By Bryn Nelson for Yes! Media.
Broadcast version by Eric Tegethoff for Oregon News Service reporting for the YES! Media-Public News Service Collaboration

At the Fernhill Wetlands along the Pacific Flyway in suburban Forest Grove, Oregon, dedicated birders have documented more than 240 avian species. Uncommon birds like the American bittern and Virginia rail have appeared more frequently on the 90 acres of marshland since it was constructed in 2014. Human visitors have flocked to the picturesque park as well, to sit, walk, watch, and even wed.

Not bad for a wastewater treatment plant.

Fed by five million gallons of treated wastewater every day, Fernhill's constructed waterfalls add oxygen back to the flow. One million reintroduced native plants representing about two dozen species (plus other species returning on their own) remove excess nitrogen, phosphorus, chemicals, and suspended solids, while providing the shade needed to cool the water before it reaches the nearby Tualatin River. During construction, workers installed 180 logs and snags, and even varied the topographies of wetland basins to mimic the region's aquatic habitats and offer more diverse niches for marsh birds, shorebirds, and other wildlife.

The natural water filtration system fashioned from old sewage lagoons has become an "ecological bridge" between treatment plants operated by the Clean Water Services utility in western Oregon and an increasingly vulnerable Tualatin River. "I always say wetlands are the kidneys of the Earth," says Jared Kinnear, a biologist who helped design Fernhill and now manages it and the utility's other reuse projects. "We're just harnessing the process that's been going on for millions of years."

Constructed wetlands have been used for decades in Europe and some parts of the United States as natural water-cleaning systems. Amid the growing threats of the climate crisis and habitat fragmentation, they're gaining in popularity as a form of nature-inspired infrastructure that can not only prevent pollution but also create vital green spaces for wildlife and humans alike.

In 2011, after reviewing its options for a needed expansion, Clean Water Services found that an $18 million wetland buffer made good financial sense as well: It cost roughly half as much as a concrete-and-steel treatment system. "Not only did Fernhill cost less, but it certainly offered a whole lot more environmental and social benefits than other options," says Diane Taniguchi-Dennis, the utility's CEO.

Constructed wetlands require active tending, such as periodic dredging, removal of invasive species, wildlife management, and even controlled burns. But these semi-wild spaces have proven so popular that the utilities operating them have had to regularly remind visitors of their primary function: cleaning wastewater.

Wildlife Encounters

Along the Atlantic Flyway in central Florida, the Brevard County Wastewater Treatment Plant similarly transformed 200 acres of pastureland back into water-filtering wetlands in 1998. Workers constructed four marshes-each with its own small island and all separated by earthen berms-and then reintroduced more than 200,000 native plants representing 19 species. Arrayed around a central lake, the Ritch Grissom Memorial Wetlands, known locally as the Viera Wetlands, help purify wastewater that's reclaimed for irrigation or discharged into the Four Mile Canal and upper St. Johns River during the rainy season.

One scientist called the Viera Wetlands the "best place I've found in Florida for both fabulous birding and photography." Local resident Kim Englert, a health care coach, recalls seeing so many ibises on a late spring day in 2021 that the entire landscape appeared speckled white. Her favorites, though, are the wetlands' alligators. "My Kentucky friends, they flip a wig when I show them pictures of gators," she says.

In April 2023, frequent visitors were far less pleased when county commissioners announced an impending six-month closure of the wetlands to remove a buildup of muck and dead vegetation that had raised nitrogen levels past the limits mandated by the Florida Department of Environmental Protection. "Most people here don't really understand what their purpose is," Englert says of the wetlands. Through a Facebook group that she co-manages and other social media sites, she hopes to educate the community and underscore safety concerns-such as dogs getting too close to the alligators and vehicles destabilizing the berms-that could shut down public access for good. "It's a gift," she says, "not a guarantee."

In Arizona, the Sweetwater Wetlands on the western edge of Tucson have likewise become a big tourist draw. Interpretive displays at the urban wildlife habitat, park, and natural treatment system describe the water reclamation process, while a photography competition emphasizes the importance of the desert oasis for migrating and permanent animal residents.

Retired software engineer and photography enthusiast Steven Winker won a second-place award for a dramatic photo of a bobcat about to pounce on an unlucky rat. He recalls the thrill of passing within feet of another bobcat nicknamed "Mama"-so named by her many admirers because she had raised multiple litters in the wetlands.

In November 2022, about a month after researchers outfitted her with a radio collar, Mama died; researchers suspect she was struck by a car on a nearby road. Beyond an outpouring of grief, her death sparked a bitter controversy among residents who suspected that the radio collars were changing the behavior of the bobcats and making them more susceptible to harm. Tracking data suggested no ill effects on the animals, though the deaths of multiple collared bobcats pointed to another sad truth: Creating inviting semi-urban spaces for wildlife brings the animals closer not only to adoring fans but also to highways and hunters.

Restoring Nature

The popularity of Oregon's Fernhill has required Clean Water Services to defuse its own share of potential public relations disasters, like the mass die-offs of cackling geese in 2020. The birds ate fungus-contaminated grain in nearby fields and then expired in the wetlands. "We're in a fishbowl," Kinnear says, keenly aware of how the deaths could have been wrongly attributed to something in the treated water if the incident had not been properly investigated and explained.

At the same time, he has had to continually weed out invasive plants and animals threatening the site's water filtration function. The utility's proactive management, though, has created new opportunities to educate the public about the benefits and limits of nature-inspired systems, and to explore how human stewardship might nurture new ecosystems.

The Las Arenitas Wetland Project, an international collaboration at a wastewater treatment plant south of Mexicali in Mexico's Baja California state, has aimed even higher by seeking to improve the flow and quality of freshwater through the Colorado River Delta.

The river's meager flow by this point in its course, drained by chronic drought and upstream water rights, has effectively concentrated its pollution and threatened its connectivity to the sea at the Gulf of California. "Everything comes back to the lack of fresh water," says Edgar Carrera, who grew up in Mexicali and now coordinates the Colorado River Delta project for The Nature Conservancy, a project partner.

An initial 250-acre wetland created in 2007 wasn't enough to accommodate the region's population growth and the resulting influx of wastewater that is now roughly double the existing plant's treatment capacity. That wetland, Carrera says, has already become an oasis for migratory and resident birds like the endangered Yuma clapper rail, mammals like bobcats and foxes, and reptiles like chameleons. "So it is now a wildlife refuge," he says.

In parallel with upgrades to the plant's treatment process, tentatively slated for 2025, a new series of intermediate water-filtering wetland basins will significantly improve the quality of the 3.5 billion gallons of reclaimed water before it flows into the larger wetland and then into the Colorado River Delta. Improving that flow can lower the concentration of other contaminants-essentially using treated wastewater to help dilute pollution-while nourishing the downstream estuary's wildlife.

Carrera has alleviated some community concerns that the natural water purification won't be enough to clean the Colorado by emphasizing that the process will combine the filtering abilities of a more efficient treatment plant and the series of constructed wetlands to aid the ailing delta. "They are very conscious that the water, for them, means income," he says of local residents who depend upon the river for agriculture, fishing, boating, and tourism.

For many ecosystems, recycled water means life. In a lower stretch of Oregon's Tualatin River, water released from an upstream reservoir and treated wastewater from the utility's four treatment plants account for up to 86% of the late-summer flow.

Taniguchi-Dennis believes that creating "river-ready" water and a wildlife sanctuary is just the start of what might be possible with treated wastewater. Providing a foothold for keystone species such as beneficial kinds of algae, for example, could feed a wide assortment of creatures while further purifying and oxygenating the water. "What if we could create the right biodiversity within the wetland that actually amplified what the river needs to restore its health and its waters?" she asks. It's a question made possible by reimagining how the problem of polluted wastewater can become the basis for a sustainable, nature-inspired solution.


Bryn Nelson wrote this article for YES! Media.


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Since the 2020 collapse of the famed Apalachicola Bay oyster fishery, people who made their livelihoods on the bay have been counting on local leaders and scientists to pave a path for a triumphant return.

The Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission closed the bay for overharvesting, habitat degradation, the BP oil spill and more.

Betty Webb, coordinator and facilitator with the Partnership for a Resilient Apalachicola Bay, said the Apalachicola Bay System Ecosystem-Based Adaptive Restoration and Management Plan marks a milestone in the quest to reclaim the bay, giving hope to multigenerational families who were forced to find new jobs in construction, air conditioning and plumbing.

"In their mindset, that's an interim opportunity for them to survive. Some have even gone into the service industry, for the tourism," she said. "But their heart and their passion is wanting to get back on that bay. They like the freedom. They like the self-employment."

For decades, oysters drove the economy, generating an estimated annual economic output of $134 million before the collapse. The plan has five overarching goals for restoration, including implementing sustainable management practices for oyster resources while considering future conditions such as warmer temperatures attributed to climate change.

Chad Hanson, an officer with The Pew Charitable Trusts, emphasized the significance of the Apalachicola Bay System Initiative in addressing the diverse impacts of climate change, ranging from intensified storm events such as hurricanes to prolonged droughts that disrupt the bay's water flow.

"That affects where oysters can can optimize their productivity. Thus, the plan calls for looking at the modeling, including what those projections for future conditions will be, to ensure that the management of oyster reefs and the restoration of reefs are being done accordingly," Hanson explained.

The new management plan was developed over four years of collaboration and is critical to the community. Webb emphasized the urgent need to reopen the bay in January 2026 for affected families, and said even if it has to operate at limited capacity initially, she urges policymakers to ensure fair access for all.

What the extraction industry calls "produced water" is the subject of hearings this week in New Mexico.

The term applies to water coming out of the ground along with oil and gas, which can be toxic to humans, animals and the environment.

The New Mexico Environment Department has developed draft rules for the reuse of such water, while also creating safeguards.

Camilla Feibelman, director of the Rio Grande chapter of the Sierra Club, encouraged residents to support the rule.

"What this rule-making does is to prohibit the use of this produced water outside oil and gas operations," Feibelman explained. "It keeps it from being discharged in a way that would harm our surface waters and our groundwater."

A hearing by the Water Quality Control Commission at the State Capitol allows for public comments from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. the rest of the week. Even though the rule is meant to enforce protections, some environmental opponents have rallied outside the State Capitol, arguing no produced water is safe and will always pose a threat to New Mexicans' health and safety.

The rule allows for research projects on the use of produced water, as long as there is no discharge to surface or groundwater, and formalizes the approach already used by the department. Feibelman says the Sierra Club opposes the use of produced water closed-loop industrial processes, in part because the state's environmental division did not provide any substantive testimony supporting its use.

"We want to make sure that these liquids that are dangerous and filled with toxic chemicals -- even in some cases naturally occurring radioactive material -- don't intersect with any of our waters," Feibelman emphasized.

A 2023 lawsuit claiming the state has failed to enforce pollution laws while also allowing more oil and gas production is currently making its way through the New Mexico courts.

By Syris Valentine for Grist.
Broadcast version by Eric Galatas for Colorado News Connection reporting for the Solutions Journalism Network-Public News Service Collaboration

We tend to think of buildings as semipermanent structures. Once they go up, decades or even centuries pass before they come down. But when they do, it's usually under the weight of wrecking balls and sledgehammers. The shattered remains of the structures that once sheltered us are then often cast into a landfill. Each year, nearly 150 million tons of this debris piles up in dumps in the U.S. alone.

Globally, the act of erecting new buildings and tearing down old ones consumes roughly a third of all resources extracted from the environment every year and produces just under a third of all the world's waste. But several cities across the U.S. have begun to push the construction sector toward practices that keep materials out of the landfill. The goal: Reuse parts of old buildings in new ones, and recycle the rest.

In 2016, Portland, Oregon, became the first city in the country to institute a deconstruction ordinance, requiring that all single-family homes built before 1940 and slated for removal be deconstructed - that is, taken apart board by board - so their materials can be salvaged for reuse. Since then, more than half a dozen cities from San Antonio to Pittsburgh have followed Portland's example.

"Ideally, what is being pulled out of these houses is being used for their same purpose," says Stephanie Phillips, San Antonio's deconstruction and circular economy program manager. Like Portland's, San Antonio's 2022 ordinance specifically mandates that old, historic homes be deconstructed if they're coming down.

That's at least in part because the best, and sometimes only, way to get the right materials to rehab historic buildings is from a different home built in the same period. As Phillips says, "Rehabbing buildings is looked at as the pinnacle of climate-wise building."

A small number of cities go even further. Boulder, Colorado, is one of only two cities nationwide (the other being Palo Alto, California) that requires deconstruction of any and every building slated to come down, regardless of age and whether it's residential or commercial. Boulder's ordinance also includes what's known as a "mandatory minimum." At least 75 percent of the total weight of a building must be diverted from landfill through either reuse or recycling.

Jackie Kirouac-Fram, executive director of the Portland-based nonprofit ReBuilding Center, believes that a mandatory minimum is necessary to achieve the intent of these deconstruction ordinances: salvaging high-quality materials that homeowners, builders, and craftspeople can then access at affordable rates. Without this requirement, Kirouac-Fram says, Portland has seen particularly low rates of salvage. (Official figures aren't available, and city representatives didn't respond to a request for comment.)

While San Antonio also lacks a mandatory minimum, Phillips says the city's contractors have on average recovered 70 percent of a given building's weight, with over half of the recovered materials going to reuse. Phillips attributes these figures to the thorough, city-sponsored training contractors must go through in order to qualify for San Antonio's list of certified deconstruction contractors.

Meanwhile, in Boulder, despite its mandatory minimum, the city has not provided much training for the local workforce or established certification requirements, according to Emily Freeman, the city's policy advisor on the circular economy. As a result, some contractors may exploit loopholes to meet the requirements without salvaging so much as a single two-by-four, and property owners have few tools to evaluate the bids they receive. They're being asked to compare "apples to kiwis," Freeman says.

In the worst example she has seen to date, a contractor used the foundation - the heaviest part of a building - as well as patio furniture and mulched trees on the property to meet the requirement to divert 75 percent of the building's weight.

This reveals another challenge when it comes to mandatory minimums: Such requirements often don't differentiate between reuse - the ideal form of waste diversion - and recycling. For instance, if lumber isn't sorted and stored so it can later be picked up and incorporated into a new project, it might instead be sent through a chipper and processed into particleboard.

To address these problems, Freeman and her colleagues are looking to revise and strengthen some of Boulder's deconstruction practices, which could include hosting trainings and establishing a certified contractors list, similar to San Antonio's, to ensure everyone has the same playbook of best practices. Freeman hopes that these types of changes would help Boulder to achieve the vision she briefly saw realized in 2023, when the city deconstructed an abandoned hospital. Of the 65-million-pound building, the city recycled or salvaged 60.8 million pounds, or 93.5 percent of the building's weight. This included structural steel that has found its way into two new city-owned buildings: a fire station and a golf course clubhouse.

Taking salvaged materials and getting them into other buildings is what organizations like Kirouac-Fram's ReBuilding Center aim to facilitate. It stores salvaged materials that Portlanders can purchase at low-to-no cost. San Antonio has launched its own Material Innovation Center to find the next best use for salvaged materials, including bus shelters, garden beds, and affordable housing repairs.

But a final challenge remains in many of these cities: getting contractors to use salvaged materials in their projects. In some cases, the problem is a matter of ease and inventory; contractors don't want to waste time browsing stacks of mismatched materials when they may not find what they need. In other cases, builders still need to be convinced that giving old materials a second life in new construction won't compromise a building's integrity.

Boulder has been struggling to close this piece of the reuse loop. Though the city has incorporated many of the metal beams extracted from the old hospital into new city-owned properties, some leftover steel remains. City officials are still in talks with builders in Boulder to find someone to take what's left.

"It's just a matter of convincing the construction world that reused steel is going to be solid," Freeman says. She hopes that as people see other buildings standing strong with salvaged steel, they'll start to use it in projects of their own.


Syris Valentine wrote this article for Grist.


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