Tribal communities, including those in New Mexico, can now apply for grant funding and direct assistance to clean up orphaned oil and gas wells across Indian Country. The U.S. Department of Interior is accepting applications for $55 million meant to address plugging, remediation and reclamation of these abandoned wells, along with soil and habitat restoration.
Paul Reed, preservation archeologist with Archeology Southwest, said there are almost 3.5 million orphaned wells nationwide - and in the Southwest, they pose a significant threat to cultural resources.
"We have less in the West proportionally, but our landscapes are open, so I think the visual impacts, and the cultural impacts, the impacts to Tribes and folks living nearby, are just that much greater," he said.
A recent report by the group highlights the impact of these wells to frontline communities and sacred and cultural sites in such places as the Greater Chaco Landscape. Reed said New Mexico is home to some 2,000 abandoned wells. More than 400 are within 30 miles of national parks, including Chaco Culture National Historical Park.
Orphaned or abandoned wells are known to jeopardize public health and safety by contaminating groundwater, seeping toxic chemicals, emitting dangerous pollutants and harming wildlife. But Reed said public concern and subsequent government oversight is still relatively new.
"If these were put in more than 40 years ago now, or 45 years ago, they probably didn't have any environmental or cultural work," he continued. "A lot of the agencies hadn't really figured how they were going to actually manage those things."
Across the country, the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law provides a total of $4.7 billion to address orphaned wells. In the program's first phase, the Interior Department awarded 40 million in grants to ten Tribes. Applications are being accepted through May 14th.
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By Ilana Newman for The Daily Yonder.
Broadcast version by Eric Galatas for Colorado News Connection for the Public News Service/Daily Yonder Collaboration
Recycling may be a given in metropolitan areas, but in many rural communities, it is more complicated. Without the infrastructure and funding to reach isolated homes outside of city centers, it falls on individuals to try and dispose of their waste responsibly.
In Montezuma County, Colorado (population 26,248), the main issue with recycling is the remote location. Located in the far southwest corner of the state, the Four Corners region sits nearly 400 miles from Denver and Salt Lake City, and 250 miles from Albuquerque.
The isolation means that there is no backhaul trucking to the region — which is when a commercial truck can bring a load on the return trip — which would cut costs dramatically for recycling in the area.
However a new law signed into law in 2022 is supposed to increase access to recycling infrastructure in rural communities of Colorado in the coming years. The law wants to promote circular economies that cut down on waste and support recycling in rural parts of the state. A circular economy looks at the end of life of a product and helps it to be revitalized, recycled or reused instead of trashed.
The Producer Responsibility Program for Statewide Recycling Act was signed into law in 2022 and a needs assessment was published in early 2023 to assess the current state of recycling services in Colorado. Currently, Circular Action Alliance, Colorado’s Producer Responsibility Organization is working to create a program plan which is due by February 1, 2025.
But many people have already been working on the ground before to manage trash and recycling for their communities. Take Colby Earley, superintendent of refuse and recycling for the City of Cortez, Colorado, as an example. “There’s no magical place called ‘away,’” he said. Once your waste leaves your home, it has to go somewhere. Many people are doing their best to make sure that waste is disposed of responsibly.
Recycling in Montezuma County happens in a few different ways. The City of Cortez (population 8,909) has a curbside pickup program, which is free for residents. But for the rest of the county, recycling is much trickier.
In 2009, the nonprofit Four Corners Recycling Initiative stepped up to fill the gaps in recycling infrastructure for Montezuma County, with three dropoff bins around the county that, when full, get brought to the Montezuma County Landfill for processing.
Casey Simpson, president of the board for Four Corners Recycling Initiative, said that the nonprofit was not designed to exist forever. It was created to get the grant to pay for the bins because the small towns of Dolores and Mancos did not have the funding to support municipal recycling programs.
The Producer Responsibility program in Colorado will require companies to pay for the eventual recycling of their packaging which will fund recycling around the state. Other states like California, Oregon, Minnesota, and Maine are beginning to implement similar extended producer responsibility (EPR) programs.
Now, Simpson is working in collaboration with the circular economy work that is happening on a state level because of the Producer Responsibility Program. One of the ways that recycling could be increased in rural areas would be to incentivize businesses that use recycled material.
“If there was a plastic company that was taking plastic and turning it into rain gutters in Montezuma County, you would have a high demand for recycled plastics, and it would be really cheap because it would be more lucrative. You wouldn’t have to transport that plastic anywhere,” Simpson said.
Transportation is currently a big factor for Montezuma County recycling. According to landfill manager Mel Jarmon, number one plastics are currently sent to Georgia to make carpet backing. He sends out a semi-load of these every year. Number two plastics he can only send out every 15-16 months, to California. He sends cardboard and electronic waste to Oklahoma. The landfill can only recycle what they can make money off of.
“We’re a business just like anybody else in town. We’re not taxpayer-funded. We make our money on what we do here. If it’s so contaminated that we can’t at least break even or make a little bit, then we can’t do it,” Jarmon said.
For one load of e-waste sent to Oklahoma, Jarmon said it costs the landfill over ten thousand dollars.
Glass is one thing that currently does not make financial sense to recycle. Jarmon said there’s no market for it close by. But Earley at the City of Cortez continues to collect it because he hopes there will someday be a market closer to the Four Corners. For now, Earley crushes the glass himself, mixes it with street sweepings, and sells it to the landfill to create cover for the landfill itself.
Earley said that it remains to be seen what impact the Producer Responsibility program will have on Montezuma County and Cortez, but he hopes it will make it easier and cheaper to recycle in the area.
Simpson has personal reasons to continue to fight for increased recycling in his rural community. “I love where I live and I don’t want to see it all turn into a landfill. I would much prefer seeing the wild and open spaces that we have and keep the landfills as small as possible.”
Ilana Newman wrote this article for The Daily Yonder.
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By Lisa Held for Civil Eats.
Broadcast version by Brett Peveto for New Jersey News Service reporting for the Solutions Journalism Network-Public News Service Collaboration
John Zander’s family has owned a stretch of land along New Jersey’s southern coast for 30 years, but he only recently dubbed the farm “Cohansey Meadows.” Cohansey for the river that runs through it. Meadows for the term that residents of the region use to refer to the vast marshes that create a fluid transition between solid ground and the water of the Delaware Bay.
“This portion is a field, this portion is woods, this is marsh—it’s kind of all intertwined,” he explained while walking a road that August rains had turned to mud. In a nearby wooded area, insects hummed. In an open space where grasses stretched to the shoreline, ospreys flew overhead, dangling fish in their talons.
For decades, his family used the marshes for muskrat trapping and duck hunting and leased the drier land to farmers who grew corn and soybeans. But as salty water from the bay began to encroach, he realized they’d have to reimagine what the land could provide.
“As far as commercial production of corn and soy, it’s probably not viable anymore,” Zander said. As a result, he’s been asking himself, “What can we grow in these really harsh conditions? How can we turn this into an advantage?”
With the help of state grant money, Zander will be planting test plots of various tidal grasses. Unlike most crops, the grasses don’t mind being submerged and can hold salt in their roots and excrete it through glands in the blades. During storms, their dense root system slows down encroaching flood water, helps the land absorb more of that water, and prevents erosion. He plans to harvest some grasses as hay for animal bedding and weed control. The rest he’ll sell as “plugs” to other farmers to plant their own field buffers and to conservation groups for wetland restoration projects.
While the markets for these grasses are barely established, it’s one potential solution to a clear problem: In the coming years, as the effects of climate change intensify, growers in this and other coastal regions will have to farm differently. What exactly that will look like is still developing and it will likely include growing new crops in new places. Zander’s crop of choice is novel because not only can he grow tidal grasses on land where saltwater is moving in, but he can then sell them to be planted in other places to rebuild wetlands and create field buffers, protecting other farm landscapes from the same fate.
States further south, such as Florida, have been dealing with the phenomenon known as “saltwater intrusion” for much longer, and Louisiana has recently faced the high-profile threat of it disrupting drinking water supplies. But farmers in the Mid-Atlantic are likely to see it more often in the coming years. The region has been identified as a current and future hotspot, explained Chris Miller, a conservation agronomist who runs the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Cape May Plant Materials Center, about 40 miles east of Cohansey Meadows on New Jersey’s Atlantic coast.
Scientists at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) predict that sea levels along the East Coast will rise by about a foot over the next 30 years. Exactly how far inland the salt encroaches will depend partially on how effective humans are at reducing greenhouse gas emissions, as rising temperatures and melting ice sheets are the main contributors to the ocean’s expansions.
In July, a team of researchers led by Kate Tully at the University of Maryland published a paper that mapped the extent of saltwater intrusion onto Delaware and Maryland farmland on the Delmarva Peninsula for the first time. The peninsula is a low-lying land mass between the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, where farmers growing corn and soy for chicken feed increasingly find patches of their fields white-washed with salt. According to the researchers, between 2011 and 2017 the number of visible salt patches almost doubled and about 20,000 acres of farmland turned into marsh.
“Even though it’s still a relatively small amount of cropland that’s currently impacted by salt, it’s increasing exponentially because sea level rise is increasing and the number of storms we’re getting is increasing and the intensity of storms we’re getting is increasing,” Miller said of the region.
New Jersey’s farms, just to the north, have not yet seen this degree of impact, and the U.S. Geological Survey is still working on quantifying the problem in the state. But people like Zander and Miller are working to establish systems that work as they watch the issue manifest in real time on the ground. “I hunt, I trap, and I’m also a conservationist. I know the habitats. I walk the ditches. I see the changes,” Zander said.
Looking to the Past to Secure the Future
If you take a soils class in college and you talk about salinity, you’re going to talk about the Dakotas and Colorado and even California,” said Jarrod Miller, an agronomy specialist at the University of Delaware (no relation to Chris). That’s because farmers in dry, Western states have long had to contend with salt in their soil. Without regular rainfall, salt from natural processes and irrigation water sticks around and builds up, threatening plant growth.
To manage it, farmers use specific irrigation methods to flush salt out of the soil or may add gypsum, which essentially displaces sodium with calcium, to their fields. They may also plant crops that can tolerate higher levels of salt: barley instead of corn, asparagus instead of carrots.
For the past five years, Miller has been working in the fields alongside other Mid-Atlantic researchers like Tully to try to figure out how much of that knowledge can be applied to farms in their region. One important factor is that there are many different salt compounds, and seawater is an elaborate cocktail. Another is that fields where more salt-tolerant dryland crops like barley might thrive have been hard to find.
“You have this dual issue of excess moisture as well,” said Miller, since although saltwater can also enter aquifers from below ground, most of the intrusion to date has been caused by flooding from storms and hurricanes made stronger by climate change.
As Chris Miller puts it, in the West, “They’re dealing more with the salt in the soil. We’re dealing more with the salt in the water. Plus, there’s the double whammy of plants that need to tolerate flooding periodically.”
Some farmers in the region have taken to using dikes and gates that prevent water from making it onto their fields. Tom Sheppard of Sheppard Farms in Cedarville, New Jersey, is using those practices for his asparagus, sweet corn, peppers, and cucumbers, which are planted just two miles away from the Delaware Bay. “After Sandy, we raised the dikes two feet because we did get breached in in one area,” he said, referring to the historic 2012 hurricane that battered the Eastern seaboard. “It didn’t hurt us, but we didn’t want to have that happen again.”
But instead of trying to keep the water at bay, Zander’s opted to look to the region’s agricultural past for inspiration, to an approach that works with the tidal landscape.
Since colonial times, settlers along the coast cut the dominant perennial marsh grass, spartina patens, into what they called salt hay. Over the years, the construction industry has used salt hay for insulation, livestock farmers use it for animal bedding, and berry growers mulch with it, since it is naturally free of weed seeds.
But working in a marsh is difficult, and farmers often had to wait for the water to freeze before bringing tractors out onto the ice to harvest. Zander’s idea is simple: plant the grasses a little further in, on dry land, where saltwater now encroaches occasionally, making harvesting salt hay easier.
From there, he’ll bring something even newer to the old system: harvesting whole plants to sell to organizations working to restore wetlands and to farmers who want to plant barriers along waterways to slow encroaching saltwater during storms.
Studying Spartinas
At the Cape May Plant Materials Center, Chris Miller is developing knowledge and tools that will help Zander succeed.
Established in 1965, the center is dedicated to “conservation plants” and originally focused on researching plants suited to the region’s sand dunes. But over the past decade, Miller has been leading a shift toward focusing on coastal plants that can help address saltwater intrusion in agriculture. Often, the plants in question are the same, they’re just used differently.
In a greenhouse, he’s testing the salt tolerance of other cordgrasses in the spartina family. Grasses planted in a pearlite growth medium sit in trays where a system pumps in brackish water, simulating tidal flow. In a few weeks, he says, he’ll pull out the plants and measure the top growth and the root systems to determine the impact the salt is having.
Spartina patens, a salt-loving halophyte, is Miller’s standard of comparison, but he’s finding other related grasses that can thrive in a decent amount of salt. When he tested spartina pectinata, often referred to as “freshwater cordgrass,” for instance, he found it could tolerate about 15 parts per thousand compared to spartina patens’ 30. “We’re finding that many plants actually have a higher level of tolerance than what’s identified in the literature,” he said.
Outside the greenhouse, in the fields, three different tidal grasses are planted in sandy plots side by side: Avalon, named for a nearby beach town; Flageo, from North Carolina; and Sharp, from Louisiana. With climate change, he says, “we’re looking to which plants are helping solve problems in the South, because they’re probably going to be adapted here in the future, if they aren’t already.”
In this trial, he’s measuring how much biomass the three grass varieties produce, as well as the spread of their roots, and how well they perform as animal feed. One might yield more hay, while another might be better as habitat, he says, and that information will be crucial going forward. While taking markets into account is not in the Materials Center’s purview, Miller knows that whether farmers can sell the grasses they grow will be a key factor in determining whether they’ll plant them.
Just across another field from the trial plots, for instance, scientists are growing rows of seashore mallow, a bushy, salt-tolerant plant with delicate pink flowers that bloom for a single day. Miller is excited about the fact that seashore mallow is easier to propagate than some of the grasses. But researchers at the University of Delaware who worked on establishing the plant for salt-impacted farms found that it didn’t take off as an alternative crop.
Researcher Jennifer Volk said that while the team “was able to demonstrate that the mallow plant had a number of potential uses, from the seeds to the flowers to the ground-up stems, which we found to be effective as an alternative poultry house bedding, there were logistical issues with growing enough quantity of the crop in our region to develop viable markets.”
Miller and Zander are most focused on markets that are emerging to support conservation, both of the farms that are threatened by the changing climate and the ecosystems that surround them. If Zander can grow hundreds of acres of a variety of salt-tolerant grasses, he’ll be able to provide the plants that farmers growing grains and vegetables need to create barriers between the encroaching saltwater and their crops.
“We’re hoping that more and more farmers will embrace this whole idea of buffers, particularly if they can’t grow a crop on that particular land,” Miller said.
And Zander is watching closely as state and federal money flows to wetland and coastal restoration projects that aim to reduce erosion control and hold back seawater. Many of them will need plants, and he’s committed to growing them.
If it all works out, a situation born of the climate crisis could produce an array of benefits for the farmer. While his crops aren’t edible, they could protect others’ edible crops while improving water and air quality in the region and providing wildlife habitat. At Cohansey Meadows, he counts the bald eagle nests each year as the numbers tick up gradually.
“I feel so connected to the land here,” Zander says, pointing out the spot in the meadow where his son caught his first muskrat. “I really view myself as part of the whole puzzle.”
Lisa Held wrote this article for Civil Eats.
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