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Since coming to power in 2019, Kyriakos Mitsotakis’s conservative government has overseen an illiberal turn, largely unchallenged by a divided opposition and a compliant mainstream media. Civil society organisations have stepped up to fill that gap – but at considerable cost. Whether they can sustain that role will depend on stronger public participation and structural support. 

For many Europeans, democratic backsliding is no longer something that happens elsewhere. In V-Dem’s Democracy Report 2026, five European countries – Croatia, Italy, Slovakia, Slovenia, and the UK – have been added to the list of autocratisers. Greece, on the other hand, has been on this list for several years: its episode of democratic decline, ranking seventh globally in terms of the magnitude of democratic deterioration, began in 2020. The country remains an electoral democracy, but it has lost its status as a liberal democracy, and its trajectory has been consistently downward. 

While Greece’s democratic decline is clearly part of a larger wave, what makes it distinctive is the speed and the method with which it’s unfolding. The fact that it’s happening inside the European Union, in a country that had, within living memory, emerged from a military dictatorship, makes it particularly concerning. 

Democratically unravelling a democracy  

In July 2019, Kyriakos Mitsotakis and his centre-right party Nea Dimokratia (“New Democracy”) won a strong parliamentary majority and unseated left-wing Prime Minister Alexis Tsipras, who had been in power since 2015. Among the first pieces of legislation the new government passed was the so-called Executive State (“Εpiteliko Κratos”), which placed the National Intelligence Service, the EYP, under the direct control of the Prime Minister’s Office. Political oversight of the EYP was handed to the PM’s Secretary General and nephew, Grigoris Dimitriadis. At the same time, the government quietly amended the qualification requirements for the head of the EYP, removing the prerequisite of holding a university degree – a change widely seen as tailor-made to allow the appointment of Panagiotis Kontoleon.  

Meanwhile, the public broadcaster ERT, along with the national press agency AMNA, was also brought under tighter government control, while independent auditing bodies, such as the General Inspector of Public Administration, were disbanded.  

None of this was hidden. It was done through legislation, in plain sight, with an outright parliamentary majority that made institutional opposition powerless. The mainstream media, owned by a handful of oligarchs with conspicuous ties to the ruling party, looked the other way. 

The Covid-19 pandemic handed the government another opportunity to centralise power. The distribution of public health state advertising funds to media outlets through a scheme that became known as the “Petsas list” made visible a system of government influence over the media that had until then been less openly discussed. Public money was flowing to outlets that were sympathetic to the government; outlets that were critical received disproportionately smaller amounts and in some cases nothing at all. No law was broken, but the effect on a media landscape, already strained by the economic crisis, was significant. 

Then came a spying scandal. In 2022, it emerged that a powerful spyware called Predator had been used to monitor opposition politicians, journalists, senior military figures, and even government ministers. The Hellenic Data Protection Authority (DPA) eventually confirmed that at least 87 individuals had been illegally targeted with this spyware, and 27 of them had also been simultaneously monitored by the EYP through legal channels. Dimitriadis resigned, and so did the head of the EYP, but Mitsotakis denied knowledge. Two prosecutors who had been tasked with investigating the case were removed from it after submitting a second formal request for information to the DPA. In February 2026, four executives involved in supplying Predator were convicted in connection with the scandal. No government official has been charged to this day. 

The Predator affair was not simply a surveillance scandal, but a stress test that revealed the full architecture of a system in construction since 2019: an intelligence service with no meaningful independence from the executive, a media landscape too compromised to perform serious scrutiny, a parliamentary majority capable of rewriting inconvenient rules on short notice, and a justice system whose handling of these and other landmark cases left open questions that remain, to date, publicly unanswered.  

In February 2024, the European Parliament adopted its first-ever resolution on Greece, citing grave concerns about threats to democracy, the rule of law, and fundamental rights. That it took EU institutions five years and a major spying scandal to react tells its own story about the limits of European oversight. 

By then, the question was no longer whether Greek democracy was under pressure – that much was settled – but who, if anyone, was actually doing the work of accountability that formal institutions had either abandoned or been stripped of the capacity to perform. 

The state pushes back 

History has taught that governments that capture institutions rarely stop there. Once the formal mechanisms of oversight have been hollowed out, the next target is whoever has taken up the slack. Greece has been no exception: as a small ecosystem of civil society organisations (CSOs) and independent journalists grew more visible and more effective at holding power to account, the state responded by exerting pressure to make their work as difficult as possible. 

Some of that pressure has worn the face of bureaucratic procedure. The NGO registry created in 2020 by the Ministry of Migration and Asylum, presented as a transparency measure, became in practice an instrument of selective exclusion. Refugee Support Aegean, one of the most established legal aid organisations working with refugees and asylum seekers in the country, was denied registration despite meeting all legal requirements, on the stated grounds that providing support to persons facing deportation orders contradicted Greek law. Even though the right to legal representation for persons facing deportation is enshrined in Greek, EU, and international law, the rejection stood. It was overturned before the Council of State. Whether intended or not, the message to other organisations operating in the same space was clear. 

In early 2026, the Migration Ministry pushed further still, passing amendments to the Migration Code that elevated routine humanitarian work – such as providing food, shelter, or assistance to migrants – to a serious criminal offence. Membership of a registered NGO is now considered an aggravating circumstance. The proposals were introduced days after 24 humanitarian workers in Mytilene, on the island of Lesbos, had been acquitted of charges they had spent eight years fighting. Five years of formal recommendations from the EU, the Council of Europe, and the UN, all calling on Greece to lift arbitrary restrictions on civil society in the migration field, had apparently registered as a reason to accelerate, not reverse, the squeeze. 

Legal intimidation has reached well beyond the migration sector. When journalists at Reporters United and Efimerida ton Syntakton published their investigations into the Predator scandal, and specifically the role played by Grigoris Dimitriadis as the one who held political oversight of the EYP, the response came on the same day as Dimitriadis’s resignation: a lawsuit demanding close to one million euros in damages from the journalists and their outlets. International press freedom bodies were unambiguous in their characterisation of the action as a Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation (SLAPP), aimed not at winning in court but at putting economic strain, stress, and uncertainty on independent media. In 2025, after years of proceedings, an Athens court dismissed the case entirely, ruling the reporting accurate and finding nothing defamatory in any of the articles. 

Once the formal mechanisms of oversight have been hollowed out, the next target is whoever has taken up the slack.

The more insidious form of pressure has been reputational. In early 2026, Vouliwatch (a democracy watchdog organisation I co-founded) and the investigative outlet Solomon published the “Consultocracy Report”, a systematic study of the Greek public administration’s use of private consultancy services, built entirely from official public procurement data. The findings were concerning: a dramatic rise in contracts, the majority of which were awarded without competitive tendering, and documented cases of private consultancy firms involved in drafting legislation. The government chose not to engage with the report. Instead, at an official press briefing, government spokesperson Pavlos Marinakis made false claims about the report’s methodology and insinuated, also falsely, that Vouliwatch was politically motivated and funded by the European Left.  

Publicly discrediting CSOs and journalists who challenge the dominant narrative, question policies, and shed light on political scandals has been a recurrent tactic of the Mitsotakis government over the past years. The prime minister himself has publicly attacked journalists during speeches in parliament and press briefings, while ministers have repeatedly questioned the integrity of well-established international organisations such as Reporters Without Borders and Amnesty International. 

Taken individually, each of these tactics – registry exclusions, criminal law amendments, SLAPP litigation, public smear campaigns – might be dismissed as isolated incidents of overreach. Taken together, they point to something more deliberate: an environment in which accountability work is made increasingly costly, legally fraught, professionally risky, and personally draining. The goal of all this is not necessarily to destroy the organisations in question, but to ensure that the cost of scrutiny is high enough to deter the next investigation, the next campaign, the next report that asks uncomfortable questions. 

Civil society on the front line 

Against this backdrop of chronic underfunding, legal harassment, and coordinated public delegitimisation, something unexpected has happened: the civil society ecosystem has held and, in some respects, even grown. 

This is not a given. Greek civil society as we know it today is young. Much of it emerged directly from the wreckage of the financial crisis, built by people who watched the formal political system fail catastrophically and decided, for various reasons, to try a different approach. These organisations were never well-resourced. They have always been viewed with suspicion rather than respect: in Greece, the concept of an independent, non-partisan civic sector sits uncomfortably against a political culture in which virtually every collective endeavour has traditionally been understood through a partisan lens.  

State funding is either unavailable or comes with obvious strings attached. Domestic philanthropy remains thin, while international foundations rarely take notice of Greece. The EU project funding that sustains much of the sector is a lifeline but comes at a heavy cost: it requires staff to spend significant proportions of their time on compliance bureaucracy and deliverables that, more often than not, have little to do with the purpose that brought them into the sector in the first place. 

What Greek CSOs have achieved despite these constraints is worth taking seriously. In the years since democratic backsliding accelerated, together with independent journalism outlets, CSOs have fulfilled a role that formal democratic institutions have been either unwilling or unable to perform. They have monitored government practices, pursued freedom of information requests that ministries ignored, and taken legal action when they were ignored. They produced investigative work on the Predator scandal, on the Petsas list, on the concentration of media ownership, on procurement irregularities, on pushbacks at sea – work that was subsequently picked up by European institutions, informing  resolutions, rule of law reports, and parliamentary inquiries.  

They have reported Greece’s situation to EU bodies not because they expected immediate countermeasures, but because building a documented, evidenced record of what is happening counts as accountability work in a context where domestic channels are blocked. The personal cost of this work has been real and is not discussed enough. Staff in these organisations are, with very few exceptions, overworked and underpaid. They have been targets of coordinated social media harassment. Some have faced SLAPP litigation that drags on for years, even when it ultimately fails. Many have been named in government press briefings, dismissed by ministers, characterised as foreign agents or partisan operatives in oligarch-owned media. Operating under these conditions requires a particular kind of stubbornness that should not be romanticised. Burnout is endemic, and the sector is bound to lose good people and repel new entrants as these adverse conditions persist.  

Authoritarian tendencies do not consolidate only by weakening organisations; they consolidate when societies become convinced that collective action is futile.

Unfinished business 

What has changed – and this may be the most significant development of recent years – is that these organisations have started to work together. In the Greek context, such collaboration is harder than it sounds: fragmentation and competitive individualism are deeply rooted cultural tendencies that civil society has reproduced faithfully. The reflex to guard organisational territory, to duplicate rather than collaborate, to approach partnership with wariness: while these barriers are not unique to Greece, they have been particularly pronounced here.  

But something has shifted. Joint investigations, shared advocacy campaigns, coordinated submissions to European institutions, and co-signed public statements have become the norm. Through this cooperation, a closely knit community has formed, held together not by formal structure but by a shared understanding of what is at stake and, frankly, by the practical recognition that no single organisation is large enough to do this work alone. 

Importantly, this collaboration has not remained entirely confined to the civic sector. The work of CSOs has resonated with broader segments of society, particularly younger people who have grown up amid overlapping crises and whose trust in political institutions is often fragile or absent altogether. For many, these initiatives increasingly function less as traditional civil society and more as visible demonstrations that public participation, democratic accountability, and the defence of rights are not abstract ideals delegated to institutions, but collective responsibilities that citizens themselves can exercise. 

That may ultimately prove to be the decisive terrain. Authoritarian tendencies do not consolidate only by weakening organisations; they consolidate when societies become convinced that collective action is futile. In that sense, it could be argued that the state’s various harassment strategies are aimed not only at exhausting individual organisations, but at fracturing the fragile sense of civic possibility that has begun to emerge around them. So far, they have not succeeded. 

Greece’s civic sector has demonstrated, under pressure, that it is capable of doing things that matter. What is still lacking is the structural backing that would allow it to do those things sustainably, without relying indefinitely on individuals’ willingness to absorb costs that institutions should not be asking them to bear.  

That is the unfinished business. And it’s a European question as much as a Greek one. 

For decades, the U.S. Agency for International Development, or USAID, worked across many of the world’s most food-insecure and climate-besieged regions, funding thousands of humanitarian, healthcare, food, and disaster relief programs. That all changed last year when, days after President Donald Trump’s inauguration, his administration issued a stop-work order that suspended nearly all of USAID’s overseas programs. Then, last July, the administration informally dissolved the agency — leading to the largest withdrawal of American international development aid in more than 60 years. 

A new study published May 14 in the journal Science suggests the sudden USAID shutdown could have been linked to an uptick in violent conflict across much of Africa, with some of the most politically fragile regions seeing the largest spikes. Outside experts, however, caution that the findings are preliminary and may not capture the bigger picture. 

Farming and agricultural markets are easily disrupted by conflict, and when conflict occurs food security worsens because it can limit communities’ access to food. At the same time, deepening food insecurity in fragile political states contributes to social unrest. Climate impacts then layer onto this fragility. Extreme weather is second only to conflict in having the greatest effect on global hunger, food insecurity, and malnutrition, according to a U.N. report. That’s in part because it increasingly causes people to migrate as they flee places destroyed by rising seas and cataclysmic storms, which, in turn, can fuel conflict. 

“It is undeniable that USAID programming around food aid, including emergency food kitchens, therapeutic foods, and health and water programming on which basic food and nutritional security is built, provided a critical lifeline to millions of women, children, and families in severe nutritional deficits,” said Zia Mehrabi, a food security and climate change researcher at the University of Colorado Boulder. “Who in their right mind would retract healthcare and food so abruptly, in so many places, when the direct result is people suffering and dying?”

In analyzing the impact of funding cuts on conflict across 870 subnational African regions that had been receiving different levels of USAID services, the Science paper’s authors found that in the roughly 10 months that followed the administration’s immediate withdrawal of aid, areas that had previously received more USAID support may have experienced more or different types of conflict. Using two global datasets that track funding disbursements and violent conflict, the study suggests that, in areas with high historical USAID funding, there was a 12.3 percent increase in conflict overall and a 7.3 percent surge in armed battles; protests and riots in these areas rose by 6.8 percent and battle-related fatalities by 9.3 percent after the shutdown. 

According to Austin Wright, a University of Chicago researcher who studies the political economy of conflict, and a co-author of the paper, the effects have been swift and destabilizing. “There is nothing that we’re aware of in recorded human history of the magnitude of that shutdown, in terms of ending a country’s commitment at a global scale,” said Wright. 

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Established in 1961, USAID was created to encourage economic and social development in emerging nations while countering the Cold War influence of the Soviet Union. Building resilience in foreign political systems has, in recent decades, been “one of the main goals of the work of USAID,” said Chelsea Marcho, a senior director for research and policy at the Food Security Leadership Council and former USAID official under former President Joe Biden, who was not involved in the Science paper. The study showing that violence may have been less severe in places where USAID had helped build stronger institutions, she said, only underscores the value of those aid investments. One example is the largely discontinued work to develop more resilient food systems across sub-Saharan African nations facing higher rates of poverty, hunger, and malnutrition. 

But what many tend to forget, said Marcho, is that USAID also funded the bulk of pivotal data collection efforts across much of the world’s most food-insecure and climate-vulnerable regions. The dissolution of the agency has prompted widespread disruptions in everything from localized weather monitoring to one of the primary global famine early-warning systems. Although some of these systems have since been restored, the gaps in monitoring coupled with the decreased capacity across aid organizations means it is all the more difficult to understand what is happening on the ground. 

Indeed, the end of USAID has buckled our ability to measure the very outcomes of the end of USAID. “The visibility that we have around food security is potentially in decline at the same time that the risks to the system are increasing,” said Marcho. “How do we actually get the data we need?”

Mehrabi finds the new paper creates “more questions than answers.” He argues the mechanisms of measurement are unclear, the analysis period is too short, and the authors don’t adequately disentangle USAID’s specific effects from Trump’s simultaneous cuts to other U.S. international funding sources, such as the State Department. “The results are clearly early and tentative,” he said. “I think it is a leap to say this is all attributable to USAID.” 

Wright, for his part, acknowledged the study has limitations, including a short post-shock observation window of just 10 months, a disbursement baseline drawn from the first Trump administration rather than the period immediately before the cuts, and a geographic scope confined to Africa — leaving much open to future research. He says the team ran extensive robustness checks addressing these concerns, detailed in the paper’s appendix. 

After running his own reanalysis of their data, Mehrabi, however, remains unconvinced. What’s more, he warns against the possible takeaway that the presence of American developmental intervention equates to stability. The U.S., he argues, could more effectively help deter widespread conflict and hunger in nations like the Democratic Republic of the Congo, for example, through more equitable benefit-sharing of natural resource extraction from critical mineral supply chains. This would “far outweigh any benefits from foreign aid,” proposed Mehrabi. 

Nevertheless, with an annual budget of tens of billions and an institutional history spanning 64 years, USAID’s developmental footprint throughout the African continent was no small thing. “One cannot simply create USAID all over again, or give it a mandate and give it funding and assume that we have waved a wand and we can reverse the damage done,” said Wright.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Trump gutted USAID. Hunger and violence followed. on May 19, 2026.

In Aotearoa New Zealand, record-breaking storms and flooding are impacting Māori land, health, and culture. And, according to a new national climate report, colonization has intensified those risks. 

The 2026 National Climate Change Risk Assessment is composed of four reports, including a companion document focused on Māori communities. That report argues that climate change is likely to deepen existing inequities shaped by colonization, exclusion from decision-making, and chronic underinvestment. 

To mitigate the impacts of climate change, the assessment points to Māori-led adaptation as uniquely effective. It calls for policy grounded in Māori customs and knowledge, Indigenous data sovereignty, and stronger Māori authority in climate decision-making.

“For more than 150 years Māori have been pushed to the margins, literally, by an aggressive colonization process,” said Paora Tapsell, who is Ngāti Whakaue and Ngāti Raukawa, and the director of the Kāika Institute of Climate Resilience at Lincoln University. 

The assessment, released earlier this month, adds to a growing body of national reports that highlight the harmful impacts of colonial policies on Indigenous peoples and the environment. In 2023, the United States’ Fifth National Climate Assessment found that land theft and colonization had exacerbated climate change’s impact. The year before, Australia’s State of the Environment report was prepared with an Indigenous lead author for the first time; it found that Indigenous peoples were more likely to be impacted by extreme weather events like fires. It too called for incorporating Indigenous knowledge into climate policies. Despite these findings, Indigenous leaders around the world say national governments are still not listening to them.

Aotearoa New Zealand recently experienced one of its most active severe weather seasons on record, with multiple declared states of emergency across the nation’s two islands. It also found that the country’s Indigenous peoples are essential in responding to such disasters. “The report accurately acknowledges that many kāinga [Māori settlements], despite their relative impoverishment, are still willing first responders on the front line of increasingly severe climate events,” Shaun Awatere, who is Ngāti Porou and lead author of the companion report, said.

The assessment’s seven interconnected risk areas span environmental, cultural, and economic domains. It says the loss of protected endemic species is not only a biodiversity issue but also affects food gathering places, the Māori lunar calendar, traditional customs, and intergenerational knowledge systems. According to the report, some species could face near-irreversible decline in parts of the country under high-emissions scenarios by 2090.

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Across Māori lands, climate-driven extreme weather events have had a destructive impact on infrastructure. But the report outlines how flooding, erosion, storms, and wildfires also present cultural risks by threatening tribal meeting places, burial sites, and communal homes. It warns that repeated damage and displacement could lead to long-term cultural fragmentation and disconnection from ancestral land.

Climate impacts may also be felt economically. Māori-owned forestry, farming, aquaculture, and horticulture enterprises face rising pressure from climate hazards, costs, and underinvestment in adaptation. Without structural reform and targeted support, the assessment says that economic vulnerability will increase. 

Awatere said the findings confirm what tribes have been saying for years. “Climate events do not arrive one at a time,” he said. “A storm floods a road, damages a marae [tribal meeting place], erodes whenua [land], disrupts access to mahinga kai [food gathering places], and overwhelms health and welfare systems that were already stretched, all at once. Each of those harms compounds the next.”

The assessment also said climate-driven displacement and ecological degradation could disrupt the transmission of language, customary practices, lineage relationships, and Indigenous knowledge systems between generations.

Awatere highlighted ongoing structural exclusion of Māori from climate planning and adaptation systems, despite the government’s obligations under the Treaty of Waitangi, which is the country’s founding document. The report describes legal exclusion and governance failure as a major risk multiplier, compounding climate impacts across all domains.

Awatere said the central question is whether adaptation plans will reflect that evidence, or whether Māori communities will continue to carry a disproportionate risk of harm.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Māori climate risk worsened by colonization, report finds on May 19, 2026.

EV sales accelerate, petrol cars stall Channel News brendan 19th May 2026 Teaser Media

EnviroReporter.com’s 20th anniversary 2006-2026 Michael Collins & Denise Duffield’s reporting valued at $9.6 BILLION!

The global annual production of plastics rose to 400 million metric tons in 2022 and is projected to double by 2050. Many items produced are used once and then thrown away, including more than 30 billion plastic water bottles sold each year in the United States alone. Less than 10% of plastic waste is recycled.

Clearly the problem of plastic pollution in land and marine environments isn’t going away. This series looks at some approaches to dealing with it, including this examination of the increasing demand for water in disposable bottles.

A whopping 88% of Americans say they consume bottled water, according to an industry survey released in 2024. In fact that year we drank an estimated 16.4 billion gallons of it — 47.1 gallons and a shocking average of about 340 individual bottles per person. The retail cost of all those bottles reached $50.6 billion.

But there’s another cost to this practice: serious effects on our health.

Recent research from Concordia University in Canada shows that people who drink bottled water ingest up to 90,000 more microparticles of plastic a year than those who drink tap water. Microplastic particles range in size from 1 micron (a thousandth of a millimeter) to 5 millimeters. For perspective, a credit card is about 1 millimeter thick.

More concerning is another study that found higher amounts of nanoparticles in water bottles than previously reported. Nanoparticles are smaller than 1 micron.

An ever-growing body of research suggests that exposure to these particles, particularly the nano-sized ones, affects our immune systems, causes reproductive issues, impairs cognitive function, and increases cancer risk.

Why We Drink Bottled Water

Why do we drink so much water from plastic bottles in the first place?

In one survey reported by Statista, reasons given by consumers included convenience, better taste, mistrust of household water quality, unsuitability of tap water, preference for sparkling or flavored water, and the fact that some of the bottled stuff has more minerals.

Researchers at Canada’s University of Waterloo suggest that the choice also taps into something deeper: our fear of death. Their 2018 paper argued that this fear makes us want to avoid risks — and many people see bottled water as safer, purer, or more controlled.

The industry promotes those perceptions with marketing campaigns using celebrities and feel-good imaging. Some even directly play on fears about the safety of tap water and mistrust in government entities (think Flint, Michigan), according to Peter H. Gleick, president emeritus and chief scientist at the Pacific Institute for Studies in Development, Environment and Security and author of the 2010 book Bottled and Sold: The Story Behind Our Obsession With Bottled Water.

But is bottled water truly safer than tap?

Image by Wilson Blanco from Pixabay Bottled Versus Tap

In the United States, tap water is significantly more regulated than the bottled stuff. The Environmental Protection Agency oversees municipal tap water systems, which must meet safety standards and are regularly inspected.

The water itself is treated to remove particles, chemicals, bacteria, and other contaminants and must be frequently tested. Water suppliers are required to provide testing results to customers every year in the form of Consumer Confidence Reports, also published online.

Not that there haven’t been problems with tap water systems. A 1986 EPA report, Reducing Lead in Drinking Water, showed that 36 million Americans were using tap water with high levels of lead. Much of that exposure came from lead pipes in homes. Congressional investigations and updates to the Safe Drinking Water Act followed and most of the problems were fixed, but not all (again, Flint).

More recently per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances (PFAS), known as “forever chemicals,” have been found in water sources around the world. These chemicals break down very slowly and have turned up in the blood of people and animals and at low levels in a variety of food products and soil. Studies have linked exposure to some PFAS to harmful health effects.

In 2024 the EPA adopted national standards for acceptable levels of PFAs in tap water, requiring water utilities to test for it until 2027. Testing results will be used to determine future regulations for regular PFAS sampling and reporting, and after 2029 utilities must use treatment processes to remove PFAS from drinking water. Researchers are studying the effectiveness of various removal technologies.

Contaminants or pathogens sometimes end up in municipal water supplies due to issues such as flooding or equipment malfunctions. Thankfully we know about these incidents because of the required testing. But hearing about them can sow doubt, causing people to switch to bottled water even if their water source is safe.

The Food and Drug Administration regulates bottled water, but only if it’s sold across state lines. Water that is both packaged and sold within the state of origin represents most of the bottled water market, according to Erik Olson, senior strategic director for health at the Natural Resources Defense Council. Individual states are responsible for these products, but 1 in 5 states have no regulations covering them, he adds.

And while the PFAS standards are supposed to apply to bottled water as well, Olson says: “As far as we know they haven’t been. Most bottled water probably doesn’t have PFAS, but how do we know?”

A study led by New York University researchers found that plastics — including but not limited to water bottles — are responsible for 93% of the exposure to PFOA, one of the most widely studied PFAS.

NRDC also found that about 22% of bottled water brands they tested contained chemicals at levels above state health limits or industry recommendations in at least one sample.

Ironically, an estimated 25 to 45% of bottled water is simply municipal tap water, repackaged and marked up in price, sometimes further treated, sometimes not. PepsiCo’s Aquafina and Coca-Cola’s Dasani, for example, are filtered tap water. Some brands, like Smartwater, promote that they use distillation to purify their water, but that process uses a lot of energy. Spring water typically requires minimal treatment but may come from stressed natural springs. The process of bottling water can be wasteful; for example, it takes 1.63 liters of water to make every liter of Dasani.

Olson points out that making and shipping plastic bottles uses a lot of fossil fuel, too. “It’s incredibly wasteful. Consuming tap water is more energy efficient and has a lower carbon footprint.”

Then there are those particles.

On April 2 the EPA announced plans to study microplastics and added microplastics as a priority contaminant group on a draft list under consideration for regulation in drinking water (along with pharmaceuticals as a group, 75 individual chemicals, and nine microbes). However, the agency has had significant layoffs and attrition under the second Trump administration. It is dispersing staff in its defunct Office of Research and Development to other programs and faces a proposed 52% cut to its budget. Food and Water Watch, a safe food, water, and climate advocate, warned that the announcement falls short of what we really need, which is a comprehensive nationwide monitoring program.

On top of that, the effort will address microplastics but not nanoplastics.

Sarah Sajedi, Ph.D., coauthor of the previously mentioned particle studies, has done experiments that found as many as 10 million nanoparticles in a liter water bottle. A major concern, she says, is that these particles accumulate in human tissues. Nanoparticles can enter the bloodstream and reach vital organs, causing chronic inflammation, oxidative stress on cells, hormonal disruption, impaired reproduction, neurological damage, and various kinds of cancer.

“We’ve only had technology in the past three to five years to detect the nanosized particles,” Sajedi says. “First you have to prove there is exposure, and now we have shown that it exists with bottled water.”

In another ironic twist, when companies started using thinner plastic in water bottles to help reduce plastic pollution, it made the particle problem worse.

Bottled water containers now typically use almost a third less PET plastic on average than other packaged beverages like soft drinks, which need thicker containers due to carbonation. But these thinner bottles shed more particles. Movement, such as from being carried around, and exposure to sunlight both increase release of particles.

“Shaking the bottle or UV exposure from leaving it in your car increases tenfold the shedding of the plastic,” says Sajedi.

Improving the quality of material used in bottles would reduce particle exposure but exacerbate the problem of plastic waste. Gleick’s book noted that people in the United States throw away 30 billion plastic water bottles each year. Only a small percent of those are recycled; many end up in the environment, often the ocean. The harms caused by this plastic pollution are well documented, with the Paris-based Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development estimating its environmental damages at about $75 billion per year back in 2018 and a 2025 study blaming it for over $1.5 trillion in health-related economic losses per year.

Image by Hans from Pixabay So What’s a Thirsty Person to Do?

In general the safest thing to do is drink tap water — absent any specific problems in your area — and drink bottled water only on (rare) occasions.

“Say you’re at a baseball game and there’s no drinking fountains,” Olson says. “You’re not evil for consuming it once in a while. We just encourage people to think about it.”

If you’re concerned about your tap water, he suggests using a home filter system, which costs much less overall than bottles. One example shows that a family of four could save $2,878 a year using a pitcher-style filter system instead of bottled water.

“Another thing is, don’t be fooled by the names and pictures on the label that imply the water is from a mountain stream or pristine spring,” Olson says. “If the label says it is from a municipal source, it probably is just untreated tap water because that’s what rules require they say.”

When you need to buy bottled water, Sajedi suggests buying larger containers. “The quality of plastic is better with the jugs, which cuts down on your exposure to particles.”

Water is an essential human need. In places without reliable, safe water sources, many of these issues are moot, although experts argue the solution is to provide or improve infrastructure rather than relying on bottled water. But for the rest of us, it may be time to rethink our drinking habits.

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The post Dangerous Drinking: Is Bottled Water Really Safer Than Tap Water? appeared first on The Revelator.

The winners of the 2026 Environmental Photography Award capture both the lush beauty of the natural world and the heavy imprint left by humanity.

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Plans for a celebrity-backed “hyperscale” data center in rural Utah, so massive that it would consume more than double the state’s current electricity use, have generated an intense public and political backlash in a state where the motto is “industry” and a Republican supermajority tends to be deferential to development. 

The project, brought by “Shark Tank” TV personality Kevin O’Leary, would span 40,000 acres, demand 9 gigawatts of power once completed, and raise the state’s carbon emissions by 64 percent, according to estimates. While its water needs remain unknown, the sprawling data center would neighbor the northernmost tip of the shrinking Great Salt Lake, which will likely hit a record-low elevation this year following an unprecedented dry winter.

It could also create a massive heat island capable of devastating the area’s ecology, said Robert Davies, a physics professor at Utah State University. Davies estimated that the finished project would cover about as many square miles as Washington, D.C., making it the largest data center on the planet, and that it could produce enough heat to spike nighttime temperatures by as much as 28 degrees Fahrenheit in the high-desert valley. 

“I suspected it would not be good,” Davies said. “What I’ve found is, it’s so much worse than I even thought it would be.”

News of the proposed data complex, dubbed the Stratos Project, became public in April after the three commissioners of Box Elder County, the mostly agricultural community that would host it, approved the project. They pointed to the project’s approval by more powerful state agencies and asserted that stopping it was out of their hands, while refusing to hear comments from more than 1,000 people who showed up to share their concerns. Utah Governor Spencer Cox, a Republican, has since walked back some of his full-throated support.

“Many are asking questions about water, air quality, energy, land use, and the long-term impact on rural Utah,” Cox wrote in a thread on X earlier this month after intense public outcry over the project. “Those are real concerns, and all Utahns should expect clear standards and accountability.”

The controversy in Utah is a stark illustration of a wider trend. Across the United States, data centers are drawing bipartisan backlash as communities clash with tech giants and developers over strained water supplies and spiking energy costs.

At least two other massive data campus projects are proposed elsewhere in Utah, but they have not received anywhere near the pushback as the Stratos Project. Many opponents have pointed to efforts state leaders have made in recent years to support water conservation — Utah is among the driest states in the country — and the state legislature’s multimillion dollar investments to help the Great Salt Lake refill. The lake’s drying bed has already become a source of toxic dust threatening the health of millions of residents living on the Wasatch Front, Utah’s urban core. 

It seems contradictory, then, to build a potentially water-intensive and explosively hot industrial development right next door to such an endangered and iconic spot. 

“The greed behind this deal is clearly blinding the officials to just how much is at stake for the rest of us,” wrote Monika Norwid of Salt Lake City, one of the Utah residents who sent comments to the state’s Division of Water Rights protesting the project. “I refuse to let this greed imperil our already fragile wildlife, I refuse to allow some useless technology steal the rest of our insufficient water for a project that is way beyond the scale of this area.”

In an interview with CNN, O’Leary downplayed the environmental impact of his project, saying Stratos is “not going to destroy air quality” and “not going to drain the Great Salt Lake.”

Kevin O’Leary attends Consensus Miami 2026 at Miami Beach Convention Center on May 6, 2026, in Florida.
Romain Maurice / Getty Images

Austin Pritchett, a cofounder of West GenCo, the developer partnering with O’Leary Digital Limited on the project, said that they plan to purchase roughly 3,000 acre‑feet of on‑site water rights and already have around 10,000 acre‑feet under contract from the nearby town of Snowville if needed. 

Added together, that’s enough water to supply the basic needs of more than 20,000 Utah households. Utah’s Division of Water Rights has only received one application for the project so far — to transfer 1,900 acre-feet currently used for irrigation by the Bar H Ranch. That application was pulled last week, but a representative with the ranch said it will refile and “fully intends to move forward with the project.” A division spokesperson said they anticipate more applications from the data center developers soon.

Some scientists worry the project’s power demands and resulting heat island effect will transform its high-desert climate into something more akin to the Sahara.

Stratos would build its own power plant, state supporters have said, and its fuel will likely come from a corridor carrying natural gas from Wyoming to Nevada, Oregon, and California called the Ruby Pipeline. O’Leary specifically chose Box Elder County’s Hansel Valley to build the complex because the pipeline spans it, state officials have said.

“It could generate power at a significant level,” said Paul Morris, executive director of Utah’s Military Installation Development Authority, a powerful quasi-governmental state agency that provides tax incentives for development, during a public meeting in April. “This location was picked because of the gas pipeline.”

Hansel Valley in Utah, where Stratos wants to build a power plant.
Rick Egan / The Salt Lake Tribune

Davies, the physics professor, has done some back-of-the-envelope calculations to better understand the sheer scale of the 9-gigawatt project. And what he’s penciled out so far has him alarmed.

“Nine gigawatts, that’s a number that’s really challenging to get your brain around,” the professor said. ”Communicating the scale has been a real problem.”

The entire project will actually produce roughly 16 gigawatts of thermal energy, according to Davies. It starts with the massive on-site power generation, which will generate 7 to 8 gigawatts of waste heat just producing the needed electricity for the data center, since gas plants are only about 57 percent efficient.

And once that electricity reaches the data center, every watt will turn into pure heat, because anytime a gadget consumes power, it converts it into heat, Davies explained, whether it’s a toaster, a car, or a sprawling rack of computer servers.

Typically, waste heat from end uses of electricity is dumped far from a power plant, in homes, businesses, or on roads where it dissipates. In this case, the Stratos project will release roughly 16 gigawatts of thermal energy into Hansel Valley, according to Davies. That trapped thermal load is the “equivalent of about 23 atom bombs’ worth of energy dumped into this local environment every single day,” Davies said.

That doesn’t mean the project would wipe out the landscape with an explosion or release dangerous nuclear radiation, but the heat it creates could devastate the local ecology.

“What happens if you deposit that much energy continuously into a topography like this?” Davies wondered. “Right at the north end of the Great Salt Lake, a watershed that’s in collapse. A high-desert environment? A valley?”

Davies thinks dumping that much heat into Hansel Valley will raise local temperatures by 5 degrees F during the day and up to 28 degrees at night.

“That’s the difference between Utah’s semi-arid climate and the Sahara Desert,” said Ben Abbott, an ecology professor at Brigham Young University who has reviewed Davies’ estimates. “This would absolutely change the landscape.”

Evaporation would spike. The dew point could collapse, with devastating consequences on wildlife, plants, and the fertility of land owned by other ranchers in the valley, Abbott and Davies said. Abbott suspects Hansel Valley would become another source of dust on the Wasatch Front, in addition to the exposed and drying lake bed of the shrinking Great Salt Lake.

“I’m happy to be further educated. Maybe I’m getting something wrong here,” Davies said. “But that is kind of the point, right? You literally have a hyperscale project that is getting no due diligence.”

Salt Lake Tribune reporter Samantha Moilanen contributed to this story.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Utah’s fragile desert could feel like the Sahara if America’s biggest data center gets built on May 18, 2026.

Higher gas prices are bringing some Americans back to public transit.

The increase in ridership comes as the war in Iran has disrupted oil shipments through the Strait of Hormuz, pushing the national average price of gasoline beyond $4.50 per gallon. In California, drivers are paying more than $6.15 per gallon on average. 

Rising fuel prices have historically pushed at least some Americans toward buses and trains, particularly commuter rail. But experts caution that decades of car-oriented development and inconsistent transit funding still leave most people with few practical alternatives to driving.

For those reasons, ridership is rising most sharply in places with robust transit systems and steep fuel prices.

California is a clear example. Transit agencies in San Diego, Los Angeles County, and the San Francisco Bay Area have seen ridership jump in recent weeks. The San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency –– which, like others in California, received an emergency loan from the state in February –– saw its highest ridership totals since the pandemic in March.

Mark Olson, a spokesman for the San Diego Metropolitan Transit System, said gas prices probably drove the 6.5 percent jump in ridership it experienced in March compared to the previous year. Until the agency surveys riders, however, that remains an educated guess. 

“A lot of our riders are low-income, and certainly gas prices can be much more sensitive to lower-income residents and riders,” Olson said. In an effort to court riders, the agency, which faces a $500 million budget deficit over the next four years, has launched a commute calculator that compares the cost of driving and public transit. 

Michael Roccaforte, a spokesman for the San Francisco MTA, said it is too early to link higher gas prices to ridership increases but called the return of riders to Muni — which has undergone speed and reliability upgrades in recent years — “a promising sign.”

“It’s a service that really matters to everyone here in San Francisco,” he said.

The ridership gains aren’t limited to California. The Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority in the Washington, D.C., region and Valley Metro in Texas also reported increases. Intercity passenger rail operators Amtrak and Brightline have seen a boost, too. 

The trend mirrors past research showing that sustained increases in fuel costs can push some people toward public transit. Hiroyuki Iseki, an urban studies and planning professor at the University of Maryland, co-authored a study on how gasoline prices affected public transit in 10 cities between 2002 and 2011. He found that when gas prices climbed 10 percent over the course of 13 months, light rail ridership increased by 1.2 percent and bus ridership by 0.8 percent. 

Iseki’s study also found psychological effects as gas prices passed different thresholds. For example, when gas prices rose by 10 percent and topped $3 per gallon, ridership of all forms of mass transit increased by about 1.2 percent. A 10 percent increase that pushed prices beyond $4 led to a 9.3 percent jump for light rail. 

“Usually the people who use commuter rail take rail only for commuting, just one round trip between home and their work location,” Iseki said. “Commuter rail, the travel distance is longer than other transit trips, so the longer the distance of travel the more pricey the gasoline cost.”

Some people are better positioned to leave their cars at home, said UCLA urban planning professor Michael Manville. Those with access to commuter rail, which tends to be time competitive with driving, might make a change. But the more likely outcome is people continue driving to work and make shorter or fewer trips or even cut back on other expenses, he said. That’s because of the cognitive hurdle often required to make a switch to mass transit. 

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“It’s one thing to say, ‘Look, I’m just not going to drive quite as much as I used to,’ in a discretionary way,” Manville said. “It’s quite another for the typical person to then say, ‘I’m not gonna drive to work. I’m gonna figure out how the bus works.’”

There is a societal challenge as well. The U.S. has since the end of World War II made cars the focal point of city planning. “We made a bunch of policy decisions that turned them into bad masters, but they are also good servants,” Manville said of automobiles. “You throw the family in them, and you don’t have to worry about the chaos of your kids and all their stuff.”

A fundamental shift from car travel to public transit would require better-funded systems that offer greater reliability and convenience. Transit has accounted for less than a third of federal transportation funding since 1956. As of 2017, 87 percent of trips in the U.S. were taken by car. 

Federal policy has an enormous impact on who does and does not have access to something like commuter rail. Elisa Ramirez, who works on policy for Transportation for America, would like to see the federal government treat mass transit as a core priority with consistent funding. Until that happens, car travel will likely continue to be the dominant mode of transport. 

“Time is money, and even though people can afford a $2 fare, they can’t afford to be late for work or miss doctors appointments,” she said. “For most Americans, driving is not optional, and that’s my big thing. How much does gas impact people moving to transit? First we need to have reliable transit.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Gas prices are rising. So is public transit ridership. on May 18, 2026.

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A major oil company is seeking a state tax break in Texas worth hundreds of millions of dollars to build a massive power plant. The energy won’t be going to residential customers, though. Instead, the gas plant will be used to power a data center whose eventual tenant could be Microsoft.

Chevron subsidiary Energy Forge One has filed an application with the State Comptroller’s board to obtain a tax abatement for a power plant it’s building in West Texas. In late January, the comptroller’s office made a recommendation to support the application’s approval — the first such approval under the program for a power plant intended solely for data center use.

In March, following news reports that Microsoft was looking into purchasing power from the Energy Forge project, Chevron said that it had entered into an “exclusivity agreement” with Microsoft and Engine 1, an investment fund involved in the project. In January, Microsoft pledged to be a “good neighbor” in communities where it is building data centers, including promising to pay a “full and fair share of local property taxes.”

The potential tax abatement for the project comes as big tech companies are battling rising public fury about data centers and electricity costs. It also comes as lawmakers start to cast a more critical eye on ballooning incentives for data centers, some of which have cost some states — including Texas — $1 billion or more each year.

Read Next Texas is giving data centers more than $1 billion in tax breaks each year Paul Cobler, The Texas Tribune

Chevron spokesperson Paula Beasley told Wired in an email that all tax incentives under consideration for the Energy Forge project “apply solely to the power generation facility” to “support new energy infrastructure, and do not extend to any future data center facilities that may be served.” Beasley also said that there is currently “no definitive agreement” with Microsoft for this power plant.

“Microsoft is in discussions with Chevron,” Rima Alaily, Microsoft’s corporate vice president and general counsel for infrastructure, said in a statement to Wired. “No commercial terms have been finalized, and there is no definitive agreement at this time.”

Chevron is applying for a tax abatement for the project under Texas’ Jobs, Energy, Technology, and Innovation (JETI) Act. Passed in 2023, the program is intended to incentivize businesses to build large infrastructure projects in the state in exchange for guarantees to bring jobs and revenue. Accepted projects get a cap set on the amount of taxable property they can be charged through local school district taxes.

The Pecos-Barstow-Toyah school board approved the project’s application at a meeting in February. The state pays for the tax abatement, so the school district itself does not lose out on any money.

According to documents from the state, the Chevron project could net more than $227 million in savings for the company over a 10-year period, depending on the eventual size of the project and investment. The application says the plant will provide “over 25 permanent, full-time jobs,” though there’s no requirement to do so because it’s considered an electricity generation facility.

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The planned gas plant won’t connect to the grid, instead providing “electricity for direct consumption by a data center,” according to its application. So-called behind-the-meter gas plants have become increasingly popular for data center developers facing yearslong waits to connect to the grid. According to data from nonprofit Global Energy Monitor, the U.S. at the start of the year had nearly 100 gigawatts of gas-fired power in the development pipeline solely to power data centers, with several more massive gas projects announced since the data was published.

A Wired analysis of less than a dozen power plants being constructed to explicitly serve data centers, including the Chevron project, found that these power plants are permitted to emit more greenhouse gases than many small- to medium-size countries. The Energy Forge plant alone could emit more than 11.5 million tons of CO2 equivalent annually — more than the country of Jamaica emitted in 2024. Beasley told Wired that the plant “is being designed to comply with applicable environmental regulations, including all applicable federal and state air quality standards.”

West Texas is a major fossil fuel production hub, which has helped it emerge as a hot spot for both data centers and behind-the-meter gas development. However, Energy Forge’s JETI application notes that the site is one of six across the U.S. under consideration. Without tax incentives, the other sites would be “more attractive locations” to build a gas plant, according to its application, and “Texas would lose the opportunity to attract billions of dollars in new tax revenues.”

This type of claim on applications for tax abatements is pretty routine, says Nathan Jensen, a government professor at the University of Texas at Austin. An earlier version of the JETI program, originally created to draw more manufacturing jobs to Texas, handed out incentives to businesses with little oversight, often giving millions in tax breaks to companies already planning on building in the state. While the JETI program significantly curbs the problems and excesses of the old program, Jensen says that the guardrails for a project like Chevron’s are still relatively low.

The JETI tax incentive isn’t the only tax break the power plant could receive. According to county documents, the Energy Forge project could also be eligible for a local incentive that exempts all or part of a property’s value from taxes for up to a decade, under another part of the Texas tax code.

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Developers have taken advantage of other tax abatements across the U.S. A report released in April from Good Jobs First, a corporate watchdog group, found that at least three states — including Texas — are losing more than $1 billion in revenue each year from data center sales tax abatements.

A bipartisan group of politicians in Texas, including Republican lieutenant governor Dan Patrick, have expressed mounting concern about the impact tax breaks for data centers are having on state coffers. In March, Patrick ordered the legislature to “study the cost and consequences” of the sales tax exemption — which the state projects could balloon to $3 billion by 2029 — and “make recommendations providing safeguards to ensure that Texans benefit from data center investment.”

In January, Microsoft rolled out a series of pledges on its website, promising to “add to the tax base” in communities where it operates. “We won’t ask local municipalities to reduce their local property tax rates when we buy land or propose a data center presence,” the pledge states. The company did not respond to questions about whether this pledge extends to projects owned by other entities that the company intends to use to power its data centers, or to data center developers that may be building data centers in which Microsoft will be a tenant.

Greg LeRoy, the executive director of Good Jobs First, notes that Microsoft’s pledge doesn’t mention tax abatements (the amount of value a person or business’s property is assessed at), which are different from tax rates (the number used to calculate the amount of taxes owed for the property).

“If they don’t say, ‘We will refuse tax abatements,’ then they’ve got their fingers crossed behind their back,” LeRoy says of Microsoft’s pledge.

Tax breaks given to projects like data centers are difficult to track across states: The Good Jobs First report found that 14 states don’t disclose how much revenue they might be losing on data center abatements. As behind-the-meter power becomes an increasingly popular option for data center developers, though it’s not clear how widespread the practice of asking for tax abatements for these specific facilities is.

There are no other behind-the-meter power plants currently being funded by the Texas JETI program or in the application pipeline. Data centers are specifically excluded from being eligible for the JETI program.

Jane Flegal, a senior fellow at the Searchlight Institute and a climate official under President Biden, is the author of a recent report that suggests ways to use the AI boom to incentivize tech companies to help pay for needed upgrades to the grid. Tax abatements, the report says, should be restructured to make sure that data center builders connect power to the grid, making behind-the-meter gas options less attractive. Flegal also advocates for permitting reform to make sure that more clean energy can get added to the grid as quickly as possible.

“We should fix our tax code so it’s much more progressive, and we should tax the shit out of these people and use federal money to plan and build a grid that benefits all of us,” she says. “Alas, that is not where we are.”

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This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Chevron wants a school district tax break for a data center power plant on May 17, 2026.

Last summer, the wild blueberry fields at Crystal Spring Farm turned red too soon. 

Severe drought had gripped most of the state of Maine. At his farm near the town of Brunswick, Seth Kroeck knew the leaves were changing color prematurely because the blueberry plants were stressed. Berries shriveled before they could ripen.

The farm’s 2025 harvest was almost a total loss.

“We got about 7 percent of our expected harvest,” Kroeck, 55, said. Standing in his blueberry fields in April, he pointed out the new growth, still only a few inches high, and commented that last year’s yield was “a lot of raking with not a lot to show for it.”

This was just the latest in a series of devastating weather for Crystal Spring Farm’s 72 acres of wild blueberries. 

“In the last seven years, we’ve lost the crop three times, almost completely,” he said.

As the climate changes, these losses are getting more common for wild blueberry farmers. And, experts say, the solutions are pricey.

Maine’s quintessential fruit

Wild blueberries are an iconic food in Maine, like lobster rolls or whoopie pies. But they aren’t the same as the fruits sold by the pint in a grocery store.

Wild blueberries are smaller and have a stronger flavor than their cultivated counterparts. They’re typically packed and frozen rather than sold fresh.

Wild blueberry bushes grow on sandy and gravelly soil in Maine, which can be difficult to irrigate. Sydney Cromwell / Inside Climate News

Maine’s farms contribute almost the entirety of the United States’ commercially sold wild blueberries. The industry harvested nearly 88 million pounds of fruit in 2023, bringing $361 million in revenue to the state, according to the Wild Blueberry Commission of Maine.

“It’s really something that’s a backbone industry to the state and a part of the state’s character,” Kroeck said. A father of two, Kroeck grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, and said gardening with a friend “spiraled” into an agricultural career. In college, he studied printmaking — a degree that he jokes is useful every day on the farm.

One of the few native North American fruits, wild blueberry patches have often existed in the same spot for longer than the farms that now harvest them. 

“The blueberry plants have been there for millennia, and they have been cared for by generations of farmers before me, and then the Indigenous community [before that],” said Kroeck, who also grows row crops and pasturage.

An individual bush only produces fruit every other year, so farmers typically harvest about half their acreage in any given year. Also called “lowbush” blueberries, the plants grow in dense mats on sandy, gravelly, or otherwise low-nutrient soil, primarily in eastern Canada and New England. 

“Blueberry soil is not nutrient-rich. Nothing else wants to grow there … but wild blueberries love it,” said Rachel Schattman, a professor of sustainable agriculture and leader of the Agroecology Lab at the University of Maine. 

Wild blueberries are smaller and have a stronger flavor compared to cultivated blueberries. Courtesy of Rachel Schattman

Schattman, 43, started working on vegetable and dairy farms in high school and continued farm work through the completion of her master’s degree. She owned a commercial vegetable farm for 10 years while pursuing her interest in agricultural research and earning a doctorate at the University of Vermont. 

Schattman said the financial challenges of running a small farm eventually led her to pursue research full time. She worked for the USDA on climate change’s interactions with agriculture before moving to Maine in 2020, where she met the wild blueberry for the first time.

“It holds a really special place in the culture of Maine,” she said.

Each patch has a variety of genetics rather than a monoculture. You can see — and taste — the plant’s diversity once it begins producing berries, Kroeck said.

“If you were to fly over our blueberry field while they’re fruiting, you’d see a lot of subtly different shades of blue and black,” he said.

Despite their crop’s hardy nature, wild blueberry farms are struggling to deal with recent extremes of temperature and precipitation. It’s got the entire industry worried.

“It would be a real cultural loss to have fewer wild blueberry farms and fewer berries available in the future,” said Lily Calderwood, a wild blueberry specialist at the University of Maine Cooperative Extension whose research focuses on disease and pest management. 

She grew up surrounded by agriculture in Massachusetts and became fascinated with it on a trip to a Cape Cod cranberry bog as an undergraduate student. Calderwood, 39, worked at the nonprofit Earthwatch Institute, then earned her doctorate at the University of Vermont and later worked at the Cornell Cooperative Extension before coming to Maine eight years ago. 

Stressed seasons

Maine’s wild blueberry populations are caught in a climate hotspot, driven partially by rapid warming in the Gulf of Maine, Schattman said. According to 2021 research, the state’s blueberry barrens are warming faster than the rest of the state, especially in locations closer to the coast.

In response, the berries are ripening sooner, and farmers can miss part of their harvest if they’re caught unaware. Calderwood said the crop was traditionally harvested in early or mid-August, but now most fruits are ready by late July. High heat also makes the harvest window shorter, she said, meaning farmers need additional labor and equipment to finish in time. 

Scientists at the Wyman’s Research Center in Maine study the effect of rising heat and changing rainfall on wild blueberries, one of the state’s signature crops. Courtesy of Rachel Schattman

Kroeck said he was unprepared for the early ripening in some years, and harvesting late meant lower yields and worse fruit quality.

“As farmers, we’re very much attached to the season, and you kind of get into your ideas of when things need to be done,” he said. Now, he has to spend more time observing conditions directly in the fields.

Farmers can’t rely on traditional knowledge — some of it passed down through families of growers — to plan their schedules anymore, Calderwood said. The farmers she works with have “absolutely no doubt” that climate change is already affecting their livelihoods.

Kroeck worked on farms in California, Massachusetts, and New York before he and his wife, a Massachusetts native, decided they liked the Maine farming community and moved to Crystal Spring Farm 22 years ago. In the last decade, he said, the unpredictable weather has far exceeded the typical year-to-year variation he was used to.

“If you look at the research, it’s pretty hard to deny that we’re living in a period of changing weather,” he said. 

Scientists at the Wyman’s Research Center in Maine study the effect of rising heat and changing rainfall on wild blueberries, one of the state’s signature crops. Courtesy of Rachel Schattman

Kroeck serves on the boards of the Organic Farmers Association and the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association, both organizations that address climate change’s impact on agriculture.

Maine experienced severe droughts in 2020, 2022, and 2025, plus one of its wettest years on record in 2023. Too-wet conditions encourage disease and unchecked weeds in blueberry fields. Droughts, on the other hand, reduce the number of flowers that form and shrivel the fruit.

Farms also contend with surprise frosts in late spring, which can kill flower buds right as they start to form, Kroeck said. Occasionally, warm autumns have caused the bushes to flower again just before winter, sapping energy and reducing their berry production the following year.

Wild blueberries are dependent on steady levels of moisture throughout the growing season, Calderwood said. That’s getting less and less common.

“The plant needs more water to keep the berries on the stems. And with less water and higher temperatures, they will shrivel and drop to the ground before a farmer can get to them,” Calderwood said. 

And since wild blueberries only fruit every other year, Kroeck said extreme weather can have effects on multiple seasons.

“A drought year is obviously going to affect the size of our fruit, but it’s also going to affect that other half that’s still in the vegetation state,” he said. “If they’re stressed from water and from temperature, they’re not going to grow as robust as they would, and the fruit they put out is not going to be as big as it could.”

A cycle of loss

Last year, Maine saw a wet spring followed by hot, dry conditions that started in June. The drought intensified in August and lasted through the rest of the year and into 2026. Calderwood called it “a classic example of climate whiplash.” The Maine Wild Blueberry Commission estimates the industry lost $30 million in 2025. 

“It was devastating for many farms in that region,” said Calderwood, who is also on her town’s conservation commission.

Many blueberry farmers reported the loss of a third to half of their yields. 

“There were reports of many, many acres of blueberries going unharvested because the berries had basically dehydrated on the bush,” Schattman said.

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Kroeck’s 2025 losses were higher than most because his farm sits on exceptionally sandy soil, which doesn’t hold water well. He has crop insurance, which covers some of the loss, but that insurance is partly based on the value of previous years’ yields.

“If you have losses in close succession, then your average harvest goes down,” he said.

Kroeck said he has applied for state and federal relief, but that money would be applied to his 2023 losses from a late freeze, which have been on the farm’s books for nearly three years.

The state’s wild blueberry industry has declined in recent years, both in the number of farms and the total acreage of commercial fields, according to Wild Blueberry Commission data, and financial stress is one of the reasons for that. Even Wyman’s, one of the state’s largest producers, plans to sell nearly 800 acres of blueberry fields this year.

“There have been some pretty significant hits to wild blueberries in Maine in general,” Kroeck said.

Researchers like Schattman and Calderwood are trying to prevent climate change from being another reason that farms go under.

Modeling blueberries’ future

At the Wyman’s Research Center farm in Old Town, Schattman and the climate adaptation research team are trying to simulate potential futures for Maine’s wild blueberries.

Researchers are halfway through a four-year study of how temperature, rainfall, and irrigation affect wild blueberries’ growing conditions — from soil health to pollination — and fruit yields. They’re also testing different climate scenarios for the end of the century to see how the plants handle extremely wet, extremely dry, or variable conditions.

At Crystal Spring Farm, Seth Kroeck is adding irrigation lines to part of his blueberry fields this year to protect them from drought. Sydney Cromwell / Inside Climate News

The wild blueberries are grown under a range of conditions: Some have irrigation systems, some have mulch to slow moisture evaporation, and others have neither. Some bushes are grown in isolation, while others are clustered together to see how community and genetic diversity affect the plant’s resilience.

Schattman said open-top plexiglass structures passively trap heat around some of the blueberry plants on the farm, while others have heating coils to simulate heightened temperatures.

“We’re collecting a massive amount of data,” she said.

Irrigation and, to a lesser extent, mulching are already showing promise in reducing drought impact. Mulch barriers reduce soil temperatures, lower the risk of disease, and slow weed growth, but they aren’t enough to avert the effects of a severe drought like 2025.

“[Mulching] is a really healthy thing to do for our fields,” Calderwood said. “It can be used as a buffer for drought, but it cannot replace irrigation.”

Irrigation can be difficult with wild blueberries, since their preferred soil often isn’t great for building wells or installing pipes, Schattman said. Most small growers don’t have irrigation systems, leaving them vulnerable when droughts overlap with the growing season.

“Obviously, it’s useless to install an irrigation system if you don’t have a reliable water source,” she said.

When the climate adaptation study is complete, Schattman said she hopes to have data that can create a roadmap for farmers to keep their crops healthy in future conditions. 

Calderwood’s work at the University of Maine Cooperative Extension overlaps with Schattman’s research, but much of it is hands-on in the fields of local blueberry farms.

This summer, Calderwood will be working with a large producer, Brodis Blueberries, to see how plants develop in irrigated and non-irrigated portions of their fields, and whether they show signs of stress during dry periods.

It’s key to figure out when the timing of irrigation can make the most impact, Calderwood said, especially for farms that can’t cover their entire acreage or may only be able to afford irrigation once or twice.

“Every time the pump runs, it is an expense,” she said.

‘It’s always expensive’

Affordability is the roadblock that wild blueberry farmers keep running into when it comes to climate change, both Schattman and Calderwood said. From buying equipment to drilling wells to trucking in loads of mulch, major one-time investments are difficult for small farms with thin profit margins.

“Every farm needs irrigation, but they just simply can’t afford it,” Calderwood said.

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At Crystal Spring Farm, Kroeck is trying to apply the University of Maine’s recommendations. He has brought in over 100,000 square feet of mulch, which covers less than half of his 72 acres of blueberries. The Natural Resources Conservation Service, or NRCS, which is part of the USDA, subsidized some of the costs, which range between $5,000 and $10,000 each year.

“Farmers would not do that if NRCS was not paying for it,” Calderwood said.

Kroeck also bought irrigation equipment, which arrived in December. It cost $90,000 for the equipment and the new well, which will cover about a quarter of his blueberry fields. 

“It’s always expensive, and it’s always a gigantic cash flow game,” he said.

Additional state and federal investment, from funding to technical expertise, could also fast-track irrigation for small farms, Calderwood said. But in the past year, funding has trended in the opposite direction.

The NRCS has lost funding and about a quarter of its staffing — more than 2,000 people — due to USDA budget cuts since the beginning of the current Trump administration. Maine also lost $15.5 million, intended for a pilot program that would have brought water management practices to between 25 and 45 wild blueberry farms, due to federal grant clawbacks.

The state Drought Relief Fund has given grants for farmers to create water management plans, drill wells, or build storage ponds, but only two dozen of those were funded last year across all types of agriculture.

Meanwhile, profitability of wild blueberries is being squeezed by low market prices and competition from cultivated blueberry producers, Schattman said. Costs of fertilizer, labor, and equipment have risen too.

Farms are earning about 50 percent less per pound of wild blueberries than they were a few years ago, according to the Wild Blueberry Commission. Kroeck said he knows many small farms are having a hard time getting their products into large grocery store chains.

“The pricing is not very good as far as what those large chains are willing to pay,” he said. “The market for wild blueberries has been flat or has been decreasing somewhat, and that’s also very worrisome.”

Kroeck is part of a group of farmers looking into selling more berries fresh instead of frozen, a move that would open up a new, potentially more profitable customer base but would also require new equipment and additional labor.

Wild blueberry farmers need new markets or higher prices to afford expensive long-term projects, Schattman said.

“That’s much more difficult when you’re struggling to reach your sales goals,” Kroeck said.

In the absence of financial and technical support, Calderwood said it’s likely that only the largest berry producers will be able to protect themselves from a warming future.

“It’s a puzzle to figure irrigation out, and it needs federal funding,” she said.

With or without irrigation, Calderwood said she doesn’t think climate change will spell doom for a plant as resilient as the wild blueberry.

“Every year, there will be blueberries to harvest,” she said.

But whether there will be enough berries to keep farms in business is another matter.

“I hope that we’re going to be able to make the pivots that we need to make to save the crop,” Kroeck said.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Wild blueberry farms across Maine suffer as climate change upends growing seasons on May 16, 2026.

Facing a months-long U.S. blockade, Cuba announced Wednesday that the country had run out of diesel and fuel oil. Its unsteady power grid is running on domestically produced crude oil, natural gas, and a growing supply of renewable electricity.

Read more on E360 →

I used to walk through Copley Square in Boston’s Back Bay and catch it by accident — the way Trinity Church appeared twice. Once in stone, anchored and unmoved, and again, improbably, in the mirrored skin of the John Hancock Tower.

Completed in 1877, Trinity rises from a very different era than the Hancock, finished nearly a century later in 1976. And yet, depending on the light and angle, the two seem to occupy the same moment.

Trinity Church reflected in the mirrored glass of the John Hancock Tower, Boston. Image: Wikimedia Commons

The old isn’t erased by the new. It’s carried forward, reflected back at the city.

That distinction — between replacement and reflection — matters more than we often admit, especially now, as so many institutions, from environmental governance to technology itself, are being rebuilt at speed.

Henry Cobb, the lead architect of John Hancock Tower, described wanting the building to be deliberately quiet — a modern structure that responded to Copley Square rather than dominating it. The mirrored glass was meant to dissolve the tower’s presence, allowing the city — and especially Trinity Church — to remain visually central.

Whatever Cobb intended, the outcome became something larger than design logic alone. The tower doesn’t merely recede; it carries the past into view. Meaning emerged not just from intention, but from how the structure settled into its surroundings over time. Nearly a century of distance collapses into a single frame, not by imitation or nostalgia but by restraint.

That choice — to build something new that reflects rather than replaces — is not a silver bullet. Reflection alone does not guarantee success. But its absence almost guarantees failure.

This is the lesson conservation continues to relearn: The durability of a system matters more than the brilliance of its design. Protection that only works under ideal conditions isn’t protection — it’s aspiration.

Nowhere is this tension more visible than in the ocean, the world’s largest and most vulnerable mirror.

Ocean conservation is often driven by urgency. New frameworks, tools, and technologies are deployed to address collapse at scale. The focus is speed, efficiency, and ambition. The pressure is always forward.

And yet, again and again, the efforts that endure are not the most novel. They’re the ones that manage — sometimes deliberately, sometimes imperfectly — to carry older lessons forward: restraint, relationship, and place-based memory. The understanding that ecosystems are lived with, not simply managed.

The problem is not innovation itself. It’s innovation that looks impressive but reveals very little beyond its design.

Consider Mexico’s Cabo Pulmo, often cited as one of the most successful marine protected areas in the world. The headlines focus on dramatic increases in fish populations and the power of no-take regulations.

But those tools came later. Long before formal protection, local families understood the reef as relational rather than extractive. Fishing practices were shaped by limits, seasons, and the knowledge that abundance depended on patience. When modern conservation arrived — laws, enforcement, scientific monitoring — it did not overwrite that ethic. It reflected it, giving durable form to values already in place.

What mattered was not simply that protection arrived, but how it arrived.

The new rules did not ask the community to abandon identity in exchange for compliance. They extended a relationship people already understood. Because restraint was familiar, limits felt legible rather than imposed. Continuity made patience possible — and patience made recovery visible.

Cabo Pulmo’s success was ecological and also cultural. Protection worked because it felt continuous rather than disruptive.

In places like Kaʻūpūlehu on Hawaiʻi island, a different but complementary pathway was revealed. There, continuity was not merely recognized by outside institutions after the fact; it was actively reclaimed and relegitimized by the community itself. The revival of ahupuaʻa-based management blends contemporary science with customary practice — seasonal closures, species-specific rules, and governance grounded in community responsibility rather than distant authority.

To understand the ahupuaʻa is to understand connectivity as a physical and social mandate. These wedge-shaped land divisions traditionally ran from the mountain peaks down through valleys to the reef. If you fouled the stream in the uplands, you starved the taro patches and the fishponds below. Responsibility wasn’t an abstract environmental ethic; it was a literal downstream consequence.

Ahupuaʻa systems were never static codes handed down unchanged through time. They were adaptive frameworks, responding to shifts in abundance, climate variability, and social need through observation and restraint. They endured not because they resisted change, but because they embedded flexibility within .

When modern conservation engages these systems as living frameworks rather than cultural artifacts, authority becomes relational. Compliance becomes collective. Resilience begins to scale — driven less by tighter rules than by deeper meaning.

Still, reflection is not immunity.

The field has learned this through a category of failure so common it has a name: “paper parks.” These are protected areas that were intensively planned, legally designated, internationally celebrated — and then quietly failed in practice: protections that looked complete from a distance but proved too thin to hold under pressure.

A particularly instructive case is the Phoenix Islands Protected Area. On paper it was a triumph of ocean policy design: years of consultation, sophisticated ecological science, international financing mechanisms, and UNESCO World Heritage status. It was widely hailed as a model for large-scale ocean protection in the high-seas era.

And then it faltered.

This was not a story of hypocrisy or neglect. It was a structural mismatch between design and reality.

Despite its careful planning, the reserve struggled with enforcement, financing, and political durability. Kiribati faced real economic pressures from fishing access fees, climate impacts, and national debt. The conservation model assumed that long-term international support and compliance would hold.

They didn’t.

At points, commercial fishing resumed or enforcement weakened, as the governance design failed to account for sovereignty, economic vulnerability, and political gravity.

The surface held global conservation values clearly, but it did not reflect the weight the system would be asked to carry. Ecology was remembered; history was not. Like a building designed to photograph well but not weather a storm, the reserve reflected the ideals of its designers more clearly than the conditions it would have to survive.

That fragility is not theoretical. It is being actively stress-tested.

In the United States, recent policy direction under the Trump administration has moved to accelerate deep-sea mining exploration in U.S. territories, fast-tracking permits and weakening environmental review in places where baseline knowledge is still profoundly incomplete.

At the same time, longstanding marine monuments and sanctuaries — areas once framed as durable commitments to restraint — have been reopened or proposed for reopening to commercial extraction, including fishing access once explicitly limited.

These are not isolated policy shifts; they are a demonstration of how protections built by executive decree can be unbuilt by the same mechanism. The legal architecture remains thin, contingent on political alignment rather than ecological necessity. What was presented as permanence reveals itself as provisional — protection that reflects intention in one moment, but cannot withstand the next.

You see this pattern elsewhere: marine protected areas mapped with exquisite precision but no budget for enforcement; fisheries reforms negotiated over years that collapse when leadership changes; international ocean treaties whose necessity is uncontested, but whose buy-in remains elusive.

In each case the failure wasn’t a lack of rigor. It was the assumption that process equals permanence.

Conservation was designed to be impressive at birth, not resilient across political seasons.

Durability is the real design challenge. Ocean policy fails when it isn’t built to survive pressure, fatigue, turnover, and bad years.

Technology has only intensified this tension. Satellites, autonomous vehicles, and AI-driven analytics now extend our perception, revealing patterns in the water that were once invisible.

Used well, they act as clarifying filters. But a technocentric mindset has taken hold — the belief that future tools will spare us from the harder work of changing ourselves. This is the blank glass of our era: a surface so smooth it stops the eye, obscuring the downstream consequences of our choices.

We see it in autonomous ocean cleanup systems that promise to vacuum plastic from the high seas while leaving the industrial tap wide open on land. We see it in carbon removal schemes that treat the atmosphere as a ledger rather than a life support. And we see it in deep-sea mining proposals that promise “smart robots” to manage extraction — outsourcing moral weight to machines operating in the dark.

In this framing conservation begins to resemble the tech industry itself: forever iterating and increasingly uncomfortable with limits. When a tool is designed only to look forward, it behaves like a screen rather than a mirror. Demand disappears from view; efficiency becomes the sole metric of virtue.

The ocean has never been short on clever tools. What it has lacked is the willingness to say enough. A satellite can track a vessel with surgical precision, but it cannot decide when fishing should stop. No algorithm can negotiate the social courage required to leave resources unextracted. Those decisions require memory — of places, of relationships, of limits already tested. Technology works best when it remains reflective — when it amplifies accountability rather than automating it.

Some conservation structures are built to last. Others are built to be seen. The difference becomes clear over time. Enduring systems allow people to plan, to invest, and to commit attention without constantly checking the political weather. Fragile ones, even when ambitious, remain provisional — less like stone and more like a projection, subject to being switched off.

When authority is provisional, stewardship becomes reactive. Budgets hesitate. Careers stall. The long view collapses into crisis management. Conservation becomes a flickering screen rather than a structure capable of holding meaning.

Older stewardship traditions rarely operated this way. Continuity wasn’t a political achievement; it was the point. They were designed to absorb change without constantly redefining their own existence. There is a difference between adaptation — the breathing of a living system — and instability, which is simply erosion by another name.

This does not mean protections should be frozen in time. Healthy systems require reassessment. But endurance resists the constant resetting of goals before ecosystems and communities have time to respond.

What lasts is often quiet. It does not announce itself with sweeping designations or polished dashboards. Like all structures that truly hold, its value becomes visible only when stress arrives — and the system does not collapse.

The ocean responds to steadiness: to protection held long enough for complexity to return, to rules applied consistently enough for trust to form, to care practiced across generations. Conservation falters when it confuses motion with progress. The future worth building is not one that erases the past, nor one that freezes it in place. It is one that remains readable — where earlier lessons about limits, restraint, and relationship are still visible as new structures rise.

What endures is not the shine of what’s new, but the care taken to ensure it can still hold and reflect something older in view.

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

The Work Behind the Win: The Long, Collective Effort Behind the Moments Conservation Celebrates

The post Reflections on What Endures in Conservation appeared first on The Revelator.

As the fast-moving blaze rolled toward Fire Chief Jason Schneider’s district in Cozad, Nebraska, he and his crew faced a literal uphill battle.

The Cottonwood Fire was tearing through the Loess Canyons, an area defined by steep slopes, narrow valleys, few roads, and pockets of invasive eastern red cedar trees, which can throw embers and ash and even explode when they burn.

“You think you would have it put out, and you keep on moving north, and you’d look back south and it’s just going again behind you,” Schneider said of the March blaze.

But the situation started to improve when Schneider’s crew connected with the South Loup Burn Association, a group of landowners and ranchers who were also fighting the fire. They showed Schneider and his volunteer crew how to do back burns — setting controlled, low blazes in the path ahead of the Cottonwood Fire to consume any flammable material — to contain the wildfire. About 92 percent of Nebraska’s fire departments listed with the National Fire Department Registry are volunteer-based.

A drip torch owned by Austin Klemm was used to help contain the Cottonwood Fire that burned in Nebraska’s Dawson, Lincoln, and Frontier counties in March. Courtesy of Austin Klemm

“It would have burned a lot more if they hadn’t showed up and helped us get it stopped where we did,” Schneider said.

Unlike other parts of the country where wildfire season peaks in summer and late fall, Nebraska is set ablaze in the spring. This year has marked the state’s worst on record. As of May 6, conflagrations burned about 981,502 acres and dealt a blow to ranchers. They also brought to the forefront the growing debate over a controversial and centuries-old land management practice: using fire to fight fire. 

The Cottonwood Fire, contained by prescribed burn techniques and past prescribed fires, made the case for the practice. But during the same month, separated by just a county, heavy winds turned the smoldering remnants of a prescribed burn in the Nebraska National Forest into the Road 203 wildfire, which devoured nearly 36,000 acres.

Decades of fire mismanagement and climate change have primed America’s landscapes to burn. Today, fire districts, land managers, and local authorities from California to Florida to New Jersey are increasingly embracing the use of prescribed burns to prevent the most severe blazes. According to the National Association of State Foresters and the Coalition of Prescribed Fire Councils, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina burned between 250,001 and 1 million acres, while California, Washington, Oregon, and Arizona burned between 50,001 and 250,000 acres, in 2020 alone. In the Great Plains, these burns are now common practice in states like Oklahoma, Kansas, and Texas, said Dirac Twidwell, a rangeland and fire ecologist at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. 

In Nebraska, too, particularly in east and central parts of the state. The Nebraska Prescribed Fire Council estimates that 2025 saw the most acres burned by prescribed fire in one year during recent times. 

But in areas of the state like the western Sandhills, the practice has sparked backlash.  

“There was a [prescribed burn] group that tried to establish a couple of years ago up around the Tryon, Mullen area up in there. And they almost lynched that group,” Keystone-Lemoyne Fire and Rescue Chief Ralph Moul said. “They said ‘No, we do not want fire in the Sandhills,’ because there’s nothing to stop it up here.”

Despite the fear, there is overwhelming evidence that prescribed burns, when done correctly, can help prevent massive wildfires by burning up volatile fuels like cedar trees. They can also replenish nutrients in soils, making the land ecologically healthier, boosting plant and wildlife diversity and saving ranchers money. The grass that comes back after a burn is often preferred by cattle.

“The wildfires you’ve seen here in Nebraska the last few years are also a consequence of removing fire from the landscape,” said Kent Pfeiffer, program manager for the Northern Prairies Land Trust. “You don’t get rid of fire, you just change the nature of it … instead of having frequent low-intensity fires, you end up with infrequent, high-intensity fires.”

Nebraska’s mild and dry winter set up the state for major wildfires early this spring. Graphic by Quentin Lueninghoener of Hanscom Park Studios for the Flatwater Free Press. Source: U.S. Drought Monitor and wildfire.gov

The issue is growing more urgent as the state faces dual threats. Suppression of natural fires has allowed cedar woodlands to creep into Nebraska’s native grasslands, with more large swaths at risk and an already costly headache for ranchers. Meanwhile, climate change is bringing more extreme conditions, including intense stretches of drier and hotter weather that can fuel more destructive, less controllable blazes.

“What we know is that overall, our fire management is not working,” Twidwell said.

Tucker Thompson was in his 30s back in the early 2000s when he first helped out on a prescribed burn on another person’s property near Gothenburg. The rancher, who summers cattle in the Loess Canyons, knew some neighbors would be upset, but cedar trees were starting to sprout across his land. He wanted to get ahead of the problem, and he was curious.

By today’s standards, the group’s equipment was basic and their knowledge limited. Even though everything went fine, Thompson left thinking the entire practice was insane. He went home and took a chainsaw to the cedar trees across about 400 acres of his property.  

“I’m like, ‘I am never going to be responsible for another fire,’” Thompson said. “And then five years later, they all start coming back. Ten years later, it’s like, I have no choice. There’s no way of killing these dang things, so I burned them.”

Now, Thompson continues the practice and is a member of two burn groups. He helped firefighters contain the Cottonwood Fire, even as it ravaged his grazing lands.

Prescribed burns “decrease the fuel load in these canyons, so we can control these fires to some degree,” Thompson said.

The Loess Canyons area has one of the most advanced prescribed fire cultures in the entire country, Twidwell said. It has reduced the risk of catastrophic fire and made the land more suitable for grazing, which has boosted landowners’ profits.

Up until the last 150 years, fire was common in Nebraska. Wildfires would naturally control species like eastern red cedar, and Indigenous peoples would run prescribed burns to clear underbrush, remove dead biomass, replenish soil nutrients, and encourage new plant growth. 

Prescribed burn associations, nonprofits, and state, federal, and municipal agencies burned more than 92,700 acres in prescribed fires in the first six months of 2025 alone, according to a survey by the Nebraska Prescribed Fire Council. It’s likely the most acres burned through prescribed fire in the state in one year during recent times, the council said.

But conducting these burns requires a lot of planning, monitoring, money, machinery, and manpower. And even when it comes together, a change in weather can cancel the whole operation on a moment’s notice.

Brian Sprenger checks on his cattle in 2023, in Sidney, Nebraska. Cedar trees are creeping into the state’s grasslands, fueling more several wildfires. AP Photo / Brittany Peterson

Semi-retired rancher Jon Immink coordinates burns across multiple landowners’ properties near the Nebraska-Kansas border to help manage cedar trees. He plans years ahead as he maps out which plots of land need to burn when, typically in the stretch from January to March.

“I do not sleep well in burn season. You wake up 4 o’clock in the morning and all you can think of is … you prepare for what could go wrong,” Immink said. 

In order to conduct a land management burn, a landowner or tenant has to apply for a permit and submit a burn plan to their local fire chief, who decides whether to waive Nebraska’s standing open burn ban. By law, the plan requires a lot of documentation and forethought, including a list of on-hand equipment and a description of the weather conditions needed to burn safely.

Fairbury Fire Chief Judd Stewart’s jurisdiction is filled with landowners and managers who use prescribed burns. Stewart had to cancel 40 to 50 burn permits in March when Governor Jim Pillen ordered a temporary statewide halt in issuing due to the devastating wildfires. Stewart wishes the governor would have given more consideration to areas like southeast Nebraska, where fire danger was lower.

“These areas that people had this heavy vegetation, and now they still have that heavy vegetation, but they’ve got new grasses growing in it, and it makes it very difficult to burn,” Stewart said. “As we approach mid- to late summer, when we start getting high temperatures … that vegetation will carry fire again, and now we’ve got those heavy fuel loads that are going to be hard to contain.”

The governor’s order has impacted landowners and managers who have invested thousands of dollars, conducted years of planning, and deferred grazing for prescribed burns that might now have to wait another year, said Austin Klemm, board member of the South Loup Burn Association, the group that helped Schneider and others contain the Cottonwood Fire.

Right now, he is working with about six landowners who have invested roughly $250,000 to $275,000 to plan a burn that might not happen this year.

“Some of these guys have invested tens of thousands of dollars in prep work to be able to burn,” Klemm said. “These guys have deferred grazing, did not graze at all last year, had to go find a place to stick cows or feed cows all last year.”

Becky Potmesil doesn’t have to look far to see the devastation wildfire can cause. Potmesil raises cattle in the Alliance area of the Panhandle, on the western edge of the Sandhills. To the south, the Morrill Fire burned an estimated 642,000 acres, making it the largest on record in the state’s history. To the southeast, the Ashby Fire burned another 36,000 acres.

The winds have blown away the black, burnt grass, leaving behind only sand dunes. It looks like a moonscape, she said. 

“Anybody who’d do a prescribed burn out here in the [western] Sandhills in western Nebraska is crazy, and it’s dangerous,” she said. While she sees how there could be benefits in some parts, like the meadows, she doesn’t think it would be worth the risk in her area.

Moul, the Keystone-Lemoyne Fire Chief, is cautious about issuing burn permits in his district, especially in the Sandhills. He likes for there to either be snow or green grass on the ground. Unlike in other parts of the state, the Sandhills have fewer fire breaks, less infrastructure, and more extreme weather conditions like high-speed winds and very little humidity, Moul and Potmesil noted.

A prescribed burn conducted south of Callaway, Nebraska, in 2022 by the South Loup Burn Association.
Courtesy of Austin Klemm

Moul, who was an incident commander on the Morrill Fire, understands that prescribed fire has its place if it is done safely. However, after seeing damages from prescribed burns escaping in his career, he said fire chiefs should not allow prescribed burns on or right before red flag days in their districts. 

“Some of these burn groups, they’ve been burning for years and years and years. For the most part, they know what they’re doing out there, but there are a few, like I said, that have convinced these fire chiefs to write the permit on red flag days, because that’s when they get the best kill of the trees,” Moul said. “But it was my experience when I worked with the state that we went to a lot of escaped fires because of prescribed burns that got away.”

The Road 203 wildfire initially started as a prescribed burn in the Bessey Ranger District of the Nebraska National Forest. More than a day after the fire ignitions ended, heavy winds created a spot fire outside the original boundary as firefighters mopped up and patrolled the area, according to the Forest Service. The agency said 99.84 percent of its prescribed burns go according to plan. This one didn’t.

According to the Nebraska Prescribed Fire Council’s survey last year, 1.6 percent of burns surveyed escaped and required outside assistance, primarily from volunteer fire departments. Changing weather patterns and the spread of cedar trees are the primary reasons for escapes, the Fire Council said in an email.

“When the gap between prescribed fire acres and fuel load increases, it also increases fire behavior in both prescribed fire and wildfires, causing us to adapt to riskier burns with increased planning and equipment,” the Fire Council said. 

When Twidwell came to Nebraska in 2013, he was told prescribed fire would never be used in the Sandhills. Since then, he’s seen multiple burns happen there as the culture continues to shift. 

He knows some landowners will never be convinced, and he understands their concern. But beyond protecting the grasslands, Twidwell believes Nebraska needs to have more conversations on how to mitigate the large wildfires that have torn through the state.

“Everybody understands … the wildfire risk playing out. Fewer understand the benefits and why certain groups are using prescribed fire,” Twidwell said.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Nebraska wonders which is riskier: The fires it starts, or the fires it fights on May 15, 2026.

Democrats and Republicans agree on virtually nothing at this point, except the desperate need to build more housing in the United States. Depending on your viewpoint, the country needs new domiciles because it puts people to work and stimulates local economies, or because it creates affordable homes and drives down housing costs, thus reducing homelessness. Affordability, including in housing, is now one of the biggest political issues in America.

Neither party, though, is talking about the secret superpower of new apartment buildings: They’re much better for the planet than constructing single-family homes. According to a new report, these units are “an almost automatic form of building decarbonization,” because three-quarters of new apartments are heated electrically. That means they can run on rooftop solar panels or tap into grids humming with clean energy, instead of burning plant-warming natural gas in furnaces or boilers. 

While the Trump administration and the Republican Party at large try to roll back as much climate progress as they can, they’re inadvertently bolstering that progress by calling for new construction. Deep-red Montana, for instance, recently passed a flurry of bills to get more multi-family housing built. “Apartments are the climate solution hiding in plain sight,” said Alan Durning, executive director of the nonprofit Sightline Institute, which authored the report. 

Nothing against single-family homes, but apartment buildings and condos are much more efficient for a number of reasons. For one, residents share walls, floors, and ceilings with their neighbors, surrounding them with excellent insulation. Secondly, the square footage of each unit tends to be smaller than detached homes, so there’s less air to manage. Accordingly, it takes less energy to climate-control apartment units and keep people comfortable: The typical resident of a downtown high-rise emits one-third as much greenhouse gases as a resident of a detached house in the suburbs.

Because of this inherent efficiency, apartment builders have for decades opted to install what’s called electric resistance heating, like baseboard heaters, instead of gas furnaces. That’s because wiring them up is cheaper than piping in all that methane. “If I am building something with the intention of renting it, I really want to minimize my upfront costs,” said Amanda D. Smith, senior scientist at the climate solutions nonprofit Project Drawdown, who studies the built environment but wasn’t involved in the new report. “Often electric water heaters and electric heaters for space heating make sense from that perspective.”

Economic forces, then, have long encouraged the adoption of such systems: 68 percent of apartments built since the early 1970s have been heated with electricity, the report notes. Half a century ago, no one was campaigning to decarbonize buildings to fight climate change — going electric was just the better option. Today, if you live in an apartment, you’re 60 percent more likely to be all-electric than your neighbor living in a house.

And apartments can get even greener. Heat pumps — which move warmth from outdoor air inside, instead of generating it like a gas furnace does — are around three times more efficient than space heaters. Over the past few decades, the technology has gotten more powerful, capable of extracting heat from even freezing outdoor air. That’s helped heat pumps proliferate across even the chilliest climes: Maine installed 100,000 of the appliances two years ahead of schedule, and almost two-thirds of households in Norway use them. Heat pumps are increasingly popping up in American apartment buildings, too: While quite rare in the decades after the 1950s, heat pumps have been incorporated into 18 percent of these structures in the Northwest since 2010, the report notes. (Overall, heat pumps have outsold gas furnaces in the U.S. for several years now.)

While traditional electric heat pumps work like air conditioners, in that you need an outdoor unit that connects to an indoor one, new varieties are easier to incorporate into apartments and condos. One from a company called Gradient fits like a saddle over a window sill and plugs into a regular outlet, with installation taking less than a half hour. (Think of it like those old-school AC units jutting out of city apartment windows, only much cooler looking.) Another launching this winter combines the two units into one attached to an interior wall, where it exchanges air with the outside. “Making retrofits simpler will be a game-changer,” Smith said.

If new buildings in hotter parts of the U.S. rely upon gas heating, they’d still need an air conditioning system. The beauty of a heat pump is that it can reverse in the summer to fill a home with cool air. As temperatures rise across the country, heat pumps will not only work more efficiently than space heaters and gas furnaces to warm apartments, but to provide invaluable cooling to keep people healthy. Already in the U.S., heat kills more people every year than all other forms of extreme weather combined.

Making a building’s heating fully electric encourages the adoption of another appliance critical for reducing greenhouse gas emissions: the induction stove. “If you’re building a building and you’re heating and cooling with heat pumps, it doesn’t really make sense to hook it up to the gas system to pipe a tiny bit of gas in for people to cook on their gas stoves a couple of times a week,” said Matt Casale, managing director of states and regions at the nonprofit Building Decarbonization Coalition, which wasn’t involved in the report.

All this electrification could potentially slot into a burgeoning technology known as networked geothermal. Instead of a building’s heat pump using outdoor air, it uses liquid pumping underground. Because the earth’s temperature remains a more consistent temperature year-round than the air, these heat pumps are even more efficient at warming a space. If all of an area’s buildings — apartments or otherwise — are hooked into a networked geothermal system, there’s no need to pipe gas into the neighborhood at all. “It’s a real community-based energy system, and you’re using energy that’s literally homegrown,” Casale said. “It’s right under your feet.”

Beyond their superior energy efficiency and tendency to go electric, apartment buildings provide denser housing, fitting far more people into a footprint than a single-family home could manage. If located near daily essentials, like grocery stores, residents can walk instead of drive, further reducing greenhouse gas emissions. Ideally, robust public transportation systems can get those apartment-dwellers anywhere they can’t walk to. 

Building big apartment buildings of just apartments, though, just won’t cut it, said Cécile Faraud, head of the clean construction program at C40, a global network of climate-focused mayors. These structures need mixed uses, where living spaces sit atop commercial spaces, like markets and doctors’ offices. “So you can access care, you can access education, you can access your needs in terms of shopping,” said Faraud, who wasn’t involved in the report. “But also in terms of health, so being able to exercise in parks, etc., and access to nature.” 

Indeed, what surrounds these apartment complexes matters too. Green spaces reduce temperatures, boost residents’ mental health, and provide habitats for native plant and animal species. Better yet, “agrihoods” surround working farms with multi-family housing, generating nutritious produce for residents to enjoy or sell. (Faraud stresses that in addition to creating more housing, cities need to retrofit existing buildings to be more energy efficient, like with double-paned windows and better insulation.)

Constructing apartments, though, is often way more difficult than it should be, housing advocates say. The new report notes that “apartment buildings of at least four stories are currently allowed on less than 1 percent of the residential land in all but 10 Oregon cities” — even in progressive Portland, that figure is 14 percent. “The main thing that we need to do is re-legalize apartments in a much larger area of our cities,” Durning said.

Cities and states are responsible for that, not the feds. But the growing national push from both parties to get more units built will be a win-win for people and the planet. “Even across a political landscape that’s as fractured and divided and as contentious as what we’re seeing now,” Smith said, “I think most people are willing to say: We want people to have homes.” 

toolTips('.classtoolTips3','Carbon dioxide, methane, nitrous oxide, and other gases that prevent heat from escaping Earth’s atmosphere. Together, they act as a blanket to keep the planet at a liveable temperature in what is known as the “greenhouse effect.” Too many of these gases, however, can cause excessive warming, disrupting fragile climates and ecosystems.'); toolTips('.classtoolTips4','The process of reducing the emission of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases that drive climate change, most often by deprioritizing the use of fossil fuels like oil and gas in favor of renewable sources of energy.'); 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 The surprising climate fix that Democrats and Republicans both love on May 15, 2026.

Ten candidates are vying for two seats on the Georgia Public Service Commission in the May 19 primary. Early voting is already underway.

The commission oversees utilities, including telecommunications, natural gas, and electricity, and has final say over how Georgia Power, the state’s largest electric utility, makes energy and what it charges customers. This gives commissioners substantial power over Georgians’ energy bills and the state’s climate future, because burning fossil fuels to make electricity is a major source of greenhouse gas emissions. By the PSC’s own description, “very few governmental agencies have as much impact on peoples’ lives as the PSC.” 

Still, elections for the commission have rarely received much attention. That changed last year. Amid frustration over rising energy bills, voters overwhelmingly ousted two Republican incumbents, sending Democrats to the five-member commission for the first time in 20 years. With two seats up for election again this year, majority control of the commission is at stake. 

Most candidates, regardless of party, broadly agree on the issues commanding the most attention: that energy bills should be kept in check and that the commission should do more to protect ordinary customers from the costs of powering data centers. But they bring different backgrounds and approaches to the job.

District 3

The seat for District 3, which encompasses the metro Atlanta counties of Clayton, Dekalb, and Fulton, was on last year’s ballot, but only for a one-year term. Democrat Peter Hubbard won that election and is now running for reelection as the incumbent. Hubbard told Grist he’s running for reelection because he needs more time to enact changes like expanding renewable energy and ensuring Georgia Power is getting the most out of existing resources before building expensive new ones. A full six-year term, he said, would include the “big, meaty decisions” of Georgia Power’s long-term resource plan and rate case. Hubbard said he wants to take an active role in shaping those plans, rather than reacting to what the utility proposes.

“There’s just a baseline to acting as a shield to imprudent spending. But I also think that a proactive commissioner can find even lower-cost solutions than what otherwise would be provided,” he said.

Republican Fitz Johnson, who had been the incumbent last year, lost to Hubbard in 2025 and is running against him again. He told Grist at a campaign event that he’s “got some unfinished business.” While most other candidates in the race have said the commission should do more to shield ordinary customers from data center costs, Johnson said the commission has “100 percent, without doubt” protected them.

“When it comes to the data centers and the large loads, we put the ratepayers first,” he said. “We said we’re not going to put any burden on our ratepayers.”

Read Next Many companies want clean energy. Georgia Power will soon let them build it. Emily Jones

During his time on the commission, Johnson voted for the current rate freeze and the contract terms designed to ensure data centers pay for their own infrastructure, though critics argue those protections aren’t enough. He also voted in favor of Georgia Power bill increases that became the focus of last year’s election and for the utility’s multibillion-dollar expansion to serve rising demand coming mostly from data centers.

Another Republican, Brandon Martin, is running against Johnson for the party’s nomination. He did not respond to requests for an interview. According to his campaign website, Martin is a graduate of Georgia Tech and now works as a purchasing manager in a “multi-billion dollar industry.” His website stresses the importance of reliable energy for Georgia’s growing economy and calls for electricity generation that’s “flexible and as U.S.-centric as possible” in light of uncertain global fuel markets, though the site does not offer specifics.

District 5

District 5 covers a stretch of west Georgia from the Tennessee border south nearly to Columbus. Republican Tricia Pridemore has held the seat since 2018 and is running for U.S. Congress instead of seeking reelection. Three Democrats, three Republicans, and a Libertarian are all running to replace her.

All three Democrats stressed that their party’s majority on the commission would bolster support for renewable energy programs.

“Two commissioners can demand better analysis. Three can stop the rubber-stamping of utility requests,” said electrical engineer and lawyer Craig Cupid, one of the Democrats running in District 5. He grew up in a working-class family, he said, after his parents immigrated from Trinidad and Tobago to Augusta. “Every penny counted,” Cupid said. “I understand when a rate increase affects someone, particularly lower-income families.” Cupid also emphasized his technical background, saying it gives him the expertise to act as a “watchdog against monopoly utilities.” 

Democrat Shelia Edwards told Grist that she was inspired to run for a seat on the PSC after getting a power bill of nearly $500. Edwards could pay it, she said, though it was “painful.” “But what about the families that are struggling to keep a roof over their head, or food on the table or medicine?” she said. “How are they gonna afford this situation?”

That was in 2022. Edwards won the party’s District 3 primary that year and was preparing to face Fitz Johnson in the general election when it was canceled because of a voting-rights lawsuit. Edwards, who has worked on political campaigns and in local environmental advocacy, is running again in District 5.

The third Democrat on the ballot in District 5 is Angelia Pressley, who told Grist she’s running because of the PSC’s “dismissal” of the public’s environmental and cost concerns. “The public has to have more voice,” she said. “There has to be more balance at the commission between business concerns and public concerns.”

Pressley said if elected, she plans to host listening sessions around the state to hear Georgians’ concerns and educate them about the work of the commission. 

Sparta residents at a Georgia Public Service Commission hearing. Charlotte Kramon / AP Photo

The Republican candidates all stressed the importance of reliable energy. They said they support affordable clean energy as part of the utility’s overall mix, but would not impose a renewable mandate.

Republican Bobby Mehan has spent most of his career in health care records technology and now works as a mediator. He said that work has taught him “to be open-minded and kind of take this all-the-above approach,” a philosophy he said is key to innovating the energy grid. In a debate hosted by the Atlanta Press Club, Mehan pledged that he would not vote for new rate hikes and pushed his opponents to do the same. 

“I’m willing to put my neck out there and say, ‘six years, not a single rate increase from Bobby Mehan,’” he said in the April debate.

When pressed on the feasibility of that promise, Mehan clarified that he meant he personally wouldn’t vote for rate hikes.

Carolyn Roddy is a regulatory lawyer who has worked for the Federal Communications Commission and on a rural electric service program in the first Trump administration. She is also running in the Republican primary for District 5 and told Grist her experience would help her keep utility costs in check.

“The Georgia Public Service Commission can do a better job of what they’re doing,” she said. “How dare you impose these kinds of rate increases when people’s family budgets are already stretched really thin?”

The commission, she said, should question and guide utilities but should not be either “a big impediment or a big rubber stamp” for their plans.

Republican Joshua Tolbert is an engineer who’s worked in several different types of power plants, a perspective he said is missing from the commission. Without specific technical expertise, Tolbert said, commissioners are less able to question and push back on proposals from utilities. That pushback is critical, he said, because Georgia Power is a monopoly, so the commission has to provide the kind of “consequences and feedback” that would normally come from free market competition.

The Libertarian party doesn’t have a primary, so the path to November’s election for Libertarian Thomas Blooming is different from the other candidates. He needs signatures from voters to appear on the ballot, though the party can collect those signatures for their slate of candidates as a whole.

Blooming is an electrical engineer who’s worked on data centers for Google and Facebook and now works for Utility Innovation Group, which builds microgrids with a focus on decarbonization and resilience. Blooming stressed that he’s not against data centers, but that problems come up when the grid can’t support them. More nuclear energy could be one route to serving data centers, he said. Blooming also highlighted the risks of relying too heavily on any one source of energy. Too much natural gas could drive up costs, he said, while overreliance on renewables could make the grid less reliable.

“You have to protect the ratepayers, but you also have to make decisions that keep Georgia Power healthy,” he said. “It doesn’t do anyone any good to just absolutely lock down on Georgia Power and then they’re not able to provide the power that they should.”

Rahul Bali contributed to this report.

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This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Energy bills keep rising. These candidates in Georgia say they can help. on May 15, 2026.

Renee Costanzo cranked on the rusty pulley with both hands, watching the greenhouse roof creak open in sections. A breeze of spring air swept over 12,000 seedlings lined up in plastic trays in the Kilbourn Park greenhouse.

Costanzo, the Chicago Park District’s only full-time employee at the north-side greenhouse, spearheads a months-long effort to grow more than 15,000 plants, including vegetables, greens, and flowers, to get them ready in time for the Kilbourn Park’s annual plant sale.

The massively popular sale, which took place earlier this month, typically draws upwards of 1,100 people every year, with local gardeners lining up around the park waiting to snatch up plants at $4 a piece. But this year, attendance broke records — more than 2,300 shoppers turned out.

“We generally start these annuals at the end of February,” said Costanzo, pointing to rows of popular annual flowers like zinnias, marigolds, and geraniums, which provide bright blooms all summer long before dying at the end of the season. “So we’ve been coddling and loving these babies for months now, and we just want to get them into happy homes.”

Volunteers at Kilbourn Park prepare for the Mother’s Day plant sale. Manuel Martinez / WBEZ

For decades, Chicago gardeners flocked to the Kilbourn Park sale to pick up tomatoes, cucumbers, and some annuals — the standard starter kit for backyard gardeners. But this year, the park responded to a relatively new demand: Nearly 1 in 5 plants for sale are native plant species that have adapted to the local climate and wildlife and are generally low maintenance. 

“Just in the last five years, people have asked for more natives, which is why we’ve been increasing our production,” said Costanzo, who experimented with 30 different native species in November ahead of the plant sale this year. 

For a long time, native plants were seen as little more than weeds, but their value has grown significantly in recent years. Other local plant sales across Chicago and the country are incorporating native species at a pace surprising to even veteran horticulturalists who remember a time when they couldn’t give them away. 

“I’ve watched this for 44 years, from almost zero to now,” said Neil Diboll, the president of Prairie Nursery, a Wisconsin-based nursery dedicated to growing and shipping native plants across the country. 

“It’s not a fad,” Diboll said. “This is a long, steady climb.”  

Last year, Diboll said his nursery experienced a 7 percent increase in native plant sales. This year, they’re shipping out about 500,000 plants and even more seeds. Back in 1982, when Diboll first started selling plants, business was tougher: The company grossed just over $13,000. These days, he said, “you can add a few zeros on there.”

That relatively new mainstream demand has been driven, in part, by concerns about dramatic declines in insect species and climate change-powered extreme heat, drought, and flooding. The caterpillars of the Monarch butterfly, for example, depend on native milkweed as a food source. But as land use patterns have changed, local milkweed species have disappeared, leading to recent declines in Monarch populations. 

The Kilbourn Park annual plant sale is now in its 30th year. Manuel Martinez / WBEZ

“Native plants have been adapting to change for thousands of years,” said Tiffany Jones, who leads habitat education throughout the Great Lakes region for the National Wildlife Federation. “They need less water, less maintenance, and they’re incredibly resilient — not to mention they help flood prevention with their deep root systems and provide habitat for all kinds of crucial species and pollinators. They’re practical and beautiful.”

In Minnesota, Becky Klukas-Brewer, co-owner and head of marketing and sales at Prairie Moon Nursery, a popular native plant nursery, said the Midwest greenhouse is shipping more plants and seeds than ever before. “In the last seven years, we have seen a 350 percent increase in sales, which is pretty awesome,” said Klukas-Brewer. At the same time, the 44-year-old nursery has seen its orders triple. She credits that success, in part, to the growing number of local plant sales across the country, drumming up interest in ecologically-minded gardening. 

For nearly 50 years, Wild Ones, a national nonprofit, has been educating the public about the benefits of reintroducing native plants back into their habitat. What started as a gardening club in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, has ballooned into a nationwide organization with over 14,000 gardening enthusiasts putting on plant sales, seed giveaways, and exchanges. The group has also been noticing an uptick in native plant sales. 

Over 110,000 native plants were sold last year through the organization’s 107 plant sales, according to Josh Nelson, development director with the Wild Ones. He added that another 40,000 native plants were distributed as part of the group’s various programs.

Lourdes Valenzuela works on transplanting young plants before Kilbourn Park’s annual plant sale. Manuel Martinez / WBEZ

As the native plant business continues to grow, the annual Kilbourn Park plant sale is helping meet some of that demand. To make it happen, a team of local volunteers came out on a weekly basis over several months to help sort, pot, and move seedlings. 

“It’s completely worth it,” said Lourdes Valenzuela, a retired schoolteacher who has volunteered at the north side plant sale for 12 years. Valenzuela is part of the Friends of Kilbourn Park Greenhouse, a dedicated group of local volunteers who fundraise to help expand the resources at the nursery. With help from funds collected at previous plant sales, they’ve been able to buy benches, a shed, and even a patio — increasing the footprint of the educational center. The goal this year was to raise $25,000, about half of the total projected cost, for a new outdoor learning center. But Valenzuela said the plant sale was a huge hit, and they easily surpassed the goal. The Chicago Park District confirmed the sale generated approximately $48,000. 

“We literally sold every possible plant, all the compost, lots of baked goods,” she said. “We’re not fighting against the climate here. We’re working with it because it’s what’s native to this area, and they’re beautiful.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Once dismissed as weeds, native plants are now flying off the shelves on May 15, 2026.

Pig gas slaughter 'backed by ministers' Channel News brendan 15th May 2026 Teaser Media

Climber Alex Honnold is best-known for his daring feats, recently scaling Taiwan’s Taipei 101 tower live on Netflix, but he’s more typically climbing some of the world’s most challenging natural landscapes. But he’s also an advocate for renewable energy, and the foundation he started, the Honnold Foundation, supports community-led solar energy growth around the world.

How do those two interests fit together? For Honnold, the connection seems clear. “Go on enough trips like this,” he said, referencing his climbing trips to remote locations, and “you just see how much it matters.”

“A lot of these projects basically help protect the land in a way that you wouldn’t necessarily assume,” he said. “Empowering local communities is always a good way to protect the land on which they live.”

Honnold was interviewed by Grist Editor-in-Chief Katherine Bagley at Grist’s live event Turning the Tide: Stories of Climate Solutions, held during San Francisco Climate Week.

In his own climbing experience, Honnold shared, he’s seen how landscapes have changed even in the span of just a few years due to rising temperatures. “A lot of things that used to be approaches or descents up snowy couloirs … those are mostly melted out,” Honnold said. “Basically, big mountains you see change very quickly right now. It’s pretty sobering.”

But he also emphasized the need for positive stories that help people understand that progress is happening. “I personally am just not inspired by pessimism at all,” he said. “The environment has been severely degraded, we’ve lost a lot for sure, but if you were just dropped onto this planet right here, right now, and you just looked around in the natural world, you’d think, ‘This is incredible.’ There’s so much life, the natural world is still amazing, and there’s still so much to protect.”

Watch the full video of the event, including Honnold’s interview, or read a few excerpts (lightly edited for clarity) below.

Katherine Bagley: You and I are about the same age, and I remember as kids growing up in the ‘80s and ‘90s, it was like the recycling ads and the oil spills and that we had to save the ozone layer. And I’m curious when climate became part of the conversation for you.

Alex Honnold: Yeah, honestly, I’m not sure. None of those things really speak to me. I think that I was probably not that environmentally aware as a child. I mean, my parents are both professors. I grew up in Sacramento, just sort of a suburban California kid. And I think those weren’t big things in my house. I don’t think either of my parents were profound environmentalists in any way, even though we went camping and stuff, but that’s kind of different. 

And so I think it really was as I started to travel as a rock climber and go on expeditions. I mean, basically I just started reading a lot more. I read a ton of environmental nonfiction and just started to care a little more and then to see a little bit more. And sort of seeing some of the links between energy access and global poverty and climate change — basically the transition to renewables. And those are all things that I was kind of interested in starting in, I guess 2009.

Basically when I started doing some of my first overseas rock climbing expeditions, I was like, “Oh, I care about the way the rest of the world works and I’m interested.” And really the more I learned, the more it was like, “Oh, this seems important. This seems like something I should be more stressed about.”

Emily [Teitsworth, executive director of the Honnold Foundation] was just talking about Kara Solar, this organization that the Honnold Foundation supports in the Ecuadorian Amazon. And this is in Guyana [referencing an onscreen photo], which is the other side of the Amazon. It’s a different river base and everything. This is called a tepui. It’s like this giant rock face. And this was an expedition for a TV show in National Geographic. But anyway, we basically took river transit boats all the way to the end of the river kind of thing, and then walked for a week through the jungle to get to these walls. 

And so, I mean, I think that has really helped inform my environmental activism. Do you call it activism? Basically, the reason I care. And it’s that you go on enough trips like this and you’re kind of like, Well, we took two-stroke gas-powered boats to the end of the fricking world and then hiked for a week into the jungle to go climb this wall. And you see how these communities — basically you just see how much it matters.

* * * 

Bagley: Have you noticed climate change or other environmental impacts that have impacted some of your favorite places to climb?

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Honnold: Yeah, I mean, one of my favorites is Yosemite. And so you don’t really see climate change impacts in Yosemite that much. I mean, other than beetle kill and obvious things like that, where you’re sort of like, “Oh, the forests have changed composition very quickly,” and drought, and fire, and those types of impacts. 

But you really see it in some places that aren’t necessarily my favorite places to climb, bigger mountains with glaciers. I don’t like ice climbing, which is a good thing, because it’s all falling down anyway. Like, that ship has sailed. 

Because actually, one my last experiences in Patagonia in southern Argentina — if anyone’s ever been to some of the climbing areas in Patagonia, the key to success in Patagonia, basically the weather’s always horrible, is to always have a whole spreadsheet of objectives so that depending on the weather window, you can choose the correct objective. If you’re like, “Oh, we have one day of marginal weather in between two storms, what’s the right objective for that?” Anyway, so we had a really, really bad weather window with marginal conditions and cold temperatures. And we’re like, perfect for an ice climbing objective, let’s go in and do an ice route up this one spire. 

And we hiked in. And hiking in is no joke. It’s like a couple of days to walk into the town and you get to the mountain and we get up there. Anyway, we got there and there was no ice route anymore. The whole thing had fallen down and it was gone. And we were just like, huh. Like, that’ll probably never reform. Like, that’s just gone. 

You see that all over the world with glaciers and with ice features. And a lot of things that used to be approaches or descents up snowy couloirs, like basically just hike up a chute in a mountain, those are mostly melted out. And so now it’s just like a rock chute with things falling down it the whole time. Basically big mountains you see change very quickly right now. 

It’s pretty sobering, because those landscapes don’t seem like they should change. Because when you look at it, you’re just like — since time immemorial, this has been these rugged mountains. And then you’re sort of like, “Oh, no, actually since four years ago, that’s completely changed.” 

I mean have any of you guys been to Chamonix? Anybody skied in Chamonix? They have a whole tourist attraction with labels and dates and stairsteps to the level of the glacier so basically you can get off and you’re sort of like, in 1850 the glacier was up to here and then you go down literally hundreds and hundreds of stairs, you drop hundreds of vertical feet down to this, like, tiny, tiny little piece of ice and, like, here’s the glacier now. And you’re kind of like, “Whoa, that’s changed a lot in the last hundred years.” It’s insane.

* * *

Bagley: I feel like there would be this assumption based on your climbing and where you go that your go-to would be land conservation, but your foundation does solar energy work, and I’m just curious how that interest came about in particular.

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Honnold: Well, I would actually say the energy access work in some ways is land conservation or ties in to land conservation in many ways. Just to go back to this project in the Ecuadorian Amazon, when you reduce the cost of river power transit, you know, basically when you make the boats solar, you don’t have to buy gas. It reduces the need for communities to cut roads through the forest. And so that is basically land conservation because once you cut a road to any of these communities, then those roads are jumping off points for illegal mining, illegal deforestation, basically extractive industries can easily take hold there. A lot of these projects basically help protect the land in a way that you wouldn’t necessarily assume. Basically, empowering local communities is always a good way to protect the land on which they live.

* * *

Bagley: You now go to a lot of the Climate Week events, a lot of these other kinds of events all over the country, and I think for a long time, there was this narrative of just everything is horrible. I’ve been covering climate change as a journalist for 20 years, and it’s a pretty depressing beat a lot of the time. I remember when you and I were talking the other week in preparation for this, you wanted to stress the optimism that there is actually a lot that we can do about climate change, and that doesn’t get nearly enough attention. So can you talk a little bit about the need for that narrative shift? 

Honnold: So I was at New York Climate Week, six months ago or whenever, last year in New York, and there were just so many questions about existential doom and gloom, or like, “Climate, it’s a lost cause, we’ve already lost so much,” blah, blah, blah. And at a certain point, you know, maybe like two days into climate week, I just kind of snapped. 

I’m personally a pretty optimistic person, and just often see the good in things, but I was kind of like: Yeah, I mean, the environment has been severely degraded, we’ve lost a lot for sure, but if you were just dropped onto this planet right here, right now, and you just looked around in the natural world, you’d think, “This is incredible.” There’s so much life, the natural world is still amazing, and there’s still so much to protect. I think we’re better off highlighting what we have and what we can save, rather than mourning what we’ve already lost. Because in a way, what’s lost is lost. You basically only have from the present moving forward. And that’s still pretty freaking great. 

I interview climate folks all the time, and one of the things that I’m often struck by is I interview a lot of marine biologists and people working in ocean conservation, and when you protect reefs — basically anytime you make something a no-fishing zone or you protect it in any way, life just returns. I mean the oceans seem to recover even faster than things on land. Every time I’m just like, man, there’s such a capacity for restoration if you give nature even the slightest chance. 

And I feel like to date, humans haven’t really given nature much of a chance. We haven’t really chosen to make that much effort yet. I mean, obviously in some cases, local communities can put tremendous effort into saving one river, let’s say. But at a big picture, humans haven’t really tried that hard yet. And I’m kinda like, man, humans are capable of a lot when we try. And so that keeps me pretty optimistic.

* * *

Everybody here knows more about all of this than I do. I just love rock climbing, and I’m trying to do my small part to do something useful in the world. But I do think that there’s something lost in the pessimism around environmental storytelling and all that kind of stuff. Just because at least I personally am just not inspired by pessimism at all. I’m kind of like, “Oh, well, if it’s already lost, then screw it, it’s already lost.” But if I’m making progress, if I am improving, then I’m very motivated to keep making progress and keep improving. 

And I mean, that’s kind of a personal thing. That’s true for training, that’s true for all the things that I do in sport and climbing. If I feel like I’m making progress then it’s easy to get up and try hard and absolutely try my best. And so I feel with environmental issues, it’s like you’re better off focusing on the places that you can make progress. I mean like seeing a river restored like that and just seeing the absolute transformation in just a few years [referencing the restoration of the Klamath River after the removal of dams], that’s incredible. It’s stories like that I think are worth highlighting.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Alex Honnold: ‘You just see how much it matters’ on May 14, 2026.