By Taylar Dawn Stagner for Grist.
Broadcast version by Mark Richardson for Louisiana News Connection, reporting for the Solutions Journalism Network-Public News Service Collaboration

Allie "Nokko" Johnson is a member of the Coushatta Tribe of Louisiana, and they love teaching young tribal members about recycling. Johnson helps them make Christmas ornaments out of things that were going to be thrown away, or melts down small crayons to make bigger ones.

"In its own way, recycling is a form of decolonization for tribal members," Johnson said. "We have to decolonize our present to make a better future for tomorrow."

The Coushatta Reservation, in southern Louisiana, is small, consisting of about 300 tribal members on or nearby the reservation, and rural - the nearest Walmart is 40 minutes away. Recycling hasn't been popular in the area, but as the risks from climate change have grown, so has the tribe's interest. In 2014, the tribe took action and started gathering materials from tribal offices and departments, created recycling competitions for the community, and started teaching kids about recycling.

Recently, federal grant money has been made available to tribes to help start and grow recycling programs. Last fall, the Coushatta received $565,000 from the Environmental Protection Agency for its small operation. The funds will be used to repair repair a storage shed, build a facility for the community to use, and continue educational outreach. But it may not be enough to serve the area's 3,000 residents of Native and non-Native recyclers for the long haul.

Typically, small tribes don't have the resources to run recycling programs because the operations have to be financially successful. Federal funding can offset heavy equipment costs and some labor, but educating people on how to recycle, coupled with long distances from processing facilities, make operation difficult.

But that hasn't deterred the Coushatta Tribe.

In 2021, the European Union banned single-use plastics like straws, bottles, cutlery, and shopping bags. Germany recycles 69 percent of its municipal waste thanks to laws that enforce recycling habits. South Korea enforces strict fees for violations of the nation's recycling protocols and even offers rewards to report violators, resulting in a 60 percent recycling and composting rate.

But those figures don't truly illuminate the scale of the world's recycling product. Around 8.3 billion metric tons of plastic have been manufactured since the 1950's and researchers estimate that 91 percent of it isn't recycled. In the United States, the Department of Energy finds that only 5 percent is recycled, while aluminum, used in packaging has a recycling rate of about 35 percent. The recycling rate for paper products, including books, mail, containers, and packaging, is about 68 percent.

There are no nationwide recycling laws in the U.S., leaving the task up to states, and only a handful of states take it seriously: Ten have "bottle bills," which allow individuals to redeem empty containers for cash, while Maine, California, Colorado, and Oregon have passed laws that hold corporations and manufacturers accountable for wasteful packaging by requiring them to help pay for recycling efforts. In the 1960s, the U.S. recycling rate across all materials - including plastic, paper, and glass - was only 7 percent. Now, it's 32 percent. The EPA aims to increase that number to 50 percent nationwide by 2030, but other than one law targeted at rural recycling moving through Congress, there are no overarching national recycling requirements to help make that happen.

In 2021, Louisiana had a recycling rate of 2.9 percent, save for cities like New Orleans, where containers are available for free for residents to use to recycle everything from glass bottles to electronics to Mardi Gras beads. In rural areas, access to recycling facilities is scarce if it exists at all, leaving it up to local communities or tribal governments to provide it. There is little data on how many tribes operate recycling programs, and the EPA tracks neither the number of tribal recycling programs nationwide, nor tribal recycling rates.

"Tribal members see the state of the world presently, and they want to make a change," said Skyler Bourque, who works on the tribe's recycling program. "Ultimately, as a tribe, it's up to us to give them the tools to do that."

But the number one issue facing small programs is still funding. Cody Marshall, chief system optimization officer for The Recycling Partnership, a nonprofit, said that many rural communities and tribal nations across the country would be happy to recycle more if they had the funds to do so, but running a recycling program is more expensive than using the landfill that might be next door.

"Many landfills are in rural areas and many of the processing sites that manage recyclables are in urban areas, and the driving costs alone can sometimes be what makes a recycling program unfeasible," he said.

The Recycling Partnership also provides grants for tribes and other communities to help with the cost of recycling. The EPA received 91 applications and selected 59 tribal recycling programs at various stages of development for this year, including one run by the Muscogee (Creek) Nation in Oklahoma, which began its recycling program in 2010. Today, it collects nearly 50 metric tons of material a year - material that would have otherwise ended up in a landfill.

"Once you start small, you can get people on board with you," said James Williams, director of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation's Environmental Services. He is optimistic about the future of recycling in tribal communities. "Now I see blue bins all through the nation," he said, referring to the recycling containers used by tribal citizens.

Williams' department has cleaned up a dozen open dumps in the last two years, as well as two lagoons - an issue on tribal lands in Oklahoma and beyond. Illegal dumping can be a symptom of lack of resources due to waste management being historically underfunded. Those dumping on tribal land have also faced inadequate consequences.

"We still have the issue of illegal dumping on rural roads," he said, adding that his goal is to clean up as many as possible. "If you dump something, it's going to hit a waterway."

According to Williams, tribes in Oklahoma with recycling programs work together to address problems like long-distance transportation of materials and how to serve tribal communities in rural areas, as well as funding issues specific to tribes, like putting together grant applications and getting tribal governments to make recycling a priority. The Choctaw Nation in Oklahoma also partners with Durant, a nearby town. Durant couldn't afford a recycling program of their own, so they directed recycling needs to the tribe.

This year's EPA grant to the Muscogee program purchases a $225,000 semitruck, an $80,000 truck for cardboard boxes, and a $200,000 truck that shreds documents. Muscogee was also able to purchase a $70,000 horizontal compactor, which helps with squishing down materials to help store them, and two $5,000 trailers for hauling. Williams' recycling program operates in conjunction with the Muscogee solid waste program, so they share some of their resources.

Returns on recycled material aren't high. In California, for instance, one ton of plastic can fetch $167, while aluminum can go for $1,230. Corrugated cardboard can also vary wildly from $20 to $210 a ton. Prices for all recycled materials fluctuate regularly, and unless you're dealing in huge amounts, the business can be hard. Those who can't sell their material might have to sit on it until they can find a buyer, or throw it away.

Last year, Muscogee Creek made about $100,000 reselling the materials it collected, but the program cost $250,000 to run. The difference is made up by profits from the Muscogee Creek Nation's casino, which helps keep the recycling program free for the 101,252 tribal members who live on the reservation. The profits also help non-Natives who want to recycle.

The Coushatta Tribe serves 3,000 people, Native and non-Native, and they have been rejected by 12 different recycling brokers - individuals that act as intermediaries between operations and buyers - due to the distance materials would have to travel.

Skyler Bourque said she couldn't find a broker that was close enough, or that was willing to travel to the Coushatta Tribe to pick up their recycling. "We either bite the cost," she said, "or commute and have to pay extra in gas. It's exhausting."

Currently, the only place near them that's buying recyclables is St. Landry Parish Recycling Center, which only pays $0.01 per pound of cardboard. A truck bed full of aluminum cans only yields $20 from the nearest center, 90 minutes away. That's how much the tribe expects to make for now.

Still, the Coushatta Tribe of Louisiana is not giving up.

With this new injection of federal money, they will eventually be able to store more materials, and hopefully, make money back on their communities' recyclables. Much like the Muscogee Creek Nation, they see the recycling program as an amenity, but they still have hopes to turn it into a thriving business.

In the meantime, the Coushatta keep up their educational programming, teaching children the value of taking care of the Earth, even when it's hard.

"It's about maintaining the land," Johnson said.


Taylar Dawn Stagner wrote this article for Grist.


get more stories like this via email

By Spoorthy Raman for Mongabay.
Broadcast version by Mike Moen for Wisconsin News Connection reporting for the Solutions Journalism Network-Public News Service Collaboration

In the late summer of 2023, thick stands of wild rice stood tall and shimmered gold in some of Lac du Flambeau’s lakes. The plant has been virtually absent in these lakes for decades, so for Joe Graveen, the sight of grain-filled stalks was a thing of joy, he says. As the wild rice program manager for the Lac du Flambeau Band of Lake Superior Chippewa Indians, a tribal band in northern Wisconsin, Graveen was seeing the fruits (or grains, literally) of hard work he and his tribe’s members had put in over the past six years.

“It was the first time that I think a lot of us saw wild rice in a while, in about 20 years or maybe longer,” Graveen says. “It always brings a smile to my face to see our harvesters’ reaction.”

The wild rice only grew here after years of grit and endurance. In late 2017, the band launched a new program to revive wild rice in some of the 260 lakes on their reservation. Leading the program is Graveen, a “ricer” and knowledge keeper who learned about the plant and harvesting methods from his elders. The restoration involved seeding the lakebeds with tons of rice seeds, monitoring water quality, fending off geese from gobbling the young rice plants, and keeping tabs on the lakes’ water levels.

Across the Great Lakes Basin in the U.S. and Canada, there’s a growing interest among many tribes and First Nations to lead efforts to revive wild rice. Closely intertwined with Indigenous culture and identity, wild rice was decimated after the arrival of European settlers. But today, many partners are supporting initiatives to restore wild rice, including federal agencies, state agencies, intertribal agencies, funding initiatives, universities, and NGOs, recognizing the grain’s cultural and ecological significance and vulnerability to climate change.

Manoomin: Gift of the Creator

Northern wild rice (Zizania palustris) is an annual wetland plant native to the Great Lakes. Called manoomin in Anishinaabemowin, it translates to “good berry” or “food that grows on water.” Legend has it that the Anishinaabeg people — a cultural-linguistic group that includes the Ojibwe, Chippewa, Odawa, Potawatomi, Algonquin, Mississauga and other Indigenous peoples — once living near the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, walked south in search of this grain following a prophecy.

“Wild rice is very important to us because of the teachings,” says Roger Labine from the Lac Vieux Desert Band of Lake Superior Chippewa Indians in Michigan, who hails from the Fish Clan of the Ojibwe Chippewa Nation. “We honor wild rice as a sacred gift from the Creator to identify where we needed to be on Mother Earth.”

The plant grows in the muddy bottoms of shallow, slow-flowing lakes and rivers. The seeds germinate in the spring after being submerged under ice and snow in the winter. By summer, flowers develop into seeds, which are harvested in late summer and early fall. The nutty flavor and long shelf life made the light-brown grain a staple in the Anishinaabe people’s diet.

“We had this in our wigwams when it was too cold to go hunt and fish and gather,” Labine says. “We could stay in and have nourishment.” A distant relative of domesticated rice (Oryza sativa) from Asia, wild rice is highly nutritious and is packed with more proteins, vitamins and dietary fiber than the former.

As a wetland species, wild rice creates a unique ecosystem, says Jonathan Gilbert, director of biological services for the Great Lakes Indian Fish and Wildlife Commission (GLIFWC), an intertribal agency comprised of 11 Ojibwe tribes. “It has a whole bunch of plants and animals and nutrients and energy flow, and it’s diverse.”

The grain is an important food source for many migratory and non-migratory waterfowl, including the locally threatened rusty blackbird (Euphagus carolinus), trumpeter swan (Cygnus buccinator) and common loon (Gavia immer). Wild rice beds serve as fish nurseries: juvenile fish feed on the insects and take cover from predators. Wetland mammals like beavers (Castor canadensis), muskrats (Ondatra zibethicus) and river otters (Lontra canadensis) all call the rice beds home. The plants maintain water quality by absorbing nutrients in the sediments and preventing their buildup.

Wild rice also plays a vital role in the ceremonies of native tribes and First Nations. “We are spiritually connected to it,” Graveen says. “It’s always been a part of who we are as Anishinaabe people.”

Too hot for wild rice?

Historical accounts suggest that until the 1800s, wild rice covered tens of thousands of acres of lakebeds in the region. However, intense logging in the Great Lakes area in the 19^th century clogged waterways and changed the chemistry of the water. Dams altered the water levels in areas with wild rice. Railroads, farmlands and other developments destroyed nearly two-thirds of wetlands in the region — a critical habitat for wild rice. Mining and manufacturing industries spewed toxic chemicals like mercury into the water bodies.

While some of these threats, such as dams and pollution, still exist, wild rice is today most threatened by climate change and the resulting irregular weather patterns it brings: rainstorms, floods, tornadoes, and loss of snow cover. A 2018 GLIFWC climate change vulnerability assessment of species important to the tribes identified manoomin as “extremely vulnerable.”

“Almost all of the concerns [that wild rice face today] tie directly to climate change,” Gilbert says. “I think one of the reasons why the tribes are so concerned about climate effects on wild rice is because they see it as kind of like an existential threat to their identity.”

Rising temperatures are conducive to wild rice diseases, such as brown spot disease, which can reduce seed production by 90%, and pests like rice worms (moth larvae). A lack of snow cover and ice, increasingly common due to climate change, favors invasive and native aquatic plants such as pondweeds, water lilies, hybrid cattails and flowering rush, which can outcompete wild rice.

The race is on to save the beloved manoomin from these threats before the plant and its knowledge keepers vanish.

Reseeding hope with restoration

For centuries, the Anishinaabe people have stewarded wild rice by perfecting harvesting techniques that ensure the annual crop returns every year. A typical harvest starts in the late summer or early fall and is a monthlong affair. It involves two people on a canoe; no motorboats, as they can destroy the rice stands. With a push pole, one steers the canoe through the thick beds, and the other bends each stalk over and taps it with a ricing stick. The ripened grains fall into the bottom of the canoe, while the unripe seeds are left behind to mature.

Although a good rice bed acre can yield more than 500 pounds of seeds, or about 560 kilograms per hectare, hand harvesting captures only a tenth of this amount. The remaining seeds fall to the bottom of the lake, some of which are eaten by the birds and fish, while others grow into new plants. But with thriving rice beds gone, seed banks have vanished, too.

Today, restoration at Lac Vieux Desert involves manually seeding the rice beds, regularly monitoring water quality and level, measuring the stem density of rice beds, and educating owners of summer cabins around the lakes not to destroy wild rice beds. The tribe has also actively engaged with federal and state agencies for monitoring, funding and enforcement against vandalism of wild rice beds.

“We’re going out there like Johnny Appleseed” — an American nurseryman fabled for spreading apple seeds wherever he went — “throwing rice out there on an annual basis,” says Labine, who is also the water resource technician for the Lac Vieux Desert Band. “Last year we put 4,500 pounds [about 2,000 kg] of rice back in.” Restorers must be patient; rice seeds can take up to seven years to germinate.

The work has resulted in 14 sites of thriving beds where members can harvest manoomin. The band has restarted ceremonies involving the sacred grain. While yields vary annually, the effort has gained momentum, with all 12 tribes in Michigan having similar restoration programs. “There’s a big movement, just like reviving our language,” Labine says.

In late 2023, Michigan recognized wild rice as the state’s native grain after years of tribes pursuing protections for it. Labine says he hopes this recognition can further education and outreach efforts. The Michigan Wild Rice Initiative, a tribal collective, is working toward developing a statewide wild rice stewardship plan by the end of February 2024.

In Lac du Flambeau, the tribe seeded 3,500 lbs (about 1,600 kg) of wild rice in the last two years, resulting in the 2023 bumper yield. The return of wild rice in the reservation has meant restarting manoomin feasts, where community members gather to celebrate harvests. Now, the tribe is looking at how to ensure the yields stay.

“We’re looking at trying to get good data, and then, eventually, we’ll develop a management plan for wild rice,” says Graveen, who’s seeking the help of computer engineering researcher Josiah Hester from the Georgia Institute of Technology.

Using sensors and artificial intelligence, Hester’s team is building wild rice monitoring infrastructure that captures real-time data on water quality, waterfowl activity, water levels, wakes from boat activity, and ice sheet thickness in the lakes. Machine-learning algorithms then churn through the sensor data, images and audio to predict the environmental trends, which, combined with Graveen’s traditional ecological knowledge, can determine if the rice beds can sustain an abundant harvest in the coming year.

“We’re building this for this urgent critical problem around rice and climate disaster mitigation,” says Hester, who adds he understands the importance of traditional ecological knowledge as a Hawaiian native. For Graveen, the real-time monitoring system means spending less time in the field. “If we can cut down our time, I’m all for it — I’m just a one-man operation right now.”

In Minnesota, the 1854 Authority, an intertribal agency working with the Bois Forte and Grand Portage bands, began a wild rice restoration program in the St. Louis River estuary. By 2025, the program aims to restore at least 275 acres (111 hectares). Besides monitoring water quality, the agency has installed nearly 50 enclosures around the beds to prevent ducks and geese from eating the plants. So far, more than 80,000 lbs (36,300 kg) of wild rice has been seeded, covering 260 acres (105 hectares). In 2023 alone, the agency seeded 12,547 lbs (5,691 kg) of the grain, covering 61 acres (25 hectares).

The agency has also started wild rice camps for students and resource managers to learn more about Minnesota’s state grain, a status conferred on wild rice in 1977. “In addition to restoring rice, we are trying to restore people’s knowledge and appreciation of rice,” says Darren Vogt, director of resource management at the 1854 Authority.

The Keweenaw Bay Indian Community in Michigan has similarly seeded thousands of pounds of wild rice seed in lakes within Baraga county over the past decade, reviving rice beds in lakes ravaged by pollution. On the Canadian side of the border, Plenty Canada, a local NGO working with First Nations in Eastern Ontario, has seeded a few lakebeds in the region with wild rice since 2018 under pilot projects.

While the ecological benefits of wild rice restoration have yet to be scientifically measured, Graveen, who fishes, hunts and traps, says he’s seen the return of waterfowl and other wildlife in the lake after restoration.

The way forward

Despite tasting success, restoration programs face funding challenges and are dependent on periodic grants for which there’s lots of competition. Often, the natural resources departments at the tribes, which usually run such programs, are short-staffed, with a handful of people managing many species, including manoomin. As most wetlands have been lost, very little land is available for restoration. But the tribes’ persistence has meant wild rice restoration is now the focus of federal and state departments.

“I’m seeing a lot more attention being paid to wild rice these days, from not only the tribes but the states as well,” Gilbert says.

For the tribes, being at the discussion table with federal and state agencies, university researchers, and funders — something that wasn’t the case for several decades — is a win. While Graveen says he’s convinced that wild rice may not return to its past glory, success for him is tribes working together on policy and management at the state and federal levels.

“It’s going to take everybody to bring back wild rice,” Labine says.


Spoorthy Raman wrote this article for Mongabay.


get more stories like this via email

Ho-Chunk Farms' annual Indian Corn Harvest is reviving and preserving this tradition for the northeast Nebraska tribe. Corn from a Winnebago family's heirloom seeds is grown organically, handpicked, harvested and processed as closely as possible to the way it was done by the tribe's ancestors.

Cory Cleveland, Ho-Chunk Farms agriculture business manager, said the Indian Corn Harvest involves several steps and several generations. He explained that after the corn is picked and husked, it is boiled and blanched for ten to fifteen minutes followed by the "wasgu."

"Then a lot of our elders like to come and do the 'wasgu.' And that's taking off kernel-by-kernel with hand and spoon. This is a time a lot of our elders will share stories with maybe some of their grandchildren that may be helping also. So, it's a really good time to connect with one another," he said.

Following the wasgu, the corn is dried on screens for two or three days and put in quart-size bags. Cleveland said the corn is then frozen and typically used in a traditional corn soup. He says about one-third of this year's 350 quarts will be distributed to folks who helped with the process.

Much of the remaining corn is reserved for another Winnebago cultural tradition.

"And the rest, at Ho-Chunk Farms, we store it, and we give to tribal members that have passed, to their funerals. On the last day of the funerals, generally, there is a corn soup. We usually give two quarts to the funerals throughout the year," he explained.

Students in Winnebago Public Schools also participate in the Indian Corn Project. Middle and high school students in the Academy program pick the corn, and after it's blanched and boiled take it back to school where they "wasgu," dry and package it. Even students as young as first through third grade get involved by helping husk.

"The husking is what takes a long time. I mean, if you've husked one yourself, you can understand doing probably three or four hundred of those. So, it's good to have their help. If we can have them say, 'Hey, Mom and Dad, I went to help with the Indian corn today,' that is what we're trying to do with the Indian Corn Project," Cleveland said.

The Indian Corn Project also contributes to the Winnebago tribe's goal of food sovereignty for its community.

Montana's Indigenous population is pushing back against efforts to limit ballot collection on tribal lands.

Many members of the state's seven tribes live several hours from the nearest polling place. The Montana Supreme Court has ruled two laws make it prohibitive for people living on reservations to reach a polling place or mail an absentee ballot before Election Day. The state is now asking the U.S. Supreme Court to review that ruling.

Ronnie Jo Horse, executive director of the group Western Native Voice, said they collect ballots from tribal residents who face transportation and other hurdles that keep them from getting to a physical polling place and added the service was very important during the pandemic.

"We had a novel virus going around," Horse pointed out. "A lot of people were afraid to leave their houses because Native Americans had a really high mortality rate than any other group in America."

The bills ended Election Day voter registration and third-party ballot collection services in Montana but the state's high court ruled them unconstitutional and stopped them from taking effect.

The American Civil Liberties Union said voters on tribal lands have "disproportionately relied on" Election Day voter registration and ballot collection services in Montana to cast ballots. Horse stressed the critical services need to be protected.

"If they did put (up) more barriers or even take away ballot collection, those will actually put up barriers for all of Montana, not only Native Americans, to make that decision and cast their vote," Horse contended.

Election Day registration has been the law in Montana for 15 years and efforts to end it were seen as measures to make voting for Indigenous people more difficult. Early voting in Montana starts Oct. 7.


get more stories like this via email