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Chicago Tribune
3 days ago
- Chicago Tribune
One Century, One Road
It was created to connect us, a fused chain of existing roadways many unpaved that stretched 2,448 miles across eight states and three time zones, starting steps from Lake Michigan in downtown Chicago and ending near the Pacific Ocean and Santa Monica's famed fishing pier. Route 66, 'The Main Street of America.' There is perhaps no better-known highway anywhere in the world. In its 100-year history, it has offered safe passage to Dust Bowl refugees, World War II transports and vacationing families. John Steinbeck called it 'the mother road, the road of flight.' Nat King Cole crooned about its kicks in a 1946 hit song. Disney and Pixar took inspiration from it for a 2006 blockbuster. The famed highway conjured images of quirky roadside attractions, mom-and-pop diners, neon-signed motels and art deco service stations. Each mile promised freedom, escape, adventure, exploration. It introduced countless Americans to their country, to vast lands that previously existed only in the collective imagination. Despite being decommissioned in 1985 in favor of a faster and wider interstate highway system, Route 66 continues to capture our imaginations in the remnants of its past glory that remain today. Now, Route 66 boosters in all eight states (Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California) are gearing up to celebrate the iconic route on its centennial in 2026. Ahead of next year's anniversary, the Chicago Tribune will set out across Route 66 to introduce readers to the people and places it was designed to connect the entertaining characters and roadside oddities, the business owners trying to revitalize their pieces of history and the voices that had been previously obscured in the roadway's lore. In pursuit of the unknown, we're starting our journey at the farthest point from home, in Santa Monica, and working our way back to Chicago. Along the way, we'll explore whether the highway still has the power to unite a deeply divided country and learn what it has to tell us about the current state of our nation. Share your connection to Route 66 using the form below. Your responses may be published in a future Δ
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Climate
- Yahoo
On This Date: Dust Bowl Heat, Rainfall Records Smashed
The Dust Bowl was infamous for its agricultural devastation in the Plains. It was also known for some of the most infamous heat waves, even floods, and not just in summer. From May 28-31, 1934, 91 years ago, a blistering heat wave smashed all-time May records in 11 states, according to weather historian Christopher Burt, all plotted in the map below. Highs soared into the 110s in six of those state, including Langdon, North Dakota; Maple Plain, Minnesota; and Maryville, Missouri. A 108 degree high in Morden, Manitoba, was a Canadian national May record, Burt noted. Four different locations in Michigan's Upper Peninsula hit 100 degrees on May 31. The next day, Houghton Lake set Michigan's all-time June record, soaring to 107 degrees. One year later, a pair of incredible rainfalls happened in late May. On May 30, 1935, two separate rain gauges, one northeast of Colorado Springs and another just north of Burlington, Colorado, recorded 24 inches of rainfall in just six hours. The resulting flash floods killed at least 21 and caused $8-10 million damage, among the state's biggest floods, Burt detailed in a 2013 Weather Underground blog post. Heavy rain also triggered catastrophic flooding along the Republican River in Nebraska, claiming 92 lives, there. Then, before dawn on May 31, 22 inches of rain fell in just 2 hours and 45 minutes near D'Hanis, Texas, about 45 miles west of San Antonio. That is a world record rainfall for that period of time, according to Burt. Jonathan Erdman is a senior meteorologist at and has been covering national and international weather since 1996. Extreme and bizarre weather are his favorite topics. Reach out to him on Bluesky, X (formerly Twitter) and Facebook.
Yahoo
4 days ago
- Business
- Yahoo
The one thing Texas won't do to save its water supply
This article is part of Running Out, an occasional series about Texas' water crisis. Read more stories about the threats facing Texas' water supply here. LUBBOCK — Every winter, after the sea of cotton has been harvested in the South Plains and the ground looks barren, technicians with the High Plains Underground Water Conservation District check the water levels in nearly 75,000 wells across 16 counties. For years, their measurements have shown what farmers and water conservationists fear most — the Ogallala Aquifer, an underground water source that's the lifeblood of the South Plains agriculture industry, is running dry. That's because of a century-old law called the rule of capture. The rule is simple: If you own the land above an aquifer in Texas, the water underneath is yours. You can use as much as you want, as long as it's not wasted or taken maliciously. The same applies to your neighbor. If they happen to use more water than you, then that's just bad luck. To put it another way, landowners can mostly pump as much water as they choose without facing liability to surrounding landowners whose wells might be depleted as a result. Following the Dust Bowl — and to stave off catastrophe — state lawmakers created groundwater conservation districts in 1949 to protect what water is left. But their power to restrict landowners is limited. 'The mission is to save as much water possible for as long as possible, with as little impact on private property rights as possible,' said Jason Coleman, manager for the High Plains Underground Water Conservation District. 'How do you do that? It's a difficult task.' Rapid population growth, climate change, and aging water infrastructure all threaten the state's water supply. Texas does not have enough water to meet demand if the state is stricken with a historic drought, according to the Texas Water Development Board, the state agency that manages Texas' water supply. Lawmakers want to invest in every corner to save the state's water. This week, they reached a historic $20 billion deal on water projects. [Texas is running out of water. Here's why and what state leaders plan to do about it.] But no one wants to touch the rule of capture. In a state known for rugged individualism, politically speaking, reforming the law is tantamount to stripping away freedoms. 'There probably are opportunities to vest groundwater districts with additional authority,' said Amy Hardberger, director for the Texas Tech University Center for Water Law and Policy. 'I don't think the political climate is going to do that.' State Sen. Charles Perry, a Lubbock Republican, and Rep. Cody Harris, a Palestine Republican, led the effort on water in Austin this year. Neither responded to requests for comment. Carlos Rubinstein, a water expert with consulting firm RSAH2O and a former chairman of the water development board, said the rule has been relied upon so long that it would be near impossible to undo the law. 'I think it's better to spend time working within the rules,' Rubinstein said. 'And respect the rule of capture, yet also recognize that, in and of itself, it causes problems.' Even though groundwater districts were created to regulate groundwater, the law effectively stops them from doing so, or they risk major lawsuits. The state water plan, which spells out how the state's water is to be used, acknowledges the shortfall. Groundwater availability is expected to decline by 25% by 2070, mostly due to reduced supply in the Ogallala and Edwards-Trinity aquifers. Together, the aquifers stretch across West Texas and up through the Panhandle. By itself, the Ogallala has an estimated three trillion gallons of water. Though the overwhelming majority in Texas is used by farmers. It's expected to face a 50% decline by 2070. Groundwater is 54% of the state's total water supply and is the state's most vulnerable natural resource. It's created by rainfall and other precipitation, and seeps into the ground. Like surface water, groundwater is heavily affected by ongoing droughts and prolonged heat waves. However, the state has more say in regulating surface water than it does groundwater. Surface water laws have provisions that cut supply to newer users in a drought and prohibit transferring surface water outside of basins. Historically, groundwater has been used by agriculture in the High Plains. However, as surface water evaporates at a quicker clip, cities and businesses are increasingly interested in tapping the underground resource. As Texas' population continues to grow and surface water declines, groundwater will be the prize in future fights for water. In many ways, the damage is done in the High Plains, a region that spans from the top of the Panhandle down past Lubbock. The Ogallala Aquifer runs beneath the region, and it's faced depletion to the point of no return, according to experts. Simply put: The Ogallala is not refilling to keep up with demand. 'It's a creeping disaster,' said Robert Mace, executive director of the Meadows Center for Water and the Environment. 'It isn't like you wake up tomorrow and nobody can pump anymore. It's just happening slowly, every year.' The High Plains Water District was the first groundwater district created in Texas. Over a protracted multi-year fight, the Legislature created these new local government bodies in 1949, with voter approval, enshrining the new stewards of groundwater into the state Constitution. If the lawmakers hoped to embolden local officials to manage the troves of water under the soil, they failed. There are areas with groundwater that don't have conservation districts. Each groundwater districts has different powers. In practice, most water districts permit wells and make decisions on spacing and location to meet the needs of the property owner. The one thing all groundwater districts have in common: They stop short of telling landowners they can't pump water. In the seven decades since groundwater districts were created, a series of lawsuits have effectively strangled groundwater districts. Even as water levels decline from use and drought, districts still get regular requests for new wells. They won't say no out of fear of litigation. 'You have a host of different decisions to make as it pertains to management of groundwater,' Coleman said. 'That list has grown over the years.' The possibility of lawsuits makes groundwater districts hesitant to regulate usage or put limitations on new well permits. Groundwater districts have to defend themselves in lawsuits, and most lack the resources to do so. 'The law works against us in that way,' Hardberger, with Texas Tech University, said. 'It means one large tool in our toolbox, regulation, is limited.' The most recent example is a lawsuit between the Braggs Farm and the Edwards Aquifer Authority. The farm requested permits for two pecan orchards in Medina County, outside San Antonio. The authority granted only one and limited how much water could be used based on state law. It wasn't an arbitrary decision. The authority said it followed the statute set by the Legislature to determine the permit. 'That's all they were guaranteed,' said Gregory Ellis, the first general manager of the authority, referring to the water available to the farm. The Braggs family filed a takings lawsuit against the authority. This kind of claim can be filed when any level of government — including groundwater districts — takes private property for public use without paying for the owner's losses. Braggs won. It is the only successful water-related takings claim in Texas, and it made groundwater laws murkier. It cost the authority $4.5 million. 'I think it should have been paid by the state Legislature,' Ellis said. 'They're the ones who designed that permitting system. But that didn't happen.' An appeals court upheld the ruling in 2013, and the Texas Supreme Court denied petitions to consider appeals. However, the state's supreme court has previously suggested the Legislature could enhance the powers of the groundwater districts and regulate groundwater like surface water, just as many other states have done. While the laws are complicated, Ellis said the fundamental rule of capture has benefits. It has saved Texas' legal system from a flurry of lawsuits between well owners. 'If they had said 'Yes, you can sue your neighbor for damaging your well,' where does it stop?' Ellis asked. 'Everybody sues everybody.' Coleman, the High Plains district's manager, said some people want groundwater districts to have more power, while others think they have too much. Well owners want restrictions for others, but not on them, he said. 'You're charged as a district with trying to apply things uniformly and fairly,' Coleman said. Two tractors were dropping seeds around Walt Hagood's farm as he turned on his irrigation system for the first time this year. He didn't plan on using much water. It's too precious. The cotton farm stretches across 2,350 acres on the outskirts of Wolfforth, a town 12 miles southwest of Lubbock. Hagood irrigates about 80 acres of land, and prays that rain takes care of the rest. 'We used to have a lot of irrigated land with adequate water to make a crop,' Hagood said. 'We don't have that anymore.' The High Plains is home to cotton and cattle, multi-billion-dollar agricultural industries. The success is in large part due to the Ogallala. Since its discovery, the aquifer has helped farms around the region spring up through irrigation, a way for farmers to water their crops instead of waiting for rain that may not come. But as water in the aquifer declines, there are growing concerns that there won't be enough water to support agriculture in the future. At the peak of irrigation development, more than 8.5 million acres were irrigated in Texas. About 65% of that was in the High Plains. In the decades since the irrigation boom, High Plains farmers have resorted to methods that might save water and keep their livelihoods afloat. They've changed their irrigation systems so water is used more efficiently. They grow cover crops so their soil is more likely to soak up rainwater. Some use apps to see where water is needed so it's not wasted. Farmers who have not changed their irrigation systems might not have a choice in the near future. It can take a week to pump an inch of water in some areas from the aquifer because of how little water is left. As conditions change underground, they are forced to drill deeper for water. That causes additional problems. Calcium can build up, and the water is of poorer quality. And when the water is used to spray crops through a pivot irrigation system, it's more of a humidifier as water quickly evaporates in the heat. According to the groundwater district's most recent management plan, 2 million acres in the district use groundwater for irrigation. About 95% of water from the Ogallala is used for irrigated agriculture. The plan states that the irrigated farms 'afford economic stability to the area and support a number of other industries.' The state water plan shows groundwater supply is expected to decline, and drought won't be the only factor causing a shortage. Demand for municipal use outweighs irrigation use, reflecting the state's future growth. In Region O, which is the South Plains, water for irrigation declines by 2070 while demand for municipal use rises because of population growth in the region. Coleman, with the High Plains groundwater district, often thinks about how the aquifer will hold up with future growth. There are some factors at play with water planning that are nearly impossible to predict and account for, Coleman said. Declining surface water could make groundwater a source for municipalities that didn't depend on it before. Regions known for having big, open patches of land, like the High Plains, could be attractive to incoming businesses. People could move to the country and want to drill a well, with no understanding of water availability. The state will continue to grow, Coleman said, and all the incoming businesses and industries will undoubtedly need water. 'We could say 'Well, it's no one's fault. We didn't know that factory would need 20,000 acre-feet of water a year,' Coleman said. 'It's not happening right now, but what's around the corner?' Coleman said this puts agriculture in a tenuous position. The region is full of small towns that depend on agriculture and have supporting businesses, like cotton gins, equipment and feed stores, and pesticide and fertilizer sprayers. This puts pressure on the High Plains water district, along with the two regional water planning groups in the region, to keep agriculture alive. 'Districts are not trying to reduce pumping down to a sustainable level,' said Mace with the Meadows Foundation. 'And I don't fault them for that, because doing that is economic devastation in a region with farmers.' Hagood, the cotton farmer, doesn't think reforming groundwater rights is the way to solve it. What's done is done, he said. 'Our U.S. Constitution protects our private property rights, and that's what this is all about,' Hagood said. 'Any time we have a regulation and people are given more authority, it doesn't work out right for everybody.' The state water plan recommends irrigation conservation as a strategy. It's also the least costly water management method. But that strategy is fraught. Farmers need to irrigate in times of drought, and telling them to stop can draw criticism. In Eastern New Mexico, the Ogallala Land and Water Conservancy, a nonprofit organization, has been retiring irrigation wells. Landowners keep their water rights, and the organization pays them to stop irrigating their farms. Landowners get paid every year as part of the voluntary agreement, and they can end it at any point. Ladona Clayton, executive director of the organization, said they have been criticized, with their efforts being called a 'war' and 'land grab.' They also get pushback on why the responsibility falls on farmers. She said it's because of how much water is used for irrigation. They have to be aggressive in their approach, she said. The aquifer supplies water to the Cannon Air Force Base. 'We don't want them to stop agricultural production,' Clayton said. 'But for me to say it will be the same level that irrigation can support would be untrue.' There is another possible lifeline that people in the High Plains are eyeing as a solution: the Dockum Aquifer. It's a minor aquifer that underlies part of the Ogallala, so it would be accessible to farmers and ranchers in the region. The High Plains Water District also oversees this aquifer. If it seems too good to be true — that the most irrigated part of Texas would just so happen to have another abundant supply of water flowing underneath — it's because there's a catch. The Dockum is full of extremely salty brackish water. Some counties can use the water for irrigation and drinking water without treatment, but it's unusable in others. According to the groundwater district, a test well in Lubbock County pulled up water that was as salty as seawater. Rubinstein, the former water development board chairman, said there are pockets of brackish groundwater in Texas that haven't been tapped yet. It would be enough to meet the needs on the horizon, but it would also be very expensive to obtain and use. A landowner would have to go deeper to get it, then pump the water over a longer distance. 'That costs money, and then you have to treat it on top of that,' Rubinstein said. 'But, it is water.' Landowners have expressed interest in using desalination, a treatment method to lower dissolved salt levels. Desalination of produced and brackish water is one of the ideas that was being floated around at the Legislature this year, along with building a pipeline to move water across the state. Hagood, the farmer, is skeptical. He thinks whatever water they move could get used up before it makes it all the way to West Texas. There is always brackish groundwater. Another aquifer brings the chance of history repeating — if the Dockum aquifer is treated so its water is usable, will people drain it, too? Hagood said there would have to be limits. Disclosure: Edwards Aquifer Authority and Texas Tech University have been financial supporters of The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan news organization that is funded in part by donations from members, foundations and corporate sponsors. Financial supporters play no role in the Tribune's journalism. Find a complete list of them here. First round of TribFest speakers announced! Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Maureen Dowd; U.S. Rep. Tony Gonzales, R-San Antonio; Fort Worth Mayor Mattie Parker; U.S. Sen. Adam Schiff, D-California; and U.S. Rep. Jasmine Crockett, D-Dallas are taking the stage Nov. 13–15 in Austin. Get your tickets today!
Yahoo
4 days ago
- General
- Yahoo
The land ethic of our grandparents is key to our grandchildren's future
A pasture at the home of Barry and Jane Dunn in rural Brookings. (Courtesy of Barry Dunn) EDITOR'S NOTE: This commentary is adapted from a speech to the 2025 Big Sioux Stewardship Summit in Sioux Falls. My grandfather, Claude Lamoureaux, was a cowboy and an Indian. For a boy growing up in the 1950s and '60s, that was just about the coolest thing ever. He and my grandmother, Hattie, ranched south of Mission on the Rosebud Reservation. My boyhood memories are of driving across the ranch in a two-wheel-drive, green Chevy pickup with my grandfather, checking the cattle and the windmills and making sure all the gates were closed and the fences were tight. Many times we rode horses, and from early on I saddled my own. Grandpa was never very talkative, but I peppered him with questions to the point of annoyance, and I learned by some sharp looks that I needed to be quiet. I have no memory of him tucking me into bed or telling me he loved me or playing games. That was Grandma's job. But on horseback, in his truck, around the supper table, he taught me many lessons, most of which I understand better today. I graduated from high school at Christmastime and immediately went to the ranch working full time. Sadly, my grandma died soon after, and I found myself alone with Grandpa Claude. He was grieving, and I was trying to grow up, so it was a poignant time for both of us. By then, his brown skin had darkened even more and he had wrinkles from a hard life defined by scarcity. He wasn't a tall man, but he was still rugged and straight, and his love for the land was obvious. He was a member of the Sicangu Lakota. He was born on the Rosebud Reservation south of what is now Winner, into extreme poverty and just two years after the Wounded Knee Massacre on the Pine Ridge Reservation, a few miles to the west. As a teenager, Grandpa rode in the last open range roundups in the Dakotas, clearing the reservations of Texas cattle to open the way for homesteaders. He described the landscape back then as beautiful, endless grassland, except for an occasional cottonwood grove, which was a sign of water and perhaps some shelter. Right after World War II, he bought a place called the Antelope Ranch. He used his Indian preference status and was very entrepreneurial, buying abandoned homesteads for dollars an acre. He put together 12,500 contiguous acres and renamed it the L7 Ranch, after his brand. He received that brand from his father, and I still have it. Most ranchers talk about their prize cattle and their best horses, and Grandpa was very proud of his livestock. He ran a band of mares with a stallion. But his true love was for the land. During the homestead era, farmers had plowed up nearly every flat acre in Todd County they could find. When they failed during the Dust Bowl, they left the land abandoned, scarred and unproductive. Grandpa used to say that weeds were Mother Nature's way of covering her nakedness. He found the old fields that he bought covered with weeds and annual grasses. Without understanding the modern concepts of ecological succession, he called those fields 'go back' — meaning to him that they were trying to go back to their native condition. As I reflect on that, I'm left wondering where that understanding of the power of succession, of Mother Nature to reclaim herself, came from. He also knew that planting grasses would hurry the healing, and he worked with the Soil Conservation Service, which is now the Natural Resources Conservation Service. He planted hundreds of acres of scarred and blowing land back to introduced and native grasses, way back in the 1940s and '50s. He planted alfalfa with cool-season grasses because he knew it was a natural fertilizer for hay ground, like he knew that purple prairie clover was a natural legume in grasslands. He knew the pastures needed to be properly stocked, so he was careful to put just the right number of cattle in each one. Beavers had been eliminated from the landscape a century earlier by fur trappers — some of them my ancestors — and he understood that by building a series of small dams on Antelope Creek, he could raise the water table of the entire valley, increase its productivity and provide water for livestock and wildlife. An interesting phenomenon occurred after that: The beavers came back. My grandpa didn't use fancy words when he talked about conservation and stewardship. He was pragmatic, blunt, usually quiet. He didn't mention his Lakota heritage as part of his values, but upon reflection, they were on clear display. His principles and practices are timeless and elegant. He loved the treeless prairie, and taught me to love it. One year, he won a small award from the Todd County Conservation District. He was so proud of it, and I was proud of him. My lifetime commitment to conservation was inspired by my grandfather and then solidified by education at South Dakota State University. From earning my undergraduate degree in biological sciences way back in 1975 to securing a master's and then a doctorate, I've had many opportunities to learn more about the ecology of our great state and the grassland biome that runs from Canada all the way to northern Mexico, and from the Rockies to the Mississippi River. Many years after that eventful spring and summer following my grandma's death, I saw a quote by the famous conservationist Aldo Leopold that reminds me of my grandfather. Leopold said, 'The land ethic simply enlarges the boundaries of the community to include soils, water, plants, and animals, or collectively: the land.' In short, a land ethic changes the role of homo sapiens from conqueror of the land community to a plain member and citizen of it. It implies a respect for the fellow members of the community. Leopold also said, 'Teach the student to see the land, understand what he sees, and enjoy what he understands.' In those terms, my grandfather was a successful teacher. He was an old man when he built dams, planted grass and stocked his pastures. He didn't live much longer than my grandma, because he couldn't live without her. He wasn't around to see or personally benefit from most of the conservation work that he did. He didn't have to take the responsibility to leave the land better than when he found it, but I am certain he believed he did. His conservation work and land stewardship were an expression of his values and ethics. It inspired me then and still does today. I clearly remember the moment when Grandpa's land ethic clicked with me. It was 1971, during that pivotal time I spent with Grandpa after Grandma died. It was a spring morning following some really good rains, which aren't frequent in Todd County. It was a picture-perfect scene, something you'd expect to see in a Western movie. I was by myself, atop a horse, checking fences in an area I had ridden a hundred times before. And there it hit me, as vividly as Dorothy's world went from black and white to color when she landed in the Land of Oz. We all know how South Dakota's prairie can be that earthy amber color, a warm and sun-kissed reddish brown with golden undertones. But not that morning. Grandpa Claude's hillsides were lit up. Wildflowers were everywhere in response to those infrequent rains, and it was amazing. But the experience was much deeper than that. When I looked across the great expanse before me, I could see the difference in land ethics based upon land ownership. Grandpa Claude's hills were a quilt of blossoms stitched together by sun, wind and open sky. I didn't even need the fences to mark the boundaries. The lack of conservation methods and stewardship and a land ethic contrasted drastically before me. The adjacent lands next to Grandpa's pasture were being farmed for potatoes in Todd County, believe it or not. They looked like drouth-scabbed earth — patchy, uneven, gray, brown. They looked worn and diseased. Beyond the beauty, there are important reasons why we all need those flower-covered hills. The journal Science recently reported that butterfly populations in the United States are dropping dramatically. In conservation terms, butterflies are what is known as a key species. The relative health of their population is an excellent indicator of the health of the ecosystem in which they live, and the health of all insects. Conservation, another science journal, reports that 40% of all insect species in America are on a dramatic decline. Insects help pollinate crops, and they're on the food chain for birds and other animals. They're critically important in the loop that Leopold described, because it's an interconnected world. Conservation ethics — or land ethics, as Leopold called them — are an important link in life's fragile chain, whether we live in cities or in rural settings. As I mentioned, Grandpa wasn't much for talking, but his actions and results spoke volumes. His land ethic instilled in me a love and respect for every blade of grass, every butterfly that flutters by, and even a bird's nest where we don't want it. He's the reason I brush worms back into the dirt from the sidewalk, why I pick up litter, why I recycle everything I possibly can. My question for you today is, will our grandchildren or great-grandchildren have the same opportunities? Will they experience the beauty of a swallowtail butterfly in its natural environment, or just view them in a museum of natural history or butterfly house? Will they hear a meadowlark sing or marvel at a red-tailed hawk on the hunt flying low across the prairie? I'm concerned that they will not. 'Teach the student to see the land, understand what he sees, and enjoy what he understands.' – Aldo Leopold Over the last several decades, native grasslands in South Dakota and the entire grassland biome that I described earlier have dramatically declined in total acres, and with it biodiversity, whose value we can't possibly measure. Fortunately, we know what to do. We know the basics of ecology. We know the importance of soil health. We know the principles of good range management. We know that with the right tillage systems, we wouldn't have dust storms. We know that conservation pays. We know what to do. What we need is ethics. We need core values that reflect a love for the land on which we live and receive our sustenance. But can we muster the common sense and selfless spirit of our grandparents to do that? I'm not sure. I think we need to commit again, every day, individually and collectively, to have a land ethic that expresses our care and compassion and our responsibility for the land. I'll leave you with another quote from Theodore Roosevelt, one of my favorite presidents. 'Here is your country,' he said. 'Cherish these natural wonders, cherish the natural resources, cherish the history and romance as a sacred heritage, for your children and your children's children.' SUBSCRIBE: GET THE MORNING HEADLINES DELIVERED TO YOUR INBOX
Yahoo
25-05-2025
- Climate
- Yahoo
Chicago's first dust storm in over 90 years was likely toxic and full of farm chemicals
A massive wall of dust enshrouded the city of Chicago recently, forcing a ground stop at the Midwestern hub's airports and stunning the city's more than 2.6 million residents. But, while sudden dust storms can be dangerous, the lesser known harms lie in the windswept particles themselves — with the Chicago dust storm likely to contain lead, farm chemicals and particles that aggravate respiratory conditions such as asthma. 'I'm sure people will have some health issues after it,' said Karin Ardon-Dryer, an assistant professor at Texas Tech University, said of Saturday's event. Carried by strong winds and an approaching thunderstorm, the ominous Illinois cloud brought near-zero visibility to highways in just a matter of minutes. People received emergency warnings on their phones from the local National Weather Service office. Local forecasters had anticipated the blowing dust days earlier. 'We definitely had awareness that there was a possibility of some blowing dust. But, the fact that it got into downtown Chicago is what really surprised us,' Eric Lenning, the meteorologist-in-charge at the National Weather Service's Chicago office, told The Independent. 'It's kind of unprecedented. At least, in our generation, if not earlier,' he said, noting that the Midway Airport had dropped to a quarter mile of visibility with a wind gust of 60 miles per hour. Haboobs, another term for intense dust storms, can occur anywhere in the U.S., but are most common in the Southwest. Dusty El Paso, Texas, has seen 10 just this year, according to Inside Climate News. So far 2025 is only trailing the Dust Bowl years of 1935 and 1936. Last Saturday's storm started near Bloomington, Illinois, before traveling northeastward. It was the first such storm of this magnitude to hit the Windy City since the Dust Bowl, in the early-to-mid-1930's – the first in 91 years. With dust storms come particulate matter, known as PM.10 and PM2.5. PM2.5 are the same polluting particles in wildfire smoke, that have been tied to increased emergency department visits. In addition to the expected impacts on the respiratory system and for people with conditions like asthma, there are cardiovascular and pulmonary effects. Like other blowing dust, the composition of the Illinois dust could include heavy metals. Lead exposure is another concern, according to U.C. Merced researcher Estrella Herrera. Exposure can result in reproductive issues, high blood pressure, hypertension, nerve disorders, muscle and joint pain, and memory and concentration problems in adults. In children, it can lead to hearing problems, slowed growth, headaches, learning and behavioral difficulties, lowered IQ, and damage to the brain and nervous system. 'There's lead. It looks like it's everywhere in Chicago. So, that can be picked up and we can breathe it. It not only goes to the lungs but also goes to the … veins. It can travel the whole body,' she said. Pesticides used in agricultural practices are also concerning. In 2019, there was a high complaint of the misuse of pesticides in Illinois, she noted. It decreased last year, but is still there. Those pesticides, carried in the dust, could cause skin irritation, neurological and respiratory problems, and increase the risk of cancer and other chronic conditions. The solution to reducing exposure lies at Illinois farms. 'In a place like Illinois where the source of the dust is agricultural … trends in dust can be very strongly controlled by changing farming practices,' Stuart Evans, an assistant professor at the University of Buffalo said. 'If you change how you till the soil or when you till the soil or whether you have a windbreak or whether you use a land cover to hold the soil down. There are lots of human choices that go into affecting how much dust there is in the eastern part of the U.S.' There's lead. It looks like it's everywhere in Chicago. So, that can be picked up and we can breathe it. Estrella Herrera, a researcher at U.C. Merced But, farms aren't the only way communities may be threatened. Kevin Perry, a professor of atmospheric science at the University of Utah affectionately known as 'Dr. Dust,' knows that well. He's experienced 10 dust storms on the western state's Great Salt Lake, that he said felt 'like you're getting sandblasted.' Perry's studied the toxic dust coming from Utah's lakebed. It's full of cancer-causing arsenic, mercury, and a dozen other metals. Exposure can lead to a severe medical response, and people should stay inside if they can, he pointed out. 'If those metals make it to the surrounding communities frequently and at high enough concentrations, then it could lead to a rise in the rate of certain types of cancer. Skin cancer, lung cancer, and bladder cancer are the most commonly associated with arsenic,' Perry said. As the lake continues to dry up due to climate change, certain parts are getting even dustier. The frequency of local dust storms is expected to increase. The most recent storm was at the end of last month, according to ABC 4. 'Most of the time, people will notice a dust storm, but I'd say a lot of the time that they're completely unaware that dust events are happening,' he added. Climate change is making the droughts that can contribute to the formation of dust storms longer and more severe. Ardon-Dryer said modeling work shows there's a 'very strong link' between dust storms and climate change, and this year is expected to be a particularly dry summer for the West. Climate exchange has contributed to a process known as 'desertification,' according to David Lerach, an associate professor at the University of Northern Colorado. Earth's major drylands have 'been trending toward becoming even dryer.' 'As a result, these regions are more prone to future dust storms,' he noted. 'However, individual dust storms occur on relatively small scales and only when multiple ingredients line up, including strong wind events.' The future of dust in the U.S. remains unclear. What is certain, Merced assistant professor Yemi Adebiyi told The Independent, is that it can be everywhere. Dust travels across oceans and continents, reaching from China to the Pacific Northwest and from the Sahara Desert to Texas. 'What is happening in one place has connections to what is happening everywhere else – even if you can't see it,' he said.
