by Grist.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Canada’s wildfire season is taking a heavy toll on First Nations on Aug 11, 2026.
They’re making record profits, but oil companies still won’t ‘drill, baby, drill’
Over the last two weeks, oil companies have announced eye-popping profits from the spring quarter. Exxon Mobil pulled in $14.5 billion. Chevron landed $12 billion, its highest quarterly profit on record. Shell posted $9.8 billion — more than twice its earnings from the same time last year.
These profits are largely a product of supply constraints brought on by the war in the Middle East. With the Strait of Hormuz effectively blockaded, oil suppliers have rerouted shipments over land and through pipelines. The resulting supply shortages, constrained refining capacity, and higher transportation costs have driven up oil and gasoline prices, delivering windfall profits for producers.
But companies aren’t using those profits to drill lots of new wells or explore untapped oil fields. Instead, they’re pocketing the cash and paying their shareholders, experts say. What was once an industry defined by the “drill, baby, drill” ethos is now defined by another term: “capital discipline.” It’s a phenomenon in which rampant drilling and production growth has given way to tightened belts and bigger payouts to investors.
Oil executives expected a weak financial year in 2026 due to a supply glut, but the closure of the Strait of Hormuz constrained oil production and allowed companies to charge top dollar for use of their refineries outside the Middle East.
“While we didn’t anticipate the current situation, we were prepared for it,” Exxon CEO Darren Woods said in a July call with analysts, according to the Wall Street Journal. “Despite the temporary loss of approximately 10 percent of our upstream production, we delivered exceptional financial results.”
Chevron executives offered a similar assessment. In July, Chief Financial Officer Eimear Bonner told Bloomberg that the company didn’t adjust their production as prices rose. “We did not change any of our plan,” she said.
The Trump administration’s focus on “unleashing” U.S. energy is running headlong into oil companies’ growing commitment to financial discipline. For instance, the administration assured the public that oil majors would leap at oil fields in Venezuela after the country’s leader, Nicolas Maduro, was detained in January. But drilling stayed low throughout the administration’s efforts to pry open public lands for oil development, and corporations have been wary and selective about new opportunities in Venezuela. Similarly, even as the administration has opened up U.S. federal lands for drilling, companies have shown only a lukewarm response. As Americans bleed cash at the gas pump, President Donald Trump has even accused oil companies of “making too much money” from the war, unable to otherwise influence them to significantly ramp up their production.
“Oil and gas companies respond more to financial incentives than they do to political signaling,” said Clark Williams-Derry, an energy finance analyst at the Institute for Energy Economics and Financial Analysis. “They’re going to be looking at their finances first rather than politicians’ demands.”
If the U.S.-Israel war with Iran had occurred in 2012, oil companies might have seen the price spike as a chance to drill more wells. As fracking took off and prices rose during the 2000s, many companies tied their CEO compensation to production growth. Investors poured money into oil companies. But those days of aggressive production eventually ran into price crashes, especially after a Saudi-led coalition of oil-producing countries flooded the market with crude in 2014 and the COVID-19 pandemic sank prices again in 2020.
In the last five years, as investors soured on drill-happy oil companies, they embraced a new, more disciplined approach to capital expenditure. Investors wanted steadier returns. Rather than rewarding aggressive production growth, they pushed companies to focus on lower-cost drilling, restrain spending, and return more cash to shareholders.
“What is perhaps most telling about the corporate response to the turbulent forces impacting the oil and gas sector is just how little changed [in 2026],” Tom Ellacott, senior vice president of corporate research at Wood Mackenzie, said in a July press release. “Capital discipline has proved more durable than either the bears or bulls expected.”
Drilling in the U.S., as measured by the number of oil rigs, has ticked up during the summer, Williams-Derry noted, but only after the president launched a war in Iran that drove up oil prices. As of June, it had only recovered to the rate recorded at the same point last year, according to data from Baker Hughes, an energy technology company.
In this new mode, Williams-Derry said, international oil companies have used wars, notably the conflicts in Ukraine and Iran, to boost their revenues so they can maintain large payments to their Wall Street investors. In times without price spikes, oil majors collectively took out debt as they paid their investors, their revenues unable to support the payments on their own, according to Williams-Derry’s internal analysis of their cash flow statements. In an ironic twist, oil companies have benefited more from constraints on global oil production than from “unleashing” it.
The climate implications of this new ethos are complicated. Already, oil companies’ tight spending has drawn most of them away from renewable energy investments. France’s TotalEnergies is the one supermajor that has charged ahead with its renewables business, though the Trump administration agreed to pay the company more than $900 million to cancel two offshore wind projects off New York and North Carolina. More discipline may also push companies to capture and resell the leaking natural gas from oil fields because maximizing revenue from existing wells has become more attractive than drilling expensive new ones. And this new attitude could keep oil and gasoline prices higher for longer, maintaining the appeal of electric vehicles and renewable energy sources. (Chinese solar panel and EV exports to some countries have spiked during the war.)
At least one analysis firm, Wood Mackenzie, believes disciplined oil companies could fall behind global demand, causing them to lose a share of the global oil market to nationally owned oil companies like Saudi Arabia’s, potentially changing the politics of energy security for Western countries.
Ultimately, however, this phase of “capital discipline” may only be temporary, Williams-Derry said. No oil company wants to be so disciplined that it begins to decline. Eventually, some growth will likely be necessary.
Still, those companies have proven as capable of benefiting from energy shocks to U.S. consumers as they are of relieving them, an important note for political actors hoping to rely on oil companies for energy security.
“At least for now, production of oil is no longer the way executives are getting paid,” Williams-Derry said. “What matters is their ability to generate cash.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline They’re making record profits, but oil companies still won’t ‘drill, baby, drill’ on Aug 11, 2026.
A new type of levee is taking root in Northern California
Visitors to the Palo Alto Baylands Nature Preserve, captivated by gliding birds overhead and golden hills across the Bay waters, could be forgiven for failing to notice that the preserve is also home to the Bay’s newest levee.
Most levees look like steep, barren embankments or riprap-clad seawalls, designed to prevent flooding by adding extra feet of height. But this project, though it shares a name, is a different type of infrastructure altogether. Seeded with over 35 species of native plants, the site is a pilot for what’s known as a horizontal levee, or living levee, blending into the estuary’s natural scenery as it spreads its feet of added height over a longer area.
In stark contrast to a traditional levee, the Palo Alto Horizontal Levee Pilot Project’s natural appearance and gradual slope are designed to interact with Bay waters the same way natural estuaries do.
“When you look at levees that are along the bay front, a lot of times they’ve got really steep faces and big, huge rocks in front of them to protect them from wind waves,” explained Mark Lindley, lead engineer on the Palo Alto living levee. “By having this flat, gradual slope with really dense vegetation on it instead of having rock, the waves break on that slope like they do on a beach.”
The project is part of a growing trend in California’s Bay Area of using this type of green infrastructure to provide both flood mitigation and habitat restoration. Completed in 2017, the Oro Loma Horizontal Levee near Hayward, California, was the first of its kind and informed the design of the Palo Alto project, and others. There are around a dozen in various stages of design and development around the Bay.
But the Palo Alto pilot project is the first to be hydrologically connected to the Bay. Beneath the plants, soil, and gravel layers, plumbing connects the slope of the horizontal levee to the Palo Alto Wastewater Treatment Center across the street, allowing treated wastewater to irrigate the levee’s plants. As it does, the plants remove nitrogen from the water before it then filters into the Bay. Nitrogen, which can lead to harmful algal blooms in excess, is generally high in wastewater — though, the water from the facility currently meets regulations to be released into the Bay, said Samantha Engelage, senior engineer for the City of Palo Alto. The added treatment is purely a bonus for water quality.
A sign explains the horizontal levee pilot project to visitors at the Baylands Nature Preserve. Visitors are also encouraged to submit photos to help researchers monitor the site. Charlotte BurksBy mimicking the natural world, the horizontal levee also provides the conditions native species need to thrive. One beloved Bay Area resident that may benefit from the approach is the salt-marsh harvest mouse, affectionately known as “salties.” The cinnamon-colored rodents, which fit in the palm of a hand, climb vegetation to escape rising tides each day. But due to encroaching development, they’ve been listed as endangered for decades — and their niche habitat also makes them vulnerable to the changing climate. “All you need is a couple of really, really bad storm and tide events to knock out a [local] population,” said Katie Smith, a wildlife biologist and saltie expert.
By design, the horizontal levee will restore the vegetation and habitat that salties and other estuary wildlife rely on. According to Smith, the plan for the levee appears to create the “optimal potential option for salt-marsh harvest mice.”
Stretching just 500 feet along the shore, the pilot project restores only a small portion of salties’ habitat — and it does not provide the full flood control needed at the Baylands. But it will provide something else: data. Over the next five years, researchers from the United States Geological Survey, universities, and local nonprofits will monitor qualitative benefits, such as recreational use, and quantitative benefits, like impacts on biodiversity and water quality. The results could help justify the higher costs often associated with green infrastructure projects like the horizontal levee, explained Engelage.
The project has been almost a decade in the making. And although the levee is now visible to observant visitors at Baylands Nature Preserve, it is not fully operational yet. According to Engelage, delays in the project have sprouted from complexities in connecting the plumbing from the wastewater treatment plant to the levee.
But its gentle slope is already acting as a flood break. And it is clear that for Bay Area residents big and small, the additional protection of this levee and others like it could not come too soon. In the Bay Area alone, sea level is projected to rise 3 to 6 feet by 2100. More imminently, the forecasted El Niño weather system could bring the Bay 6 inches of temporary sea level rise — a taste of what future decades may hold.
“Twenty years from now, what we see at king tides is just going to be a normal high tide,” said Lindley, referring to the highest tides of the year. “Those areas that we’re seeing flooded at king tide, they’ll be flooded every day.”
Correction: An earlier version of this story misstated Samantha Engelage’s title.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline A new type of levee is taking root in Northern California on Aug 11, 2026.
Floods can leave communities facing higher overdose deaths for years
This coverage is made possible through a partnership between Grist and BPR, a public radio station serving western North Carolina.
Hush Sinn delivers needles, naloxone, and other medical supplies to people in the mostly rural mountain communities of Madison County, North Carolina. Sinn does this through Holler Harm Reduction, a grassroots organization that strives to minimize the risk of overdose and infection in a region where many residents are still recovering from the devastation of Hurricane Helene.
Sinn, who uses the pronoun they, believes the nonprofit, often known simply as “Holler,” has prevented a lot of tragedy. But nearly two years after the storm they and other harm reductionists have noticed a troubling pattern.
“While overdose rates are still trending down, we get these weird spikes,” Sinn said. “And the spikes we get, we kind of consistently are able to relate back to Helene.” Financial stress, ongoing trauma, and unstable housing have disrupted some people’s recovery and thrust others into dangerous, even deadly, patterns of substance use.
Sinn’s observations reflect a broader pattern across the region. A Pennsylvania State University study published last month found that severe flooding was associated with higher overdose death rates in economically distressed Appalachian counties — increases that can persist for at least a decade after the water recedes.
Kristina Brant, the study’s lead author, began the research after watching health-care providers struggle to maintain addiction treatment and harm reduction services during catastrophic floods in eastern Kentucky in 2021 and 2022.
“After such a huge disaster, especially in a small community where so many people wear so many hats, the same person that provides one public health service is also going to be asked to jump in on flood recovery, right?” she said. Brant began to understand services could be interrupted for a long, long time, and wondered what that might mean for both those in long-term recovery and those actively using opioids.
Brant’s team analyzed federal records of opioid overdose deaths and severe floods in rural Appalachia, comparing 118 counties that experienced major flooding between 2000 and 2017 with 101 that did not.
The researchers found that overdose deaths began rising in the years after an inundation and remained elevated for at least a decade. Over that period, annual overdose deaths in flooded counties increased by about 28 percent, while overdose mortality rates rose by 26 percent compared with the year before the flood. These changes were most pronounced in economically distressed and lower-income counties.
The findings prompted Brant’s team to ask why the effects endured for so long. Interviews with health-care providers, harm reduction workers, and others involved in the response to Kentucky’s 2022 disaster identified several factors, including disrupted treatment and harm reduction services, prolonged housing and economic instability, and the lasting effects of trauma.
Read Next Hurricane Helene shattered lives — and the systems that keep people sober Katie Myers“It’s important to have a number of important ingredients in your life, like access to a safe home, like access to a well-paid, meaningful job, like access to social support,” Brant said. “And for many people, the flood upended those things.”
One clinic Brant spoke with closed after the flood because the costs of reopening were simply too great. Flood-related disruptions can also interrupt treatments like methadone, forcing some people to return to illicit opioids to stave off the unpleasant and often dangerous effects of withdrawal. After weeks or months in treatment or recovery, that return to use can be especially dangerous because people may not realize how much their tolerance has changed.
Losing a job, stable housing, or reliable access to food can take a heavy toll on people’s mental health and increase the risk of an overdose, said Cassie York. She works in behavioral health at Mountain Community Health Partnership in Yancey County, North Carolina. The flooding that followed Helene killed at least 10 people in the county and caused landslides that destroyed 1,400 homes. Another 2,300 were heavily damaged.
“I think the main issue here, and probably not just here, is a lack of resources in general,” York said. “Housing, which has always been a shortage here, is even more so since the hurricane.”
Addressing the instability that so many people are still dealing with two years after Helene is what harm reduction is all about, Sinn said. “We’re also seeing so many people still living in trailers,” they added. “These things that were supposed to be temporary are now permanent, you know?”
Brant believes people like Sinn and York who work directly with affected communities should be involved in disaster planning and recovery from the start. That’s something health-care providers have also begun to publicly support.
“When it comes to things like flood preparedness conversations or flood recovery conversations, it’s not the case that often a substance use service provider might have a seat at that table,” she said. “Anything that could make care easier to access generally, every day, for rural people, would also help to limit disruptions after disaster.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Floods can leave communities facing higher overdose deaths for years on Aug 11, 2026.
A new plan to preserve Georgia’s marshes: Give them space to migrate
Decades ago, in order to build up a solid foundation for I-95 through southeast Georgia, construction crews dug some earth near the town of Midway, Georgia, about 50 miles south of Savannah, and left a deep pit. There’s now a public park in that spot, bounded by a tidal creek on one side and the leftover dredge pit on the other. Although the park is more than 15 miles from the ocean, high tide washes up the creek twice a day. Lush marsh grass fills the space between solid ground and the creek, but it’s a different scene along the other bank, where the salt water has steadily eaten away at the land while depositing sediment in the basin. Now, what was once a deep pit is a shallow mudflat with little islands of marsh grass cropping up in the middle, naturally moving in now that the ground is suitable for it.
But the grasses halt abruptly where they reach the small, muddy cliff of the bank — shorn away sharply where the tide has battered it.
“If we walk that way, you’ll be able to see some of the, well, just plain erosion,” said Phil Odom, chairman of Liberty County’s Consolidated Planning Commission, on a recent afternoon. “This is how much it has collapsed. We’ve lost about 6, 8 feet right here.”
Local leaders are hoping to fix that erosion at the water’s edge, and they’re approaching it in a way that considers the lessons of the I-95 construction and prior, failed attempts to address the problem. Instead of putting up a wall or using chunks of concrete to hold the soil in place, the county is attempting to restore the marsh grasses that grow here naturally. Their roots will help hold the soil in place.
“We hope for it to replicate nature,” said Shannon Marino with Zulu Marine, which builds what are known as living shorelines. “When our solutions are done, you should look at it and not really recognize it as a repair or a bulkhead or a solution. It should just look like nature.”
It’s an increasingly popular way to address coastal erosion in the face of rising seas. Georgia is home to more than a third of the connected marsh habitat along the coast of the Southeastern U.S. — hundreds of thousands of acres. It serves as a critical buffer against storms, and it’s broadly protected under state law. But as sea levels rise due to climate change, protecting the existing marsh plants is only one step.
With the sea level on Georgia’s coast projected to rise 1 to 2 meters in the next 75 years, the marshes will need to move inland too. They’re well equipped to do that, according to University of North Carolina wetland scientist Lori Sutter.
“Because of the magic of salt marshes,” she said, “they’re able to persist in this environment where they’re flooded twice a day, every day.”
But that magic of salt marshes only works if they have somewhere to go. Once a migrating marsh encounters a paved road or a building, they hit a dead end. There’s nowhere for new grasses to take root, which means the rising tide can sweep in unabated, flooding both the marsh and that road or building.
That’s why a new action plan by a coalition of conservation groups, scientists, government agencies, and coastal communities calls for protecting not just the salt marsh itself, but also the adjacent land. The plan has identified more than 56,000 acres of land in Georgia where marshes will likely migrate that are also currently open to development.
“That creates this really vast area that you’re trying to conserve, which can be overwhelming,” said Courtney Reich, the coastal director for Georgia Conservancy. Her group is working with Phil Odom and the other stakeholders in Midway and is spearheading the Georgia work under the South Atlantic Salt Marsh Initiative, a multi-state effort to restore and protect coastal salt marshes.
It’s a roadmap, not a binding policy or seizure of anyone’s land. Instead, the plan’s authors hope it can help landowners and public officials make informed decisions.
“You know, do we want to build up to the edge of the water or do we want to leave room?” Reich said.
Short-term needs often drive land use conversations, she said. This plan aims to get people thinking about the long view.
Salt marshes by their very nature are always moving. Odom, an avid fisher, has watched Georgia’s dynamic coast change in slow motion over the last 75 years: deep salt water moving into areas that once teemed with marsh grass, marshes in new places, the tide creeping ever higher and leaving the ghostly skeletons of salt-choked trees in its wake. But sea level rise driven by climate change is forcing them to move faster — and adding urgency, because if the marshes can’t respond, Georgia’s coast will be left that much more vulnerable.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline A new plan to preserve Georgia’s marshes: Give them space to migrate on Aug 10, 2026.
In rural communities, fears amplified by ‘AI slop’ and social media hamper solar boom
Into a clear blue sky, the sweet-smelling smoke billows and spreads. Farmers have been burning and harvesting sugarcane this way for generations, but the practice creates ash fallout and hazardous air pollutants. Every year, farmers plan and coordinate the fires, to clear out pests like snakes and clear leaves, leaving behind only the stalks where the sugar lies.
Nobody in Iberia Parish thinks twice. Sugarcane smoke is a part of life.
But locals are wary of the dangers they suspect lurk within a different, newer industry. This new industry is going to be the ruin of Iberia Parish, they warn, with dangers ranging from toxic smoke and cancer-causing chemicals to homegrown tornados and flying debris, even poisoned farmland and worthless houses.
Dangers that are almost entirely imagined, say experts, who now find themselves as the main line of defense against misinformation that could hamstring a vital field. It’s a dynamic being repeated nationwide.
This is a close-knit community, part of the Acadiana region of Louisiana best known as Cajun Country. But last year, opposition to solar farms became so heated here that speakers at Iberia Parish Council meetings were brought to tears. Hundreds of residents successfully mounted a campaign opposing a proposed utility-scale solar project that would have been sited northeast of town. Opponents voiced fears that solar panels would destroy farms and poison the soil. They wore anti-solar T-shirts and staked yard signs. They snubbed and scolded the project’s supporters.
A social media group for Nebraskans posted a meme aimed at Tennesseans opposed to industrial solar projects. Similar themes and images appeared in social media posts that targeted other states.They feared fires, falling property values and panels that they said would leach chemicals into bayous. “I’ve done my own research. I don’t need anybody to tell me that it can’t cause cancer, or that they don’t crack and things don’t seep out,” said opponent Cathrine DeGroat during a June 2025 council meeting.
After heated debate, the council passed an ordinance requiring utility-scale solar projects to be set back at least half a mile from the nearest residential property line. Solar opponents hailed it as a victory for Iberia Parish.
The ordinance appears to have effectively killed the Acadiana Solar project, which could have brought millions in local tax revenue to Iberia Parish, a rural area that could sorely use the public funds. The project’s developers would have leased land from Andree McAnally’s family farm for part of the project, money that would have helped pay college tuition and other expenses in a household budget that has been tighter since the death of her husband from COVID in 2021, McAnally said. She felt the lost opportunity more sharply, she said, since the fight against it was not based on facts.
The day of the vote, in July 2025, McAnally told parish council members that she was disappointed in them. “I thought you were going to call in your own experts and figure it out yourself,” she said. “People are fueled by misinformation.”
McAnally herself had once believed that misinformation, she told the council. When her parents first agreed to put a solar farm on her family’s land, she was furious — she believed that her family was sure to get cancer. So she dug deep into research. What she learned changed her mind. “We have three generations right there on the property. And I would not put myself or my children in harm’s way,” she said.
Misinformation has become one of the primary hurdles for utility-scale solar projects like the one once planned here. “Sometimes you just have this opposition that develops from misinformation and disinformation that tends to spread like wildfire,” said Matthew Holland, energy policy outreach coordinator at the Blanco Center, who counsels solar advocates to counter misinformation through specific facts about the benefits of the projects. And, as solar projects become more commonplace, some misinformation may lose its grip.
Posts aimed at solar opponents in Indiana, Texas, Iowa and California, clockwise from top left, repeated messaging and imagery. Composite image by Dominique Hodge / Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water DeskFor some who live in Iberia Parish, the standoff seems more deep-seated. “I think you’re seeing the animus of people who feel like their opinion is not taken seriously,” said Josh Trosclair, a member of the United Houma Nation and native of the small community of Lydia, just south of New Iberia, who argued on behalf of solar in front of the council. After one meeting, agitated solar opponents followed him to his car, he said.
It seems clear that unfounded fears of solar have found fertile ground here.
Facebook groups and AI botsIn Acadiana, solar opposition appears to have been organized in large part through a 1,200-member social-media group known as “NO Industrial/Utility solar in Iberia Parish” on Facebook. “Panels are toxic, contaminate the soil and water, [and] are a huge fire hazard,” wrote one of the group’s administrators in an April 2024 post.
The group appears to have been first created in 2024 by a local real estate agent, Angela Scott. Scott did not respond to multiple attempts to reach her for this story.
Many posts express concerns that Iberia would no longer be a farming community. “There’s about 500k acres of sugarcane in the state. About 250k of them are leased for potential solar farms in the future,” read a post reshared from a group for St. James Parish — which also saw an anti-solar campaign. “If we lose 250k acres of farmland in this state, the sugar mills will likely close.”
To date, experts project that, at most, Louisiana solar will require about 87,000 acres over the next 10 years, on sites spread out across the state — not just on sugarcane fields. Only about 1 percent of Louisiana’s total farmland would be impacted by the highest estimates of solar buildout over the next decade, researchers estimate.
Read Next For first time, Americans are getting more of their electricity from solar than coal Tik RootPosts in the group echo the dangers cited by opponents in council debates, along with a few new alleged hazards, including “increased ambient temperatures” and suggestions that solar panels themselves create unstable weather, particularly tornadoes.
Many posts in the group are cross-posted from “Stop Solar-Wind-BESS-Carbon Capture Scams,” a larger, 11,000-member Facebook group, which has become a hub for people who oppose solar across the nation. It was created in 2020 by Indiana resident Franklin T. Wike.
A pinned post by Wike under the name “David Herman” seeks people willing to be trained to spread anti-solar messages: “We are looking for volunteers that would be interested in learning how to HELP run anti-Solar or anti-Solar and Wind websites. We are willing to train the individuals if needed,” reads the post. “The position will basically involve copying and pasting news links from various Facebook Groups we run, then writing a short introduction to the news articles.”
Wike also did not respond to requests for comment.
Some members of the network of anti-solar groups are sharing nearly identical posts of AI-generated anti-solar content, tailored to different U.S. states.
“Once Louisiana is gone, there’s no way to get it back,” reads one AI-generated graphic, shared by user Sheila Thomson, the words appearing on a sign with a farm and red barn in the distance. “Solar panels belong on roofs, not on farmland.” In a Facebook group for Texans, a different user posted a similar image tailored to Texas: “Once Texas is gone, there’s no way to get it back,” reads the sign. The same message and graphic appears in other groups tailored to Iowa, Nebraska, Tennessee and elsewhere.
The accounts have been linked to a network of “AI slop machine” accounts, per an analysis released earlier this month by the threat intelligence company Alethea. The network has also targeted data centers. Many of the accounts are anonymously run, are based in Bangladesh, and appear to be rapidly producing a volume of “emotionally resonant, locally targeted content … to manufacture the appearance of organic, grassroots consensus.”
Highly charged issue divides neighborsIberia Parish is more familiar with a different aspect of the energy sector. Parish workers fabricate parts for oil and gas infrastructure, like offshore platforms and pipelines. They work for petrochemical companies that, historically, come in, extract resources, and leave behind poverty and pollution — and loss. Trosclair’s uncle, whom he’s named after, was doing oil and gas fieldwork when he was killed by a burst pipe in 1980 at 20 years old.
Fossil fuels also don’t provide the jobs they once did: A report this summer from The Data Center, a Louisiana nonprofit, found that oil and gas production and transportation in the New Orleans metro area lost over 6,500 jobs between 2004 and 2023, a 47 percent decrease.
Solar, on the other hand, will keep growing, say analysts, because the technology has simply gotten so efficient and affordable that the low cost will keep driving demand despite the hostile federal policy landscape. Scientists say that the world must transition to renewable energy as quickly as possible as global climate change worsens. Energy generated by solar in the U.S. recently overtook coal for the first time. Even President Trump’s allies recently softened their once-hostile tone and began championing solar outright.
Read Next The state of solar: Despite partisan rhetoric, the industry is still booming Rebecca Egan McCarthy & Kate YoderPerhaps because of their fraught history with oil and gas, locals can be wary of large new developments on agricultural land. They rallied the council last year to discuss the risks of carbon capture and sequestration and weighed instituting a moratorium. For the past several years, the solar industry has instilled worries, turning longtime friends into enemies.
“This is a highly charged, emotional issue, not just for me but for all of my neighbors who are my friends,” McAnally told the Council, her voice shaking. “Or — were my friends.”
Sugarcane has long been the dominant crop in Iberia Parish, where some farms have been handed down through four or five generations. The hundreds of acres of sun-drenched land also appealed to Recurrent Energy, a division of Canada Solar, which selected about 1,000 acres for their proposed solar project, initially dubbed “Acadiana Solar.” It would have been a $175 million investment.
But amid passionate public opposition, Iberia Parish passed its first solar-related ordinance in February 2024, a moratorium on solar farms, described as a temporary measure until permanent regulations could be agreed upon. A year later, in July 2025, the council passed the second ordinance, requiring that solar farms in the parish be sited at least a half mile from the nearest residential zones and occupied structures.
At the state level, Louisiana legislators passed their first solar restrictions last year, with House Bill 459, which requires that solar projects 75 acres or larger be set 300 feet from the nearest residential property line. The law also allows local governments to set larger setbacks.
Louisiana’s setback law is “one of the larger distances that you’ll see in the country,” Mark Zappi, executive director of the Energy Institute of Louisiana, told 1012 Industry Report in April. The Iberia Parish ordinance, with a setback that’s more than eight times larger, is among the most restrictive in the state.
The full effects of that setback are unclear: Though Recurrent Energy has never officially announced that its project was canceled, there’s been no movement on the project since the ordinance passed, local advocates say.
Solar panels don’t leach toxinsIt is clear that, for solar development in Louisiana, one of the most formidable hurdles is misinformation.
Some inaccuracies are spread among friends and neighbors, by mouth or by social media. Sometimes disinformation is spread deliberately by politically-linked groups or digital marketers sharing AI-generated posts.
Or, as Terrence Chambers, the recently retired director of the University of Louisiana-Lafayette’s Center of Efficiency and Sustainable Energy, testified in front of a Louisiana legislative committee in 2021: “I have recently heard many concerns expressed by members of the public, some of which are based on incorrect information, and I would like to address some of those concerns, so that public policy can be based on accurate information.”
Read Next In a first, Utah got more power from solar than any other source Leia LarsenIn his testimony and in the 17-page written testimony that he supplied the committee, Chambers set the record straight. “The solar cell is completely protected from air and water during normal operation, and as such, rainwater does not wash any toxic materials into the soil,” he said. “Solar racks can easily be designed to wind speeds of 150 mph or higher,” he wrote, noting that data from 50,000 operational solar installations shows that “solar plants stand up well to hurricanes and hail.” Also, because solar panels are mostly made of non-flammable materials like steel, glass and aluminum, they will not catch fire.
A December study from Chambers and other researchers at UL-Lafayette reached a similar conclusion: “There are no harmful emissions or runoff from solar power plants that would negatively affect the soil.”
Some opponents’ concerns were valid decades ago, but have now been largely addressed. For instance, residents expressed worries that solar panels would depress property values, become eyesores amid the landscape, or — like the “orphan wells” often left behind by fossil-fuel companies — that the projects won’t be properly decommissioned when the projects end, leaving farmland littered with aging solar panels.
Studies have drawn differing conclusions about property values, but another UL-Lafayette paper points to two recent ones, by appraisers in North Carolina and Virginia who found that solar projects have no effect. Abandoned panels are less of a concern now since Louisiana law requires every project to have a decommissioning plan, which must account for closure in case of disaster and be updated every five years, with the costs set aside before construction begins. The way solar projects are designed has improved dramatically as well, said Stephen Barnes, director of the Kathleen Babineaux Blanco Public Policy Center at UL-Lafayette.
Today’s projects are designed to be less visible than older ones, partly because it’s become standard for projects to include vegetative barriers – tall plants and bushes used to blend solar arrays with surrounding landscape. “The reality is that most people that live in a parish that does have a solar farm don’t think about it ever,” said Barnes. “You could be driving past one and never even know it.”
Solar continues to grow, and provide needed tax revenue, despite hurdlesAcross Louisiana, 19 solar projects are operating. Five began operating after Iberia passed its strict ordinance.
Rural parishes that may otherwise see little investment are reaping massive tax benefits by embracing solar projects, researchers at UL-Lafayette say. Even if solar facilities are granted massive tax exemptions, they’ll generate at least 40 times more local property tax than farmland.
Near Iberia, in Pointe Coupee Parish, the Oxbow solar project — the largest in the state — is projected to generate $9.7 million in local tax revenue within the first three years. Morehouse Parish has already brought in about $3 million in sales tax revenue thanks to the Oak Ridge Solar Farm that began operating in 2023, about half of which went to the School Board.
Read Next Biden’s climate law is dead. The energy transition might not be. Jake BittleThe UL-Lafayette study predicts solar will bring in about half a billion dollars in state taxes through 2035. And once built, Barnes said, solar projects “tend to sit quietly with very little activity, generating significant, steady, predictable stream of tax revenue,” without requiring the increased public services — like fire protection or better roads — that other large development projects need, said Barnes. Investment in a solar facility can also draw other businesses in, or prompt investment in improving the local electrical grid — what Barnes calls “broader spillover economic benefits.”
“There will be continued expansion,” said Monika Gerhart, executive director of Gulf States Renewable Energy Industries Association. “The question is whether those projects will be over the state lines in Texas or Arkansas or Mississippi, or whether Louisiana is going to be able to avail itself of that revenue.”
Despite its opposition, Iberia Parish, too, has begun to see spillover benefits from investments in solar energy.
Last year, a company called First Solar opened a $1 billion solar-panel production facility in Iberia Parish. It will manufacture 3.5 gigawatts of solar panels annually and is the largest investment in Iberia Parish history.
The plant now employs hundreds of locals.
This story is a product of the Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water Desk, an independent reporting network based at the University of Missouri in partnership with Report for America, with major funding from the Walton Family Foundation.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline In rural communities, fears amplified by ‘AI slop’ and social media hamper solar boom on Aug 9, 2026.
Trump is blocking billions of dollars of grants that would fix the grid
In Wisconsin, utility Alliant Energy has called off a project meant to reduce power outages in disadvantaged and tribal communities, after the Trump administration terminated a federal grant that would have supported it.
In California, the Sacramento Municipal Utility District, which has deployed and upgraded hundreds of thousands of advanced smart meters, has not received any reimbursement from the U.S. Department of Energy, or DOE, for the work since October, when the Trump administration declared it was killing grants that it described as fueling “the Left’s climate agenda.”
And in the upper Midwest, a consortium of regional grid operators, utilities, and state agencies is still waiting for $464 million in DOE funds meant to help build high-voltage transmission lines to reduce grid congestion — although the agency in charge of the project says the funding will soon be restored.
Across the country, hundreds of such projects to improve grid reliability and make electricity more affordable face a highly uncertain future — the result of Trump administration actions that have slowed the outflow of billions of dollars of DOE funds to a trickle.
Read Next In Michigan, the price of energy is on the ballot and both parties know it Marcus Baram, Capital and MainSome of those projects in “blue states” were targeted as political retribution, as recent reporting from The New York Times has made clear. A handful of grant awardees in this category have won favorable court rulings, and more are seeking legal redress.
But many others are suffering from the DOE’s broader failure to carry out work that Congress has tasked it to do, according to groups that have been monitoring the agency since the start of last year. In red and blue states alike, the DOE is forcing thousands of grantees to undergo a laborious review process, so even projects that have not been officially terminated are stuck, unable to determine when or if they’ll start getting the money they’re owed.
According to an April report from the DOE Alumni Network, a group of former agency employees, the DOE has announced the termination of 356 awards totaling $12.5 billion since January 2025, and has threatened to terminate 303 additional awards worth $12.2 billion.
But the DOE has also stalled projects for “a large number of awardees who have never appeared on any list,” the report found. “This means the agency is not moving forward to resolve disputes, finalize conditional awards, or respond to continuation applications, leaving projects in administrative limbo and functionally freezing promised funds.”
“DOE both overtly canceled a set of projects, then had this pattern of behavior where for 15 months they stopped actively managing projects,” said one former DOE official. “Projects can’t proceed to the next stages and get their next tranche of funding.”
The former official, who asked not to be named, described a pattern of stalling, stonewalling, and “ghosting” utilities, state governments, energy companies, and nonprofit groups awarded grants under the Biden administration.
Read Next The nation’s biggest public utility just doubled down on coal, gas, and nuclear Katie MyersMany of those projects have been caught up in a process the DOE announced in May 2025 to review all financial assistance “on a case-by-case basis to identity [sic] waste of taxpayer dollars, protect America’s national security and advance President Trump’s commitment to unleash affordable, reliable and secure energy for the American people.”
Then, in October, the DOE announced the “termination of 321 financial awards supporting 223 projects” — all of them tied to states that voted for Kamala Harris in the 2024 election. The DOE’s termination announcement came right after Russ Vought, director of the White House Office of Management and Budget, declared in a social media post that the administration would cancel “nearly $8 billion in Green New Scam funding.”
Canary Media reached out to a subset of DOE grantees that had won funding from the Grid Resilience and Innovation Partnerships (GRIP) program created by the 2021 bipartisan infrastructure law. The DOE issued a total of more than 100 GRIP grants — in October 2023, August 2024, and October 2024 — for projects to enlarge the grid, harden it against extreme weather, build microgrids to protect vulnerable communities, and deploy technologies to integrate solar, wind, EVs, and batteries.
Some of the GRIP projects involve expanding clean energy and serving disadvantaged communities, two bugbears of the Trump administration. But many more are straightforward grid improvement projects that need federal dollars to reduce the costs borne by utilities and regional or state agencies.
The largest of these is in California. In 2024, the DOE awarded a $630.6 million grant aimed at upgrading more than 100 miles of high-voltage power lines in the state with advanced power cables capable of carrying more electricity along existing transmission corridors, a project estimated to be capable of delivering about $200 million in savings from improved energy efficiency. That project was terminated in October, and the DOE has disbursed no money for it, according to federal records.
Read Next For first time, Americans are getting more of their electricity from solar than coal Tik RootThis uncertainty appears to apply to the majority of GRIP projects, according to Emlyn Bottomley, founder of the consultancy High Road Analytics, which focuses on workforce development, and a former Department of Labor deputy policy director in the Biden administration.
According to his tracking of federal spending, of the roughly $11.4 billion in DOE funds obligated to grid infrastructure and resilience — a category that includes GRIP program funds — $9.1 billion remains “at risk,” with funding stalled or timelines for completion shortened. That’s compared with $400 million in grants that have been canceled outright and $1.3 billion not yet disbursed but showing no signs of being stalled.
“It’s a shame these projects are being held up or canceled, especially since the case for them is fairly bipartisan — spanning national security, economic competitiveness, and cost and affordability,” Bottomley said.
All of the GRIP projects required partners to provide matching funds at an amount at least equal to the money DOE is providing, the former DOE official added. “You’re talking about folks putting hundreds of millions of dollars on the line. People have skin in the game for these awards.”
The costs of losing federal fundingMany of the GRIP grantees contacted by Canary Media declined to comment, citing ongoing discussions with DOE. Others reported that they are no longer pursuing the projects as described in their grant applications, at least not with the help of DOE money.
The latter is the case for Alliant Energy’s Smart Power Automation in Rural Communities (SPARC) project, which won a $50 million grant in late 2024 to add grid visibility and control devices to 140 grid circuits in disadvantaged and tribal communities served by subsidiary Wisconsin Power & Light — a utility in a blue state.
Those devices could allow the utility to quickly find and isolate faults on its grid, cutting power outages in targeted communities by up to 50 percent. They could also support grid-management software to help integrate more renewable and distributed energy, and potentially expand wireless communications access to these remote areas.
Alliant “voluntarily withdrew” from the grant award process in April, six months after its grant was terminated by the DOE, Alliant spokesperson Melissa McCarville told Canary Media. The agency has disbursed no funds to the project, according to federal records.
Read Next The secret to a better grid? Electric vehicles. Matt SimonAlliant is “actively pursuing many of the goals that were outlined in the SPARC project,” McCarville wrote in a May email, but as part of a 10-year strategic plan with no set timeline. “While the grant did provide valuable funding, it also required a significant investment, and we want to ensure our contributions are properly prioritized,” she wrote.
Still, at least one grant-funded project in a blue state is proceeding despite the absence of DOE funds.
That’s the case for the Sacramento Municipal Utility District, which serves the state’s capitol and environs. In 2023, SMUD won a $50 million grant to support a project to deploy 200,000 smart meters and grid devices and underlying software controls to “improve grid reliability, resilience, visibility and efficiency,” utility spokesperson Gamaliel Ortiz told Canary Media in an email.
SMUD has carried out much of that work, which includes close to $100 million in utility spending, and has received almost $33 million in reimbursements from DOE, according to federal records. However, SMUD “has not received reimbursement for any costs incurred after the grant was cancelled on October 10, 2025,” Ortiz wrote. “We remain committed to this critical work and stay flexible as we evaluate how the loss of grant funding may impact the project timeline.”
In other blue states, some grants have been canceled and others are still under negotiation. In Oregon, utility Portland General Electric has recently learned that the DOE may reinstate a previously terminated $50 million grant to support next-generation “grid edge computing” devices, utility spokesperson John Farmer told Canary Media in an August email. That project had received only $1.2 million in DOE funding, according to federal records.
Read Next Biden’s climate law is dead. The energy transition might not be. Jake BittleThe purpose of the project was to integrate batteries, EVs, and community solar into its grid to “improve resilience, enable the integration of distributed energy resources, and maximize customer investments in home energy solutions.”
“PGE is evaluating the benefits and risks of reinstating the grant,” Farmer told Canary Media. The utility “recognizes that there are inherent risks of additional and changing demands by the DOE as the administration’s priorities change.”
At the same time, PGE remains in discussion with the DOE on a $250 million grant to build a high-voltage transmission line with the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs, Farmer wrote. “Without this funding, we would lose the opportunity to offset those costs with external dollars, which could limit how efficiently we can advance needed grid improvements.”
Red state projects are also being held up because the grantee is located in a blue state. Such is the case of the aforementioned $464 million DOE grant for the Joint Targeted Interconnection Queue project to build new transmission lines between the Midcontinent Independent System Operator and Southwest Power Pool, two grid operators spanning nearly a dozen Midwestern states.
The $464 million GRIP grant was meant to bolster $1.3 billion in matching funds from utilities in the region to enable nearly 30 gigawatts of new generation to be built in Iowa, Kansas, Minnesota, Missouri, Nebraska, North Dakota, and South Dakota. All but one of those states voted for Donald Trump in the 2024 election — but the Minnesota Department of Commerce, the entity awarded the grant, is in a blue state.
Read Next How Ann Arbor, Michigan, is creating its own clean energy utility Carey L. BironIn May, the Minnesota Department of Commerce announced that the DOE “will honor its $464 million grant,” which will “unlock more than $1 billion in additional private investment and provide communities across the region with economic and infrastructure benefits.”
A DOE spokesperson told Canary Media in a July email that the DOE has conducted its review of GRIP projects based on a “number of criteria,” including whether it has “achieved the milestones set forth in the terms of the award,” whether it “remains technically and economically feasible,” and whether it “continues to effectuate the purpose of the program or the Department’s priorities.”
The spokesperson added that “none of the termination decisions were based on political considerations.” That statement is belied by court testimony reported by The New York Times last month, in which a DOE lawyer stated that none of the October grant terminations were “based on any programmatic, statutory, cost-reduction or performance-based factor,” and that all but one of them “had a recipient location and/or at least one place of performance in a state that awarded its electoral votes to Kamala Harris in the 2024 election and has two Democratic-caucusing senators.”
During a series of congressional hearings in April, Energy Secretary Chris Wright stated that the DOE’s review of more than 20,000 grants was almost complete, and that more than 80 percent of grantees had received notice that their awards could proceed as is or with modifications.
But an Alumni Network analysis of DOE data shared with Congress showed that the DOE’s review both failed to restore the vast majority of projects caught up in the “blue state” termination action in October and failed to address the hundreds of projects that have never been officially terminated but remain unable to secure funds.
The revelation of the DOE’s explicit targeting of blue states for grant termination spurred 39 Senate Democrats to sign a letter to Wright and Vought demanding the immediate restoration of funding for DOE projects terminated in October.
“Once an administration begins punishing Americans for how they vote,” the senators wrote, “the threat extends far beyond these projects: no state, community, business, or worker can trust that the federal government will apply the law fairly.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Trump is blocking billions of dollars of grants that would fix the grid on Aug 8, 2026.
In Montana, a controversial $2B pipeline hits a speed bump
The Bridger Pipeline Expansion project has been moving through the permitting process with unusual speed. If built, the $2 billion, 650-mile pipeline will run through Montana and Wyoming and is one of three proposed pipeline legs connecting oil sands in Alberta, Canada to the trading hub in Cushing, Oklahoma.
The project appears to be a priority for the Trump administration. The Bureau of Land Management announced that the pipeline will receive an expedited environmental review, and in late April, the administration granted the pipeline developer a cross-border permit to pass into the U.S. Permitting documents show the company, Bridger Pipeline Expansion, LLC, a subsidiary of Wyoming-based True Companies, hopes to break ground as soon as July 2027, pending state and federal approval.
But the project has hit a stumbling block. On July 22, the Montana Department of Environmental Quality, or DEQ, withdrew a waiver it had previously granted the pipeline.
The waiver allowed the company to omit certain financial information and baseline environmental data from its state permit application with DEQ. Pipeline construction cannot begin without this permit and final federal approval.
At the core of the debate is Montana’s Major Facility Siting Act, a state law that outlines the process of evaluating the potential economic, community, and environmental impacts of large energy projects like pipelines or power plants. Earlier this year, Bridger requested a waiver to omit certain financial and economic information, as well as baseline environmental data from its application to DEQ. The law allows for “irrelevant information” to be omitted from the review process, and DEQ granted Bridger the waiver in February. The agency is now backtracking on that decision.
In June, the environmental law firm Earthjustice filed a complaint on behalf of two Montana residents against DEQ’s decision to grant the waiver. Lars Phillips, an attorney with Earthjustice said the information needed to be included in order to have a thorough review process.
“The law is clear, and DEQ was right to reverse course,” Phillips said. “But we are troubled by why DEQ decided to issue these waivers in the first place.”
Projects of this size and scale require both state and federal approval. Montana DEQ, along with the U.S. Bureau of Land Management, held a public comment period on the pipeline proposal in May. Phillips said without Earthjustice taking this action to discover what information was waived, members of the public would never have known they were commenting on an incomplete application.
Read Next ‘Keystone Light’: These Wyoming oil tycoons are reviving the controversial pipeline Jake Bittle & Naveena SadasivamThe proposed pipeline is expected to move roughly 500,000 barrels of crude tar sands oil per day, according to DEQ documents. But at full capacity, that number is projected to increase to moving 1.13 million barrels per day from Canada, through Montana and into Wyoming.
The project has been referred to by supporters as “Keystone Light,” referencing the Keystone XL Pipeline, which then-President Joe Biden canceled in 2021. Shannon James with environmental watchdog Montana Environmental Information Center said calling it “light” is a misnomer. “It’s Keystone XXL and a major climate threat that far too many people haven’t heard about yet,” she said.
James and other opponents have raised concerns over the potential environmental harms the pipeline’s proposed path would take, a route that would cross water 150 times.
“Pipelines leak,” James said. “It’s not a matter of if, but when. We should not be giving the green light to a company with a troubling track record in our state, especially before it has fully disclosed the impacts this project would have on Montana’s people, water, wildlife, and climate.”
In an email to Earthjustice shared with Montana Free Press, Jeremiah Langston, a lawyer for DEQ, said the agency is “requiring Bridger to produce the information in question” to move forward with the application. Permitting for the project cannot proceed until the application is complete, Langston said, and it’s up to Bridger to submit the additional information DEQ requires.
Phillips maintains it’s a positive sign to see DEQ addressing gaps in the application, but said he would have liked to see the agency more proactively inform the public.
“It is unfortunate that it took two Montanans standing up to big oil to force DEQ to require Bridger to comply with Montana law,” he said.
Editor’s note: Earthjustice is an advertiser with Grist. Advertisers have no role in Grist’s editorial decisions.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline In Montana, a controversial $2B pipeline hits a speed bump on Aug 7, 2026.
Your gas car works fine. Consider an EV anyway, scientists say.
A few years ago, environmental scientist Elliot Campbell went around asking people why they would, or would not, switch to an electric vehicle. A surprising number of them asked him a question in return: Because building an EV generates emissions, isn’t it better for the planet just to keep my gas car running for as long as possible?
Campbell, a professor at the University of California, Santa Cruz, didn’t know the answer, so he set out to find it. Turns out the old adage that the greenest car is the one in your driveway is a myth. In fact, his study, published today in the journal Science, finds that swapping even a two-year-old gas car for an EV leads to a lifetime emissions savings of roughly 50 percent.
Not everyone can afford to ditch a nearly new car, of course. It’s simply the most extreme example of the broader point his study revealed: The emissions saved by driving an EV very quickly compensate for the planet-warming gases generated by building it. Campbell said that finding consistently surprises his students, and goes against his own instincts.
“I like to repair things and keep them going,” he said. But, “we found there is a big advantage to retiring the gas vehicles early.”
Campbell designed the study to give internal combustion vehicles every possible advantage. “We really tipped the scales in favor of the gas vehicle,” he said. Most notably, it ignored the emissions that went into making the gas car, treating them instead as a sunk cost. EV still came out ahead, which suggests that climate-conscious drivers should make the switch as soon as it’s feasible.
“You’re just delaying the benefits longer and longer,” he said, noting that sidelining gas guzzlers off the road can improve air quality as well. This is especially true for cars that were built to less stringent standards, added David Reichmuth, a transportation sustainability expert at the Union of Concerned Scientists. “The magnitude of the benefits for getting an older gasoline vehicle,” he said, “can be much higher in terms of the air pollution.”
Reichmuth was not involved with Campbell’s study, but said it aligns with his own work on the issue. His analysis found that EVs reach an emissions break-even point at around 18,000 miles, which the average driver travels in about 18 months. That, however, depends on where a person lives and the source of their electricity.
The benefit is greatest where the grid is greenest. In upstate NY, which generates a lot of hydroelectric power, getting around in an EV is like driving a gas car that gets 219 mpg. But even in the Rockies, where coal and natural gas are the norm, an EV is better than anything getting less than 68 mpg.
Campbell’s study identified few exceptions to the conclusion that replacing a gas car with an electric one significantly reduces greenhouse gas emissions. Even moving away from high-efficiency vehicles and hybrids, like the Toyota Prius, is a climate win in the long-run. One case where it wouldn’t make sense, Campbell and his co-author found, is with plug-in hybrid electric vehicles, which have larger batteries and travel farther on electric power before switching to an internal combustion engine. Another is low mileage situations, such as with a second car that doesn’t get used that often.
“To me, this is the biggest factor,” said Moaz Uddin, senior electric vehicle policy specialist at the think tank Great Plains Institute, about mileage. He gave the example of a retiree who only drives their Prius a few thousand miles a year. “It’s good that the study considers that.”
The new research finds that in order to repay the carbon debt of making a new EV, it must be driven 4,400 miles if it’s a car and 6,700 miles each year if it’s a truck. That’s already well below the 12,500 miles the average driver travels in a year, and the benefits to making the switch are likely to grow.
As the United States increasingly relies on renewables, for example, charging an EV becomes even more environmentally appealing. Campbell and his co-author also point to improvements in battery recycling as a way of reducing the emissions involved with making an electric car.
One hole in this latest study is that it doesn’t consider the cost of going electric. While previous research has shown that EVs come with higher upfront costs but lower operating expenses, it’s a thread that Campbell hopes economists pull on. He would also like to see someone better account for the emissions generated while extracting oil and getting gasoline to the pump, rather than simply the burning. But, for now, he believes the study sends a clear message.
“We’re trying to show that there’s not an environmental motivation for extending the lifetime of a gas vehicle,” he said. “Electric vehicles are a very clear winner.”
The most direct policy interpretation of the study would be to give people money to scrap gas cars. There have been some efforts to do this, such as the 2009 federal Car Allowance Rebate System, also known as “cash for clunkers.” That gave people $3,500 to $4,500 if they upgraded to more efficient vehicles, and blew through its $3 billion budget in only a month. Reichmuth, though, says that the issue could be tackled earlier in the process.
“The obvious policy implication is don’t sell the gasoline car to begin with,” he said, with the corollary being that EVs need to be as attractive an alternative as possible. “Make sure there are more options, more support, for people to make that initial choice.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Your gas car works fine. Consider an EV anyway, scientists say. on Aug 6, 2026.
Inside the nearly 5-month labor lockout at an Indiana refinery
Jessica Skalka, 37, rounded the corner of a homemade bar in her dad’s garage, passing a framed collage of cutout newspaper clips marking the end of the 99-day strike at British Petroleum’s Whiting, Indiana, refinery in 2015. A row of championship banners for the Chicago Cubs, Bears and White Sox hung high across one wall, while a light-up “Donnie’s Man Cave” sign glowed nearby. An air conditioner hummed in the corner in the Northwest Indiana home as the first July heatwave pushed outdoor temperatures into the mid-90s.
She picked an empty blue-and-orange Bears-themed bucket from the counter, shook it, and asked, “No candy today?”
“Yeah, well, I’m not working right now,” said Donald Skalka, 62, from across the garage.
The empty candy bucket was yet another reminder of how much life had changed over the past few months. Until mid-March, father and daughter worked at BP’s sprawling plant in Whiting, Indiana, the largest inland oil refinery in North America, located on the southwestern shore of Lake Michigan, a half-hour drive from downtown Chicago.
The BP Whiting refinery as seen in March. The facility produces approximately 440,000 barrels of crude oil every day. Erin Hooley / AP PhotoThere, Donald had spent nearly two decades working his way up to a job in the control room, where he monitored the refinery’s operations from behind a bank of screens. The plant processed approximately 440,000 barrels of crude oil every day, and Donald kept the electricity and steam-generating machinery at the plant running. Donald’s son worked there, too, as did Jessica, and Donald’s longtime girlfriend, Renee Pleitner, whom he met during his onboarding and is a third-generation refinery worker.
For the last four months, the Skalkas, Pleitner, and approximately 800 other workers represented by United Steelworkers Local 7-1, or USW, have been locked out of the refinery without pay and with no clear indication of when they’ll return to work.
Unlike strikes, in which unionized workers advocate for themselves by refusing to work, lockouts are employer-initiated. During a lockout, management can prevent workers from returning to their jobs to withhold wages. Lockouts are generally seen as a hardline tactic during labor disputes and tend to be rare, especially in the refining business, which requires continuous production and a highly skilled workforce.
Now, longtime refinery workers worry Big Oil is experimenting with a new playbook to break union power, undermine national collective bargaining, and remake its workforce. They also worry that the dispute could have ripple effects far beyond the picket line and threaten not only workers and their families, but the health and safety of the surrounding community — a concern due to four flaring events, a fire, and a major power outage in just four months.
USW Local 7-1 member Alan Leon pickets outside the Whiting refinery in July. Leon is one of 800 unionized BP workers currently locked out of their jobs. Candace Dane Chambers / Sun-Times.BP began negotiating with the union in early January ahead of the previous contract’s expiration at the end of the month. But two months into discussions, after 98 percent of USW Local 7-1 members voted to reject what the fossil fuel company called its last, best, and final offer, it issued a lockout order. The proposal would have frozen wages, weakened safety protections, eliminated jobs, and expanded the use of artificial intelligence to monitor employees, according to the union.
In an emailed statement to Grist, BP objected to the union’s characterization of its demands. “Our proposals are not unique or novel,” wrote BP spokesperson Cesar Rodriguez. “Most of what we are seeking has already been tested and implemented elsewhere.”
The lockout also “allowed for a safe and orderly transition of operations,” Cesar said. The union’s 24-hour notice requirement to strike and disrupt refinery operations “presented safety and operational risk,” BP wrote in an earlier statement, and necessitated a continuity plan.
Oil companies have had a banner year following the onset of the U.S.-Israel war on Iran. Chevron, Shell, and ExxonMobil have all reported record-setting profits, making more than $36 billion over the past three months. This week, BP announced quarterly profits of $5.7 billion, more than double the previous quarter.
For Skalka, the March email notifying him that he wouldn’t be returning to work until further notice was gutting.
“The gamut of emotions when I had to face my family, it was a lot,” he said.
From left: USW Local 7-1 members Don Skalka, daughter Jessica Skalka, and girlfriend Renee Pleitner stand outside their home in Munster, Indiana. Candace Dane Chambers / Sun-TimesSkalka had inspired his children to follow in his footsteps. Born and raised in the northwest corner of Indiana, known for its concentration of factories, steel mills, and refineries, most of his family had worked at industrial facilities. His father worked at cement factories and later built parts for the nearby steel mills. An uncle was a shipbuilder on the East Side of Chicago. He followed suit. After spending a few years working on the railroads, he took a job at Whiting.
He was eventually entrusted with an important role at the refinery. From the control room, he was responsible for identifying broken pumps, mechanical hiccups, and mystery leaks, all of which, if not caught in time, could mean a major fire or a multimillion-dollar headache for BP. Accidents and outages can also spike regional gasoline prices. A power interruption at the facility in April led to gas prices surging regionally by 40 to 80 cents per gallon.
Read Next New research shows there’s a simple way to protect workers. Is OSHA listening? Frida Garza“There’s a little bit of danger to it,” he said. “When you swipe in with your time card, you have to bring your A game.”
All the same, he loved the job — and his daughter noticed.
It was an exciting, breakneck-paced lifestyle, and the pay was good. She peppered her dad with questions, applied, took a qualifying test, passed, and eventually earned a spot. Donald Skalka Jr., Skalka’s son, spent approximately a decade working at a nearby steel mill. When an opportunity at the refinery came up a year and a half ago, he took it. It was a decision his father encouraged.
“He’s one of the 800 like the rest of us, and he’s going, ‘Dad, I don’t know if I should’ve listened to you.’ Well, I didn’t know at the time that was going to happen,” Skalka said. “At the time, on paper, everything seemed better; you’re trying to have a better quality of life.”
USW Local 7-1 member Don Skalka looks at photos related to his organizing framed at his home in Munster, Indiana. Candace Dane Chambers / Sun-TimesThe lockout has reshaped his home life in other ways too. Jessica found temporary work. Her brother returned to a job at the mill. Donald and Renee are holding out, living on a budget that keeps shrinking. Besides leaving the candy bowl in the garage empty, they’ve swapped cable for streaming and are using rabbit-ear antennas for free local channels. They also paid their utility bills months in advance to avoid a power shutoff in the future.
“You get rid of the non-essentials right away,” Skalka said. “The thermostat stays higher, there’s less in the grocery cart, you don’t eat out obviously hardly at all anymore,
Most days they take it easy. They pass the time filling poster boards with pictures of good times on the picket line this year and during previous standoffs. Sometimes, they visit Jessica’s home, which has a pool — otherwise they picket. Among Skalka’s picketing duties is bus driver; he pilots the union’s second-hand minibus, a stout, white vehicle, shuttling picketing union members between four different entrances. Union members have been assigned shifts to protest — four shifts a day, four protesters a shift. The schedule has allowed workers to find other employment and extend their ability to hold out during the lockout.
Donald goes on his off days too, when Pleitner is on the schedule, and she does the same for him. “We just kind of make it a family event,” Skalka said.
By now, he’s used to the new routine. What he’s still wrapping his head around is a new, more aggressive tack from his employer — one that has pushed his family, friends, and coworkers to their limits. In recent months, the company and the union have blamed the other for alleged altercations. USW workers have filed police reports in two instances involving picketers who allegedly ended up pinned beneath a car. And the BP spokesperson alleged that union members committed unlawful acts. The tension has been building for months.
“This time it seems they’re in a union-breaking mode,” he said, “They’re following a playbook.”
A “fat cat” sits at a USW Local 7-1 picket site outside the BP Whiting refinery in July. Candace Dane Chambers / Sun-TimesUnion leaders trace the origins of BP’s strategy to Texas. In 2021, ExxonMobil, the nation’s largest oil and gas company, locked out approximately 650 unionized workers from its Beaumont, Texas, refinery when they rejected a “last, best, and final offer,” which would have frozen wages and ended some union seniority rights. At the time, the Beaumont workers were already operating outside the framework of the National Oil Bargaining Program, a national effort dating back to the 1960s to negotiate industry-wide standards for wages, health care, and workplace safety. Today, the program covers about 30,000 refinery employees across two-thirds of the nation’s refining capacity.
The program exerts leverage by aligning approximately 200 refinery bargaining units around the same contract timelines, preventing unions from being pitted against each other, and establishing a national standard. Without that collective leverage, the Beaumont refinery workers were at a disadvantage. The Texas lockout lasted 10 months and ended in March 2022. When workers returned to their jobs, they did so under a weaker contract that gave Exxon authority over all job assignments, stripping the union of its previous role in determining a quarter of them. In the course of the 10-month lockout, approximately 20 percent of workers left the refinery for good.
According to Eric Schultz, president of the USW Local 7-1, BP hired the architect of the Exxon negotiations, Jordan Marcks, as a director of employees and labor relations, while that lockout was ongoing. Schultz sees similarities between BP’s proposal and Exxon’s plan for the Texas refinery. For one, BP is pushing a contract term that would put the Whiting refinery out of step with the National Oil Bargaining Program. It is also looking to eliminate jobs and union oversight.
“They obviously liked that playbook,” he said. “They’re trying to bring that flavor up here to Northwest Indiana,” Schultz added.
When reached for comment about Marcks’ employment history and alleged tactics, the BP spokesperson said the company “does not comment on personnel matters.” Marcks did not respond to a request for comment.
USW Local 7-1 members picket outside the BP refinery. Unionized workers have been assigned shifts to picket. Candace Dane Chambers / Sun-TimesBP has brought in an unknown number of temporary workers — some from as far away as Arkansas, Louisiana, and Texas — to replace the locked-out workers, according to Schultz. They’re being paid handsomely. Union wages run on average at about $54 per hour, but a union spokesperson said the new workers are being paid up to $127 an hour plus benefits for a six-month stint.
BP did not comment on how many temporary workers it’s currently contracting at the Whiting refinery. “Compensation is a personnel matter, and BP typically does not comment on personnel matters,” said Rodriguez.
Mike Smith, the chair of the National Oil Bargaining for the United Steelworkers, said it’s not totally clear yet whether the lockouts reflect a new tack for Big Oil. “Whether this is an individual’s idea who happens to have been involved in both of those lockouts, or if this is a strategy — that’s still to be determined,” he said.
Union members have been taking turns to picket, allowing them to find other work while the fight with BP plays out. Candace Dane Chambers / Sun-TimesWith the workers locked out, the squat union hall has transformed into an all-hours crisis center. Makeshift shelves in a corner carry everything from simple groceries like canned food and pasta to diapers and baby formula. The formula and diapers are typically the first to go, according to Michelle O’Shaughnessy, a union member who has been helping run the improvised pantry since the lockout started.
A lot of the goods available for union members on a daily basis are there thanks to community donations. Amazon boxes arrive daily. So too do notes of support from across the country. The brother of a retired Whiting USW member mailed in a $20 bill all the way from Arizona to contribute to the strike funds.
The local community has also rallied behind the refinery workers. “We have some faithful restaurants who are very good to us,” O’Shaughnessy said. Beggars Pizza in Whiting has been dropping off 10 pizzas to the union hall every Monday, as do Aurelios of Hammond on Tuesdays and Center Lounge, which has been bringing in meals on Wednesdays.
Union members can also get help filling out unemployment applications at the center. The union has a strike fund that helps pay some bills, but members do not receive cash payments or salaries. Other organizations have also stepped up to assist with mortgage payments and help apply for SNAP benefits.
A check-in table at the USW Local 7-1 office in Whiting in July. Candace Dane Chambers / Sun-TimesLast month, Hammond Mayor Tom McDermott announced he was returning $20,000 in BP sponsorship money for the local Festival of the Lakes celebration. Not long after, Pierogi Fest in Whiting announced they would also return BP’s sponsorship money and set up donation boxes throughout the festival to collect funds for members to pay their bills. And the Lake County Council and Lake County Board of Commissioners passed resolutions announcing their support for the locked-out workers.
The backlash against BP is far from local. State treasurers from Illinois, California, Colorado, and Connecticut signed onto a letter in April urging BP’s Chief Executive Officer, Meg O’Neill, to consider the national implications of the ongoing lockout. “The costs of prolonged disruption will not be contained within this dispute,” the letter said. “They will be borne by households, workers, and communities across the country, including those that sustain BP’s long-term presence and success in the U.S.”
While the fight plays out, Skalka is hunkering down, preparing for a long road back to work. He’s not sure if he’ll get to put his BP uniform on next month or in three months. What he does know is that he, his family, his nearly 800 USW brothers and sisters, and the rest of Northwest Indiana are determined to win.
“We’re still going to keep living our lives; it’s not gonna deter the hardworking people in Northwest Indiana,” Skalka said. “They’ve got a good fight on their hands, and we’re gonna give it to them.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Inside the nearly 5-month labor lockout at an Indiana refinery on Aug 6, 2026.
In a first, Utah got more power from solar than any other source
Utah’s solar generation eclipsed all other electricity sources for the first time ever in May, the culmination of a slow but steady years-long shift away from coal. Energy experts are calling it a win for the environment and the state’s economy.
Photovoltaic panels in Utah produced nearly 1 terawatt hour in May 2026. That represented nearly a third of all electricity generated in the state that month, according to data from Ember, a global energy think tank. Natural gas generated 32 percent, coal generated 28 percent, and wind 2 percent.
“The trend of more and more solar in Utah is wonderful news for air quality, it’s wonderful news for the climate, and it’s wonderful news for jobs and the economy,” said Dan Schroeder, a physics professor at Weber State University who regularly checks energy data.
Schroeder attributes the trend to several large solar farms coming online in recent years. The 2,500-acre Green River Energy Center in the central part of the state became operational this spring, and includes 400 megawatts of solar generation and 400 megawatts of battery storage. Excelsior Energy Capital’s Faraday Solar project in Utah County, the state’s second-largest county, started providing up to 685 megawatts for the Meta data center there last fall. The Elektron Solar Project, an 80-megawatt photovoltaic farm, began sending electricity to Salt Lake City, Park City, and Summit County in June 2024.
Solar also supports nearly 8,000 jobs in Utah, according to the latest information from the Solar Energy Industries Association. The state is home to 132 solar companies, including 54 solar developers and 23 solar manufacturers. Investors committed $1.5 billion to Utah’s solar market in 2025 alone.
Oil and gas extraction, by comparison, accounted for 1,291 jobs in the state in 2025, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. Coal mining accounted for 1,059 in 2023, the most recent year the bureau has data for that industry. Utah had another 1,905 jobs in coal and petroleum product manufacturing last year.
The rise of solar power has helped the state wean itself off a dependence on coal. In 2017, coal generated between 64 percent and 78 percent of electricity in Utah, depending on the month. By 2023, it started accounting for less than half of the state’s power sources in certain times of the year. This spring, it was less than a third.
(function(){function e(){window.addEventListener(`message`,function(e){if(e.data[`datawrapper-height`]!==void 0){var t=document.querySelectorAll(`iframe`);for(var n in e.data[`datawrapper-height`])for(var r=0,i;i=t[r];r++)if(i.contentWindow===e.source){var a=e.data[`datawrapper-height`][n]+`px`;i.style.height=a}}})}e()})();Electricity generation is complicated, however, and solar won’t represent a third of Utah’s portfolio every month. But with its sunny, dry climate, “Utah still has room to grow its solar percentage,” Schroeder said.
He pointed to California, which saw nearly 51 percent of its electricity generation come from solar panels in May, the most recent month that Ember has data — showing Utah has much more room to grow.
“We’re going to see milestones like this increasingly happen,” said Logan Mitchell, a climate scientist and energy analyst with Utah Clean Energy.
About 51 percent of the new utility-scale electricity generation added to the country’s grid is expected to come from solar this year, according to the U.S. Energy Information Administration. The country is likely to add another 43.4 gigawatts of solar, 24.3 gigawatts of battery storage, and 11.8 gigawatts of new wind power in 2026, compared to just 6.3 gigawatts of natural gas generation and zero new coal capacity.
Some of Utah’s electricity gets exported to other states, and some of its solar farms serve a single customer, like the project in Utah County that has a contract with Meta, the parent company of Instagram and Facebook.
Mitchell pulled the numbers from the state’s largest electricity provider, PacifiCorp, which is the parent company of Rocky Mountain Power. Turns out, another renewable energy source has seen a surge in generation in the region — wind power.
Wind blew past all other energy sources in PacifiCorp’s portfolio for Utah, Wyoming, and Idaho in December and January for the first time, according to data from the U.S. Energy Information Administration.
“Wind plus solar is on a tear right now,” Mitchell said. “We may have achieved liftoff.”
Read Next Here’s how offshore wind helped New England beat record heat Maria GallucciAnd the two power sources complement each other, Mitchell said, since wind generation is highest in the winter months, and solar produces the most electricity in the summer.
Most of PacifiCorp’s wind generation comes from facilities in Wyoming, according to Jona Whitesides, a spokesperson with Rocky Mountain Power. He said the recent sweep in wind power likely comes from the company’s investment in new turbines, including 400 megawatts added to the grid last fall at PacifiCorp’s Rock Creek II facility.
“A lot of days we are using more wind,” Whitesides said. “There are no fuel costs there; it’s essentially free.”
The Trump administration is phasing out tax incentives for wind and solar projects, however, calling them “expensive and unreliable.” But renewables combined with battery storage increasingly produce some of the cheapest, cleanest, and most consistent energy sources in the country, Mitchell said, and are not subject to the price spikes and uncertainty brought by global politics. What’s more, burning fossil fuels like coal and natural gas, which is mostly composed of methane, creates pollution and contributes to a warming planet.
Mitchell said he keeps a running list of the ways a warming West is hurting Utahns at home. A record-hot spring followed by a cold snap caused fruit farmers to lose their crops, for example. Utah also saw virtually zero snowpack over the winter, setting the stage for an explosively bad wildfire season and uncertainty about the state’s future water supply. Emergency room visits from tick bites are also on the rise in the West, Axios reports, as milder winters and earlier onset of warm temperatures help the insects thrive.
“In order to reduce those impacts in the future, we need to be reducing our emissions,” Mitchell said. “And we need to be doing it faster.”
Still, the shift in priorities at the federal level caused PacifiCorp to abandon plans to build more wind and solar projects in the next two decades, according to its latest Integrated Resource Plan update. The pivot has earned the utility criticism from renewable advocates like Utah Clean Energy.
Whitesides called the plan a “snapshot in time” that is constantly revised depending on energy costs, along with federal and state policies.
“It didn’t make financial sense to move forward with new renewable resources at this given time,” Whitesides said. “In two years, we could have a different administration. It may bring back more renewables.”
toolTips('.classtoolTips7','A powerful greenhouse gas that accounts for about 11% of global emissions, methane is the primary component of natural gas and is emitted into the atmosphere by landfills, oil and natural gas systems, agricultural activities, coal mining, and wastewater treatment, among other pathways. Over a 20-year period, it is roughly 84 times more potent than carbon dioxide at trapping heat in the atmosphere.');This story was originally published by Grist with the headline In a first, Utah got more power from solar than any other source on Aug 6, 2026.
Michigan winemakers have a new climate worry: More wildfire smoke
When wildfire smoke blanketed northern Michigan skies last month, Kasey Wierzba thought the vineyard at Shady Lane Cellars in Suttons Bay looked like a different planet.
“That kind of pinky, peachy haze really was filtering through the whole vineyard. The visibility was really minimal,” said Wierzba, the general manager and executive winemaker at Shady Lane Cellars, a winery and vineyard that sits on the “little finger” of the state on Leelanau Peninsula, a region famous for its winemaking.
Wierzba also thought about how the pungent smoke might impact the grapes, something that the larger wine industry is becoming more familiar with as global warming increases the frequency and intensity of wildfires. Though she and other local grape growers were spared — the worst of the wildfires were burning far away in Canada and Minnesota, the smoke didn’t linger long, and it’s still early in the growing season — climate change could bring the threat closer to home in the future.
At stake is the state’s nearly $9 billion wine industry, which may have to adapt to the smoke’s effects on grapes, a challenge those in wine regions like the West Coast and Australia are already confronting.
When grapes are exposed to smoke for an extended amount of time, finished wines can develop what’s known as “smoke taint” — unwanted flavors that have been described as everything from barbecued food to burnt bacon.
Because it’s early in the growing season, Wierzba said she’s confident there won’t be any impact on finished wines. The grapes are shaped like small pellets at this point of the year, known as the “buckshot berry stage” because they resemble the size of bullets used for hunting deer.
Andy Fles, vineyard manager for Shady Lane Cellars in Suttons Bay, Michigan, shows off young muscat grapes in the “buckshot berry stage” of fruit development.Vivian La / IPR News
Still, if and when smoke hits again, Wierzba said she’ll consider sending grape samples to labs that could detect the compounds associated with wildfire smoke. “I think having the smoke incident at this time in the grape growing, when they wouldn’t be affected, spurred me to think, ‘Wow, I need to be prepared,’” Wierzba said.
Tests can help, but it’s generally difficult to measure damage from smoke before wine is produced, said Paolo Sabbatini, a viticulture professor at Michigan State University. Smoke compounds bind with the grape skin and tissues, and the flavors associated with smoke taint only come through during the fermentation process.
“You need to wait for the finished wine. So during the season, unless your vineyard catches on fire and you see damage on the berries after a smoke event, you can’t even measure anything,” he said.
Sabbatini received 10 calls from grape growers and winemakers around Michigan with questions about smoke impacts. But he said he’s “pretty confident” that there wasn’t enough smoke exposure over a long enough period of time for grapes to be impacted by the fires, which are still burning in Ontario and Minnesota and have so far destroyed more than 64,000 acres, according to the U.S. Forest Service.
Local growers said it was fortunate that smoke didn’t hit the region during the key time that grapes change color in the fall — the period when they are typically most sensitive to smoke.
“We are sitting with our fruit still at a very immature stage, when we’re still going through cell division. So all of the cells, and the cluster, and the berries aren’t formed yet,” said Brian Hosmer, winemaker at Chateau Chantal, a winery and inn on Old Mission Peninsula, another northern Michigan winemaking hotspot.
Smoke taint is a rising concern elsewhere around the world, where hotter, larger wildfires have crept ever closer to vineyards. Ongoing fires in southwestern France have already scorched more than 160 square miles of forest near Bordeaux, pushing up against the country’s world-famous wine region.
“We’re talking about places where the fire is literally up to the edge of the vineyards, or even a couple miles away, where they’re getting ash falling directly on the fruit,” Hosmer said.
As climate change fuels the hotter, drier summers that increase the likelihood of wildfire events and widespread smoke, the number of places exposed to smoke taint is also increasing, said Ben Montpetit, chair of the department of viticulture and enology at the University of California, Davis. The program is one of the country’s leaders in the area of smoke taint research.
Read Next People are willing to pay more for climate-proof wine, study shows Frida GarzaThere aren’t simple solutions to smoke taint, Montpetit said. Treatments to remove some of the unwanted flavors could impact wine quality or introduce other tastes. While growing awareness of the issue has led to increased state and federal support for studies — the latest draft of the U.S. farm bill includes a directive for more research and development into wine grapes and wildfire smoke exposure — Montpetit said smoke taint will remain a problem.
“As much as we can prepare, there are going to be fires in the future, and unfortunately, they will impact wine regions,” Montpetit said.
Grape growers said they’re learning to adapt to multiple changes in the environment, from drifting wildfire smoke to increasingly variable weather conditions. Studies looking at climate change impacts on Michigan’s wine region cite early spring frosts that can damage vines and hotter temperatures during the growing season.
Those in the industry said adaptation is part of the job. After all, winemakers first flocked to the region centuries ago to take advantage of the extended growing season that Lake Michigan provides.
“It’s always challenging. It’s farming. It’s legalized gambling,” Hosmer with Chateau Chantal said. He’s not concerned about impacts from this recent smoke, he said, but a trend of warmer summers “definitely makes us think about what’s going on in the woods around our vineyards” in terms of local fire danger.
Vineyard manager Andy Fles, left, and Kasey Wierzba, general manager and executive winemaker, examine the grapevines at Shady Lane Cellars.Vivian La / IPR News
Andy Fles, vineyard manager for Shady Lane Cellars, said it’s already been a tough growing season in northern Michigan this year, between extreme precipitation and fluctuating temperatures.
“Global warming doesn’t mean everywhere is going to be warmer every single year,” he said. “I think what it means for us is that it’s climate chaos, and it’s very hard to predict what is going to happen.”
And that includes wildfire smoke.
“It’s something that you can’t necessarily control, which is frustrating at times,” Fles said. “So this is just a new hurdle, and we’ll find ways to deal with it when we have to.”
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Michigan winemakers have a new climate worry: More wildfire smoke on Aug 5, 2026.
Wildfire season is changing. Spokane is showing how.
Betsy Robertson was standing in the center of the Spokane Convention Center on Monday afternoon, but she wasn’t there for a gala or a conference. Instead, the event space in the middle of Washington state’s second-largest city had been transformed into a Red Cross emergency shelter as a trio of wildfires, just a few miles away, burned down entire neighborhoods.
Nurses and volunteers were moving between the rows of cots around Robertson, making sure that the hundreds of evacuees – from the mothers with their babies to the elderly with their caretakers – had blankets and enough to eat. Just outside, the air was noxious with smoke “thick enough to burn your eyes,” she said.
Robertson, a communications director for the Red Cross, is from Washington, and has been with the organization for 10 years. She has seen communities devastated by wildfires before. But never like this.
“The scale of homes destroyed and lives changed forever – this is a new level,” she said. “We are bracing ourselves for seasons like this getting worse and worse, and starting earlier and going later.”
A historically dry winter, extreme drought and heat waves set the stage for the hundreds of wildfires that have burned across the Pacific Northwest this summer. Dozens of large ones have broken out in the last week alone. Though it’s still early in the fire season, Oregon recently broke its annual record for acreage burned with nearly 2 million acres scorched.
Washington is also in the middle of its most destructive season on record, with more than half a million acres burned and at least 65,000 residents ordered to evacuate across the state. The three large fires that started on Saturday around Spokane had destroyed more than 700 hundred buildings by Monday afternoon.
“I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around how we’re going to house all these folks,” said Kitty Klitzke, a member of the Spokane City Council representing a hard-hit area where two fires were burning on Tuesday morning. Many of the people displaced by the fires in Spokane are senior citizens and their caretakers. “It’s a miracle that, so far, we know of no fatalities and no reported missing people,” Klitzke said.
A woman and her daughter wait for news on the status of their home at a Red Cross evacuation center in Spokane, Washington, on August 4, 2026. Josh Edelson / AFP via Getty ImagesAs the planet heats up, the conditions that fuel extreme wildfires are becoming more common. A warmer atmosphere can hold about 7 percent more water vapor for every 1 degree Celsius of warming, drawing more moisture from soils and vegetation and leaving forests and grasslands primed to burn. That dynamic also causes rain to fall more intensely but less frequently, leading to long periods of drought.
“This fire, and what we’re expecting to come, makes no sense unless you connect the dots through a changing climate,” said Bob Freitag, who recently served as director of the Institute of Hazards Mitigation Research and Planning at the University of Washington. “The science is known, and this is not something that is a one-off.”
According to Paul Pastelok, a senior meteorologist at AccuWeather, a lack of snowfall across the region helped set the stage for these fires. Normally, snowpack builds up during the winter and melts gradually through the rest of the year, providing a steady source of moisture. This year, the already-small snowpack was hit with hot spring temperatures, causing this reserve to melt early and leaving the landscape parched. Spokane had half of the typical snowfall this year, Pastelok said. Other parts of the state had even less, with many areas reaching historic lows.
In the last few days, powerful winds carried hot embers from the Little Giant fire, a 70,000 acre blaze in central Washington, for more than 3 miles, sending the flames clear over the waters of Lake Chelan and into the forests on the other side. Ryan Rodruck, a communications manager at the Washington Department of Natural Resources, called the overall situation “extremely tragic” and said that it had been an exceptionally challenging season for the thousands of wildland firefighters deployed across the state.
Residents of Spokane, Washington look through the remains of their burned home on August 3, 2026. AP Photo / Lindsey WassonIn Spokane, more high winds forecast for this weekend could further worsen conditions, said Benjamin Cossel, a wildfire public information officer from California working with fire-fighting crews in the city.
The situation is comparable to the Los Angeles fires in 2025, Cossel said. Both outbreaks began in wild areas before moving into partially forested suburban neighborhoods. The urban setting also makes the smoke especially toxic, he said. A recently released study found that the Los Angeles fires, which sent more than 200,000 residents fleeing, had exposed an estimated 3.3 million people to high concentrations of a cancer-causing toxin.
Klitzke, the city council member, said the affected neighborhoods in Spokane were known to be vulnerable to fires. Steep terrain and abundant plant life helped the fires spread quickly over the weekend, while the winding cul-de-sac layouts of the neighborhoods slowed evacuations and made it difficult for emergency responders to reach the fires.
“These are neighborhoods with thousands of people and only two ways in or out,” Klitzke said, adding that many evacuees were stuck waiting in traffic for hours, watching the houses around them burn down.
Areas where homes mingle with natural areas are known as the wildland-urban interface. This kind of suburban housing is the fastest growing type of land development in the United States, and research shows that the homes built in these areas are more likely to burn down when wildfires spread.
“We already knew that this was a dangerous situation,” she said. “We need to get really serious about addressing climate change.”
Increasingly, fire-prone states like California are requiring homeowners to clear the trees and shrubs in a radius surrounding their home. This buffer zone, known as a defensible space, can dramatically reduce the risk that a wildfire will ignite a building.
People chose to live in these neighborhoods precisely because they love the vegetation, Cossel said. “I understand why people don’t want to remove them,” he said. “But we can’t live in that world anymore because of these fires.”
This story has been updated to clarify where the fires started around Spokane.
This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Wildfire season is changing. Spokane is showing how. on Aug 5, 2026.
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