A great deal is at stake in next week’s midterm elections. The partisan makeup of the new Congress will shape future spending bills, congressional investigations, and judicial nominations, among other things.

And yet, the most consequential bill of the next 12 months — and the one that speaks most directly to voters’ concerns about the cost-of-living — might well pass before the new Congress is seated.

The Bipartisan American Affordability and Jobs Act of 2026 (BAAJA) could dramatically reshape America’s energy system. And the bill’s supporters plan to pass it during the House and Senate’s lame-duck session — the months between next week’s elections and the new Congress’s arrival. 

The bill is long and complex, revising the rules governing everything from how ocean-powered turbines are licensed to what some geothermal plants must pay in royalties. 

That said, the legislation’s fundamental aim is simple: to make building all forms of energy infrastructure easier. 

The BAAJA has united fossil fuel companies and green energy firms in its favor — while cleaving the climate movement in two.

Some climate hawks contend that the legislation pares back vital environmental regulations, while clearing the way for new gas pipelines and power plants that will drive up America’s emissions. “This is not the permitting deal that we were promised,” Jeremy Symons, president of the Center for Energy and Environmental Analysis, told me, citing its “historic environmental protection rollbacks.”

Others insist that the bill is a net-win for decarbonization. In their account, permitting reforms will do more to facilitate a buildout of green energy than to lock in America’s dependence on fossil fuels. 

“Fossil is the incumbent technology and fuel mix,” Jane Flegal, a senior fellow at the center-left Searchlight Institute, said. “A system that makes it easier for everyone to build should advantage the nonincumbent.”

I think Flegal’s side has this right. The Bipartisan American Affordability and Jobs Act will likely help renewables erode fossil fuels’ share of the electricity market. By itself, the legislation will not ensure a timely transition to a green electricity system. But it will get us a little further down that road, while also making energy more affordable for US consumers — which might well be the midterm electorate’s top priority.

This said, the current draft of the bill does contain one potentially major — and seemingly, accidental — flaw. Assuming Congress fixes that issue, climate hawks should join hands with Big Oil and push for the BAAJA’s imminent passage.

A carbon-free electric grid requires a lot of infrastructure 

The climate case for permitting reform begins with a simple observation: If you want to decarbonize America’s energy grid, you need to build a metric fudge-ton of new infrastructure.

Today, low-carbon energy sources provide about 43 percent of our nation’s electricity. Thus, even if America embraced “degrowth” — and froze its electricity consumption at current levels — zeroing out the power sector’s carbon emissions would require constructing a gargantuan number of new wind, solar, battery storage, and geothermal (and/or nuclear) projects. 

But of course, America is not actually going to freeze its use of electricity. And mainstream climate hawks don’t even want it to. After all, if every SUV owner replaces their gas guzzler with an EV, then demand for electricity will rise. And decarbonizing home heat or heavy industry will have the same effect. Indeed, to an extent, this basic process is already playing out.

“We’re seeing quite rapid demand growth,” Flegal said. “And that is not only — or even primarily — because of data centers. It’s because of broader structural trends toward electrifying our economy and onshoring manufacturing.”

Taking demand growth into account, a study from the National Renewable Energy Laboratory (NREL) estimated that getting to a carbon-free electric grid by 2035 would require generating roughly 2,000 gigawatts of wind and solar energy; today, we generate roughly 396 gigawatts. 

The challenge appears even more formidable when measured in land. According to Princeton’s 2021 Net Zero America estimate, in a “high electrification” scenario, the US will need wind and solar developments that collectively span nearly 600,000 square kilometers of land — roughly the size of California and Washington state combined.

And even this may undersell the scale of the task. Achieving net zero does not only require constructing immense quantities of wind turbines and solar panels — complemented by battery storage and firm power sources like nuclear or geothermal — but also a vast network of new transmission lines.

America’s transmission infrastructure is already inadequate to our current electricity needs. But a carbon-free grid would demand far more high-voltage lines than today’s. This is because fossil fuel plants are more geographically flexible than renewable ones. Per unit of power generated, gas plants require a small fraction of the land that wind and solar do. And in regions with mature pipeline networks, gas plants can be located in a wide range of places. For these reasons, it’s not that difficult to site carbon power facilities near major population centers or existing transmission lines.

By contrast, wind and solar farms need to be located in areas with both favorable weather conditions and a great deal of affordable land. Such sites are often far from the urban areas where electricity is most needed. Therefore, to replace fossil fuels with renewable energy, America will need a lot more transmission lines. According to NREL, to achieve a 100 percent clean electric grid by 2035 would require building between 1,400 and 10,000 miles of high-capacity transmission lines annually; in 2024, America built just 888 miles.

Given all this, a permitting system that’s biased toward stasis is one that’s biased toward fossil fuels: The harder it is to build new power plants and transmission lines, the longer our electric grids will need to rely on carbon energy.

This world was built for fossil fuels

Alas, the current permitting regime does, in fact, make building power infrastructure really hard.

There are myriad regulatory obstacles to energy development at the state, local, and federal levels. But one major hurdle is the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA), a law that requires federal agencies to study the ecological consequences of projects before authorizing their construction. 

When first enacted, NEPA was not intended to dramatically impede infrastructure development. Indeed, the law does not actually hold proposed projects accountable to any particular environmental standard; it merely requires that a thorough study of the relevant ecological effects be carried out. 

But litigators successfully turned NEPA into a tool for obstructing projects — one used by both sincere environmentalists and opportunistic NIMBYs. Such lawyers argued that if the government’s study of a development failed to account for some significant environmental impact, then its authorization was invalid and needed to be redone. When courts started accepting this argument, federal agencies began drafting more and more comprehensive environmental impact statements (EIS), in hopes of preempting legal challenges. In the early 1970s, an EIS could be as short as 10 pages; by the 2010s, the average statement had ballooned to 661.  

Such extravagant due diligence takes time. As of 2024, the median federal EIS took more than two years to complete. And even so, NEPA lawsuits have continued to flourish.

A Stanford study published in 2023 examining 355 major infrastructure developments found that 28 percent of the projects requiring an EIS ended up facing litigation before construction. And the median NEPA lawsuit takes 19 months to resolve — despite the fact that, in the vast majority of cases, courts ultimately fail to identify any legal flaw requiring a new study, according to an analysis from the Breakthrough Institute. All this doesn’t merely slow projects down; by driving up expected costs, it also prevents many from being pursued in the first place.

A second obstacle to energy development is the exhaustive — yet somewhat anarchic — process for permitting interstate transmission lines. These lines must generally secure approval from authorities in every state whose borders they cross. The federal government already recognizes the impracticality of this arrangement when it comes to natural gas infrastructure: Uncle Sam has claimed the authority to site an interstate natural gas pipeline, in defiance of states’ wishes. But Washington lacks similar powers with respect to transmission projects.

High-voltage lines are further stymied by an absence of procedures for divvying up their costs. Over time, a single transmission project can lower electricity prices across several states. But precisely which jurisdictions will derive the most benefit isn’t always clear ahead of time. And this makes it hard for utilities to agree on how to allocate the lines’ upfront costs, which can nip the developments in the bud.

How the permitting reform bill addresses these problems

The Bipartisan American Affordability and Jobs Act tackles both of these barriers to energy deployment (along with many others).

To clear the way for new high-voltage lines, the bill empowers the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) to overrule states that reject or obstruct new transmission projects. (Technically, FERC already has this authority in certain designated corridors. But current restrictions on this power are so binding that the agency has never actually sited a transmission line over state opposition in practice.)

As importantly, the legislation requires regional grid planners to adopt a common set of methods for estimating which jurisdictions will benefit most from a new transmission line (and thus, how much their respective utilities should chip in for it). This will hopefully foster greater consensus. But if it doesn’t, the bill opens up an alternative path to approval: Developers can go above the regional planners’ heads and ask the federal government to approve the line and impose a cost-allocation scheme.

Meanwhile, the legislation also constrains the reach of NEPA litigation. Under current law, after an environmental review is completed, plaintiffs can file lawsuits over that review’s purported flaws for up to six years. Under the BAAJA, they’d have only 150 days. Plaintiffs would also be required to demonstrate direct harm and show that they raised their objections during the review’s public comment process. Most consequentially, the law forbids judges from freezing projects solely because their environmental impact statements were inadequate. Instead, construction would be allowed to continue while federal agencies corrected their review’s deficiencies.

Cutting red tape is good for green energy

By reducing our permitting system’s bias toward the status quo, these reforms make the green transition a bit more possible. Renewables are rapidly growing more cost-competitive. And battery technology is steadily advancing. In a world where new energy infrastructure is relatively easy to build, green power has a good chance of dominating grids in the long run.

But there’s also cause for thinking that the BAAJA’s reforms will disproportionately benefit green projects in the near term. 

With transmission, the case is simple: When you look at today’s interconnection queue — which is to say, the backlog of projects seeking connection to the grid — you see that wind, solar, and storage (an enabling technology for weather-dependent renewable power) account for nearly 85 percent of pending capacity. Building out transmission infrastructure should reduce such backlogs, primarily benefiting green technologies in the process.

And the NEPA reforms are likely to benefit renewables more than fossil fuels, even in the short run. To see why, consider the following:

• As mentioned, solar and wind are extremely land-intensive. The former covers between 10 and 20 times as much ground as a typical gas plant (even when drilling needs are taken into account), in order to generate the same amount of energy; wind farms can require up to 200 times as much. 
• Many of the areas that are best-suited to renewable generation — those with abundant sunlight, wind, and open space — are in the western United States, where the federal government owns a large share of all undeveloped land.
• If an energy project is built on federal land, it must go through the NEPA process.

For these reasons, carbon energy development probably isn’t as burdened by NEPA as the renewable kind. Gas and coal plants just don’t need as much land in general — and less federally owned western acreage in particular. 

According to Daniel Palken, an energy expert at the philanthropy Arnold Ventures, NEPA’s suppressive impact on green development is well-illustrated by any map of wind and solar power in the US. (Disclosure: Vox has received a grant from Arnold Ventures. This story was not funded by that grant, and Vox has full discretion over the content of its reporting.)

“If you look at where the wind and solar congregates, it carefully builds in the negative spaces between where all the federal land is out west,” Palken told me. “Most of the West is de facto off-limits because they just don’t want to go through the process.”

“The NEPA provisions are described as Republican asks,” he added. “But it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that they asymmetrically aid renewables.”

More broadly, the notion that a lax permitting environment can enable a rapid expansion of green energy — and with it, a shift away from carbon power — isn’t just some distant hypothetical. Rather, that scenario has already played out in one of America’s most pro-oil states.

Texas has scant federal or state-owned lands and no NEPA-like environmental review process. “They’re the only state where you don’t need siting permission from either the state or localities to site a large energy project,” Palken said. “And they have had very forward-looking, long-range transmission planning policies.”

Thanks in part to this permitting environment, wind and solar power have flourished in the Lone Star State, rendering its electric grid far less carbon-intensive. In 2003, natural gas and coal generated 86 percent of the power on Texas’s main grid, while wind and solar supplied less than 1 percent. By 2025, renewables’ share had soared to nearly 38 percent, while fossil fuels’ had fallen to 54 percent.

The real problem with the BAAJA

To be sure, Texas is no climate hawk’s idea of utopia. Its permissive regulatory regime has enabled a remarkable green buildout. But by failing to regulate carbon pollution, that regime has also allowed a rise in Texas’s overall emissions, as gains in population, prosperity, and industrial investment have led to higher electricity consumption.

Given this, environmentalists reasonably deem permitting reform inadequate for achieving timely decarbonization. 

“Clean energy will not win in the marketplace at the scale and speed needed unless fossil fuels are held accountable for their pollution,” Symons, of the Center for Energy and Environmental Analysis, told me. “Gas and clean energy are growing hand in hand.”

Such concerns animate environmentalists’ objections to the current bill. Two of their complaints warrant attention here — the first because it is widely held but unpersuasive, the second because it is compelling but easily addressed.

Environmentalists’ less convincing objection to the Bipartisan American Affordability and Jobs Act goes like this: Democrats have no good reason to accept the current legislation’s trade-offs. After all, the party will almost certainly have more power in the next Congress than it does in today’s. With control of the House — and perhaps also the Senate — Democrats would have more leverage in negotiations. And they could use this clout to secure permitting relief for green energy projects without throwing as many bones to Big Oil.

“A system where you’re allowed to build the most economic energy resources with fewer encumbrances, fewer delays, and fewer restrictions is, almost by definition, a more affordable system.”

Daniel Palken, energy expert

But there are a couple of problems with this reasoning. For one, permitting reform will still require President Donald Trump’s sign-off in 2027, even in Democrats’ rosiest midterm scenario. And it isn’t remotely clear that the White House will feel compelled to offer Democrats a more environmentally friendly permitting reform bill just because the party captured Congress (especially since the Democratic majorities will likely be inundating the administration with subpoenas and corruption investigations). 

For another, however imperfect the legislation may be, it still creates a permitting environment that’s more favorable to green development than the status quo. If Congress passes permitting reform now, the green buildout will likely be further along by 2029 — or whenever Democrats next take full control of the government, at which point they can tweak permitting and environmental rules how they see fit.

The more compelling critique of the BAAJA concerns its “project certainty” provisions. Ironically, this part of the bill was actually a Democratic priority. And it was conceived as a response to the Trump administration’s capricious cancellation of renewable energy permits. 

Essentially, the “project certainty” section would prohibit federal agencies from revoking or modifying previously issued permits — or “otherwise interfering with the construction or operation” of permitted projects, unless they uncover a violation of existing law.

But some environmental lawyers fear that the bill’s language is vague and broad enough to threaten the EPA’s future rulemaking authorities: If a Democratic administration tightened air pollution standards, that might “interfere with the construction or operation” of a permitted gas plant. Courts might therefore rule that such regulations are unlawful. 

This is genuinely concerning. But it would also be easy for legislators to preempt this scenario with a few tweaks to the bill’s wording. 

“I think there is a pretty narrow technical fix to be made that ensures the project certainty section is doing what the drafters wanted it to do,” Flegal said, “which was not to prevent future regulatory action but just to make it harder to rescind legally issued permits.”

When in doubt, err on the side of lowering energy costs

Assuming the “project certainty” details are ironed out, the BAAJA should be good for the climate. And it’s all-but guaranteed to be beneficial for consumers. 

According to one analysis, the legislation’s transmission provisions alone would save US households well over $1.1 billion annually on their electric bills. 

Further, even the bill’s most regrettable consequences from a climate perspective — such as its facilitation of new natural gas pipelines — would likely be positive for affordability. In particular, such infrastructure could help ease high home heating costs in colder, energy-scarce states like Maine — an issue that some Democratic candidates are explicitly running on.

“A system where you’re allowed to build the most economic energy resources with fewer encumbrances, fewer delays, and fewer restrictions is, almost by definition, a more affordable system,” Palken said.

Thus, to green America’s grid — and save Americans’ money — Congress needs to cut red tape. They should waste little time in doing so.

When millions of voters fill out their ballots in November, they won’t just be choosing elected representatives. Many states are offering the chance to impact conservation and wildlife as well, through ballot measures focused on things like dedicating more money to habitat protection or mitigating the impacts of climate change. One could even reshape wildlife management in one of the country’s most picturesque mountain states — and also lead to the indiscriminate deaths of all kinds of wild animals. 

And while ballot measures might seem like small potatoes in the grand scheme of electoral politics, they could have an outsized impact this year. The Trump administration has been systematically rolling back protections for endangered species, taking a hammer to longstanding pillars of climate regulation, and cutting funding to agencies like the National Park Service and National Forest Service, both of which oversee vast stretches of wildlife habitats. In many cases, states have had to step up, putting more resources into conserving the habitats and species within their borders, and ballot measures can help shape those decisions. 

Here are the seven ballot measures that could transform ecosystems across the country this election: 

California — Proposition 45: Cutting pesky environmental reviews, also maybe cutting habitats  

This ballot measure would shorten environmental review periods for “essential projects” like housing, water systems, clean energy, and medical facilities, among others. In a state that’s been struggling to build what it needs fast enough, this could help speed essential clean energy projects that could help slow climate change. On the other hand, reducing California Environmental Quality Act review time, as this proposition would do, could also lead to increased habitat destruction, leading advocacy organizations like the Sierra Club to oppose it. 

Georgia — Amendment 1: Tax breaks for conservation land (maybe)

This amendment might seem a little in the weeds — and mostly in the interest of farmers and ranchers looking for tax breaks. But it would double (from 2,000 acres to 4,000 acres) the amount of land an owner can get tax breaks from if they protect it under the state’s Conservation Use Valuation Assessment program. As Yanshu Li, an Associate Professor of Forest Economics at the University of Georgia, told me, the amendment could incentivize landowners to set aside larger tracts of their property for wildlife habitat conservation, which would benefit species like the nine-banded armadillo and the northern bobwhite quail that call these habitats home. 

Massachusetts — Question 6: A fund for nature

Question 6 would create a “Nature for All Fund,” routing existing taxes on sporting goods, recreational vehicles, and money spent at golf courses to conservation. That fund could then be used on natural resource conservation, making it the first time the state has a dedicated funding source for conservation projects.

Colorado — Proposition 137: More money for restoration and wildfire prevention

This proposition, similar to Massachusetts’, would direct existing sales taxes on sporting goods to a state fund dedicated to conservation and wildfire prevention. In a state where wildfires have torn through more than 2 million acres in the past decade, dozens of conservation groups are supporting this measure to protect habitats and species.

Arkansas — Issue 4: Waterworks and waterways 

Here, voters are being asked to approve up to $500 million in bonds that can be used to fund water-related infrastructure projects like water treatment, waste disposal, and wetlands infrastructure. A boost to wetlands under the Arkansas proposal could help animals that live in those habitats, which are often overlooked in this region. 

Rhode Island — Question 5: New money for climate resilience and habitat protection

This measure would allow for $55 million in bonds to fund environmental and recreational projects. The largest chunk of this change — $25 million — would go to helping to protect the state from the impacts of climate change. Another $7 would be devoted to protecting Narragansett Bay and its watersheds, which would include funding to “restore natural habitats and control invasive aquatic plants,” according to the Rhode Island Current. 

These ballot measures are all relatively straightforward so far, but there’s one question up to voters this fall that puts wild animals front-and-center — and is splitting hunters and anglers down an ethical centerline. Which takes us back to Colorado: 

Colorado — Amendment 83: A constitutional right to hunt…traditionally

On its surface, this amendment seems fairly innocuous. It asks voters to enshrine “the right to hunt, fish, and harvest fish and wildlife by traditional methods” in the state’s constitution. Hunting and fishing are already big in Colorado, and they’re protected by statute, so this may not seem like a major change. But, as Rebecca Niemiec, co-director of Colorado State University’s Animal-Human Policy Center and a Colorado Parks and Wildlife commissioner, speaking for herself, told me, neither the text of the bill nor its proponents define what “traditional methods” of hunting and fishing would be allowed under this amendment.

“Read plainly, traditional methods could be interpreted to include practices like poisoning, leg hold traps, gill nets, or baiting and hounding,” Niemiec said. Many of these practices injure or maim animals, including ones that aren’t targeted: Steel-jawed traps and poisons don’t discriminate between, say, a deer, a wolf, and a lynx. All of these practices have been outlawed in Colorado over the years, either through other ballot measures or regulatory changes; in 1992, for example, Coloradans voted to ban hunting bears using bait and hounds, and four years later they banned leg-hold traps and snares. 

The new amendment also continues on to propose: “establishing hunting and fishing as the preferred means of managing fish and wildlife populations.” This would leave far less room for wildlife agencies like CPW to make nuanced decisions or roll out alternative programs, like birth control or animal relocation. It also reduces their ability to take into account the preferences of people who value wildlife for reasons other than hunting. 

“Biological science can inform decisions about how many animals can be killed without threatening a population,” Niemiec said. “But it can’t tell us what hunting practices are ethical, or how to balance hunting opportunities with the public’s desire to see wildlife alive — and protected from unnecessary suffering.” 

The push for these constitutional protections, Niemiec told me, is part of a larger backlash against conservation groups. But in this case, it’s not as simple as hunter vs. non-hunter: Plenty of hunters and anglers support taking ethical considerations into account when making decisions about how to manage wildlife, and some hunting groups in Colorado have publicly spoken out against the amendment. 

“If we’re going to enshrine anything in the Constitution, it should say we should be balancing the diversity of public interest in wildlife in all of our management decisions,” Niemiec said. “We need innovative methods, not traditional methods, if we’re going to deal with the complex challenges that our wildlife is facing moving forward in the state and throughout the country.”

When the sun goes down, the wind picks up in central New Mexico, whipping through arid canyons with a ghostly howl that for centuries, locals have likened to the wails of the folkloric ghost La Llorona. 

A few hours east of Albuquerque, this June, those gusts began powering the largest wind farm this continent has ever seen, twirling over 900 colossal steel turbines. Each is as tall as the Statue of Liberty, scattered across a patch of desert roughly the size of Chicago. They plug into a 550-mile transmission line stitched across the Southwest and are now powering over one million homes — as far away as California. 

The SunZia Wind and Transmission project is a rare 21st-century triumph of American infrastructure, an engineering marvel that generates more electricity than the Hoover Dam. When the turbines came online this spring, they immediately broke records for wind-generated power in California’s energy supply, where solar power may rule the day, but the winds of New Mexico increasingly fuel the night.

After years of stagnant power growth, the US is absolutely starving for more electricity, with demand projected to rise by 25 percent by the end of this decade, and a staggering 78 percent by 2050. Enormous as this challenge might seem, it may ultimately be the catalyst the country needs to dramatically dial up its renewable energy infrastructure, so that the years to come are powered not by gas or coal, but by clean energy sources like the sun and the wind. By next summer, the project will have prevented about 9 million metric tons of carbon dioxide from entering the atmosphere, according to Pattern Energy, the project’s developer. 

For decades, however, it seemed the project would remain little more than a spectral dream. 

“It works!” This was the call Hunter Armistead, Pattern’s CEO, remembers getting from his head engineer when the turbines came online for the very first time. “We were creating power, and it was showing up 550 miles away in Phoenix, almost as if it was magic.” During the ribbon-cutting for the wind farm, some construction workers showed off massive new turbine tattoos. “It’s their pride that for the rest of their lives, they can drive by and tell their kid, ‘I did this,’” Armistead said.

But SunZia almost didn’t get built at all. It is not just the project’s scale that makes it remarkable, but the utter morass its developers slogged through to bring it online. The project spanned five presidential administrations, an ownership change, a major reroute, and a standoff with a US military base. 

It also involved a series of lawsuits from local tribal communities and environmental advocates, some of which remain pending even as the turbines now finally whirl. Building any renewable megaproject requires vast amounts of space, and hyperspecific natural conditions, like a wind that blows at night or a reliably sun-soaked desert plain. Then getting that energy to major cities means traversing some of the most pristine, spectacular natural corridors this nation has left, and particularly in the Southwest, rubbing up against the sacred lands of local tribal communities. 

The decades-long saga to settle some of these tensions has turned SunZia into a helpful lesson, and for many, deserved or not, it became the ultimate poster child for permitting reform. And for many years, the country’s need for power didn’t seem to call for such a wildly ambitious project anyway. But in the interim, as the world changed, SunZia changed too, becoming — at least in some places — a better and more collaborative project than it was when it began. And now, with a nation finally focused on building more clean energy megaprojects, it can offer a glimpse of what’s to come, even a blueprint of what could be.

The real reason(s) it took so long for SunZia to get built

When SunZia was first proposed in 2006, the same year Twitter went online, coal was still the most important electricity source in America, and the nation’s appetite for electricity had remained nearly flat year after year.

And for the next 17 years, SunZia flailed, never even breaking ground. It ping-ponged between financial and regulatory purgatories that most commentators have attributed to endless permitting delays. There were, for example, a few state-level permitting debacles, with New Mexico rejecting SunZia’s initial transmission route in 2018. Even after such interstate power lines get federal approval, they often need to wait years longer for approvals from every state in which their project passes.

Sen. Martin Heinrich of New Mexico, for one, has cited SunZia as a key impetus for his co-sponsoring the Senate’s new plan for permitting reform. This would make it easier for the federal government to coordinate approval processes for interstate transmission lines, ensuring that they happen concurrently and preventing one state from dragging its heels. 

The project had faced one particularly large and sticky permitting challenge: getting the power through the White Sands Missile Range. But this, and other challenges, were eventually resolved relatively quickly. And to David Hayes, who served as deputy secretary of the Department of the Interior during the Obama administration, this suggests that financing hamstrung the project even more than red tape. 

“The facts are the facts, and they got their permit,” said Hayes — all the way back in 2015, not long after the Obama administration put SunZia on a “fast-track” to approval. “So we finally got the permit done. Hooray, right? And then nothing happens. Nothing happens.” 

Part of that was the fact that the two states where SunZia wanted to build its transmission lines were not entirely on board. But it was also the sheer expense involved in building the project, especially given that the federal approval required burying parts of the transmission line near the missile range. Moreover, even if everything went perfectly with the project’s permitting process, it might have been impossible to build SunZia back then, said Armistead, because “we really didn’t have the market need for it.” 

The US simply wasn’t as ravenous for new electricity as it is right now, and the importance of building out the future of energy was not enticing enough for investors on its own.

But, refusing to die a slow death of a thousand permitting blockades or financial setbacks, SunZia instead evolved. Pattern Energy, initially only in charge of developing the wind farm portion of the project, took over the transmission line project in 2022. Around that time, SunZia applied for a revised federal permit, one that would circumvent the missile range, and within less than two years — a relative sprint for federal bureaucracy — they had a new approval in hand. Then came $11 billion in financing from several global financial institutions, pension funds, and clean energy investors. Then, a few years of construction time later, the Americas’ biggest wind farm was finally switched on.

And more massive projects like this will be needed because nowadays, “there is no longer the excuse” of a market unready for high volumes of clean energy, Armistead told me. “It is game time, and we’re supposed to get this done.”

What America’s biggest clean energy project got right

One of the secrets to SunZia’s ultimate success in New Mexico was the project’s ability to strike compromises, even with some of its earliest critics. In some cases, a bunch of birds. 

Right about now, the earliest migratory birds, like the crimson-capped sandhill crane, have begun arriving at their Southwestern wintering grounds, not far from some of SunZia’s newly operational high-voltage transmission lines.

This crane had nearly gone extinct before, driven in part by an explosion of new hydroelectric dams in the early 20th century, whose construction dried out local wetlands. SunZia’s initial route, which was planned across one of the most congested flyways in the country, threatened them again, birders feared, alongside other migratory species who might accidentally fly into the new power lines, a threat believed to kill millions of birds nationwide each year. 

While SunZia’s original developer, the Southwestern Power Group, was largely unmoved by those concerns, said Sarah Rose, vice president of climate at the National Audubon Society, the nonprofit found an unusually receptive partner to compromise when Pattern Energy took over. 

“They took their role as a project developer really seriously,” she said, “and I think they engaged with us with a lot of integrity and a lot of good faith.” Under a rerouting plan, original power lines were moved north, erected next to existing infrastructure, or affixed with visual warning systems or bird diverters. Not only did the changes make the bird advocates happy, but they were enough to help convince the New Mexico Public Regulation Commission, which had rejected SunZia’s permit application a few years earlier in part due to these concerns, to unanimously approve the project in 2022. 

To be clear, not everybody believed Pattern always made the appropriate compromises, especially in Arizona, where SunZia’s route remained unchanged under the new management. Peter Else, a local environmentalist, has spent years fighting SunZia in court over its intrusion into the scenic San Pedro Valley, a region that is sacred to Indigenous communities such as the Tohono O’odham Nation and San Carlos Apache Tribe. To see it marred by more power lines through the landscape has been like “mourning a death,” Else said, “like an ecological homicide.” 

He would have liked to see SunZia try to run the valley’s new power lines alongside existing ones, as it managed to do in parts of New Mexico, a process that Armistead told me would not have been possible because the Arizona portion of the line “was already put to bed,” and the original federal permit had found the valley to be “the least impactful and best route.” A lawsuit from the Tohono O’odham Nation and San Carlos Apache Tribe accusing SunZia and the Department of the Interior of failing to protect the valley remains pending. 

Of course, climate change threatens many of these regions more than a single power line. In the two decades it took SunZia to begin pumping clean energy across state lines, waves of extreme heat have taken tens of thousands of American lives, and the entire Southwest has continued in a megadrought unseen in the past 1,200 years. 

These are some of the very concerns that SunZia seeks, in part, to combat. And if we want to avoid even more heat deaths, extreme droughts, more flash floods, and more habitat destruction, then we probably will need a lot more facilities like it, some of which will require hard tradeoffs. 

But they aren’t doomed always to. It may have taken SunZia over a decade to learn that lesson, but for future megaprojects, the blueprint may already be there. The nearby 280-mile high-voltage Southline Transmission Project spanning parts of Arizona and New Mexico is set to begin construction next year, and it’s been so intentional about minimizing its ecological and cultural impact that even Else praised it as a good idea. And this approach could pave the way for even more essential large-scale projects like it. “If more folks could come to the table looking for solutions as opposed to expecting conflict,” Rose said, “I think we would be able to move a lot more quickly.” Ideally, it won’t take another 20 years.

This story was supported by a grant from Arnold Ventures. Vox had full discretion over the content of this reporting.

No, Rome was not built in a day, but it was built at breathtaking speed, its temples, amphitheaters, and aqueducts rising with the help of a magical blend of volcanic ash and lime. Today, that miraculous mortar has a less than enchanting name: concrete.

“Romans lived through a true architectural revolution, and at the foundation of this revolution, literally, was a concrete discovery,” said Admir Masic, a materials science professor at MIT who made waves a few years ago for unearthing the fast-hardening secret sauce for why Roman concrete is so durable. “They were able to take a pile of dirt and mix it together, add water, and turn it into solid rock of any arbitrary size. It literally changed everything.” 

And yet, for a millennia after the fall of Rome, the world largely forgot about concrete, until, in the 18th century, an English mason found that mixing limestone and clay could form a paste that hardened underwater. Another few decades later, concrete as we now know it was reborn, and once again, it changed everything. 

In the centuries since, concrete has come to reshape our way of life, with disastrous results for the climate. What early concrete evangelists didn’t realize was that the modern way of producing the substance released giant amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. As it has become increasingly central to modernity, it has helped fuel environmental catastrophe.

Today, however, a new generation of concretophiles like Masic have pored over the poured mixture in search of another miracle, a greener, more durable kind of concrete. And they’ve found multiple answers, from concrete that can heal its own cracks — as the Pantheon has for millennia — to electroconductive concrete capable of storing energy to a blend that allows concrete to soak up more CO2 than it emits. 

Together, they suggest that in a not-so-distant future, concrete — yes, concrete — one of the dirtiest substances ever concocted, could help save the planet, transforming our built environment while actually intervening in the climate for the better. 

How concrete built (and polluted) the modern world

It’s no wonder that luminaries of the neo-concrete age, Thomas Edison among them, marveled at the stuff just as their Roman predecessors had. They saw it as a harbinger of utopia, of a world in which anything and everything — a home, an interstate highway, a water pipe, a subway system, or a grand piano — could be molded and poured for a fraction of ordinary costs. 

“As to concrete dogs to stand warningly in the front yard and concrete cats to purr stonily under a concrete kitchen range,” the New York Times teased Edison in 1911 when he described his plans for a concrete home finished with concrete furnishings, “he made no announcement.”

The beguiled inventor’s utopian vision of a world remade by concrete would come true in more ways than he realized. Yes, it changed the way we build forever. Muddy roads and rotting wooden sidewalks gave way to smooth gray pavement, and newly cast sewer systems saved millions of lives in the deathly dirty cities of the early industrial era. Concrete, when poured over rods of steel, proved strong enough to prop up colossal skyscrapers that Julius Caesar could only have dreamed of. 

But there was a trade-off: Every time Edison fired up his trademark 150-foot kilns, scorching the limestone inside into blistering pebbles of cement clinker, he released hundreds of tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. 

Yankee Stadium was built not by Babe Ruth’s swing alone, but with around 30,000 cubic yards of Edison concrete, whose creation released at least 5,400 tons of CO2, the equivalent of driving a gas-powered car 12.5 million miles, or to the moon and back more than two dozen times. But this is nothing compared with the roughly 30 billion tons of concrete the world now uses each year, enough to have turned the gluey gray goo into the second-most used material on Earth. (The first is water. Glug glug.) 

The Anthropocene has been built atop a foundation of concrete, its weight eclipsing the biomass of all living things, and its annual carbon tab responsible for up to 8 percent of global emissions, the equivalent of the entire country of India. Critically, unlike the astonishingly enduring remnants of Rome, our modern concrete decays quickly, so it must be repoured time and time again, which only makes it more environmentally catastrophic. 

But it doesn’t have to be this way, not anymore. 

“The future of concrete is to think differently, to go away from claiming that cement is bad,” Masic told me. “Our goal is to turn this around and make concrete part of the solution instead of being a problem.”

This is why we can have nice concrete

Per ton, concrete actually emits far less CO2 by volume than other materials like aluminum, steel, plastic, or glass. 

The problem is that we use so much of it, even a slightly negative footprint can quickly become enormous. But “the upside is,” said Sabbie Miller, a professor at UC Davis who focuses on sustainable concrete, “if you’re able to come up with some small change, then those small changes will also scale” in ways “that could have a huge effect on modern society and its burdens on the environment.” 

One of those solutions takes a cue from the Romans, who made concrete differently than we do today. Their once-mysterious method ensured that hulking structures like the Colosseum or the Aqua Virgo, an aqueduct built during Augustus’ reign and still in use today, could survive for millennia while New York City’s Brooklyn-Queens Expressway or the Washington Bridge crumble after just a few decades of use. 

It’s not just that we drive cars over our concrete freeways while the Colosseum has been mostly free of even the bulkiest chariot wheels for millennia. The answer, according to Masic’s research, lies in the Romans’ ingenious recipe for cement, the glue that binds concrete together. When the ancients brewed a batch of cement, they left big white chunks of dormant lime in the final mixture. Later, if a crack formed, any water would react with the idle lime, filling the fissure with new stone. Our modern concrete has no such lime clasts, meaning that if water seeps into a crack, it degrades the structure from within, rusting the rebar that made our big towers possible, leading to a grim condition known as “concrete cancer.” 

Masic has recently turned his research into a startup called DMAT that reserves unreacted lime in concrete, giving it self-healing properties he says could extend a structure’s lifespan by about 50 percent, which in and of itself would reduce its carbon footprint by 40 percent. If the construction industry normalized such concrete or other mixtures that emit, say, half as much CO2 as usual, it would keep hundreds of millions of tons of it out of the atmosphere each year. 

But why stop there? Some startups have gotten much better in recent years at producing concrete capable of quite literally breathing in more CO2 than it emits in a process that takes advantage of concrete’s natural porousness. It could, in theory, turn our cities into concrete rainforests by turning the material into a storage reservoir. As Miller put it, “what if we can use our concrete to undo some of our environmental damages that we’ve already caused?” 

In the Bahamas, the startup Partanna has already built what it’s called the world’s first carbon net-negative home, an unassuming 1,250-square-foot abode that the company claims will sequester 182.6 tons of CO2 in its lifetime, the equivalent of hundreds of trees. Meanwhile, Masic’s lab has been piloting ways to turn concrete into a giant battery, capable of storing solar power during the day and releasing it at night, a green innovation that could cancel out its own carbon footprint within a few years of use. 

Masic believes that electroconductivity could be key to catalyzing a new era of concrete — more so even than his neo-Roman ventures. “It might hold the secret,” he said,  “for turning a bad guy into something amazing.” 

But as promising as these innovations are, it will take time for them to ripple out from model homes and into the concrete that actually surrounds us. American concrete startups have lost billions of dollars in federal funding and expected procurement contracts under the Trump administration. Some states, most notably California, are helping to pick up the slack, but investment still lags behind potential. There’s also the challenge of convincing builders running on paper thin margins that their old ways of doing things might fit better in a new mould. 

But concrete’s staggering scale means that we can’t afford to keep pouring it without considering its ugly trade-offs. More importantly, perhaps, we can’t afford to miss out on the opportunity that such a mammoth, transformative material presents to change everything yet again. 

This story appeared in Today, Explained, a daily newsletter that helps you understand the most compelling news and stories of the day. Subscribe here.

The first hurricane of the fall season is expected to strike the Gulf Coast overnight, marking the latest onset of hurricane season in living memory. As of early Friday afternoon, Hurricane Isaias had grown to a Category 3 storm, with sustained winds of 120 miles per hour. It will strike along the shores of the Florida Panhandle, Alabama, and Mississippi, posing a threat to life and property for millions of Americans. Weather forecasters anticipate between 8 and 12 inches of rain in the areas near where the storm makes landfall.

Isaias’s imminent arrival signals the end of a period of unusual good luck when it comes to hurricanes striking the United States. Last year, no hurricanes reached the US mainland at all. And this year, Isaias is breaking a more than 100-year-old record: October 9 is the latest date since 1905 for the first Atlantic hurricane of the season to take shape. August and September have historically been the busiest periods of hurricane season.

Not lately, though. It’s a strange recent phenomenon, and it’s been even more fortuitous than it would ordinarily be. That’s because the Trump administration has slashed weather forecasting and emergency relief funding over the past two years, leaving us less prepared for a disaster. 

And now our luck seems to be running out — with even more rough weather on the way.

Hurricane season may be quieter than usual — but El Niño is on the way

Here’s the secret ingredient that’s pushed off hurricanes even as warming planetary temperatures raise concerns about more extreme weather events: El Niño. This notorious shift in global wind patterns, which occurs every two to seven years, moves warm water around the oceans, disrupting traditional weather patterns and leading to intense rain and sometimes disastrous flooding, as well as droughts. If there is an upside, however, it’s that this temporary change in ocean conditions prevents hurricanes from forming as frequently as they otherwise would.

The downside is, well, El Niño is still on its way. Forecasters expect this year’s version to be historically bad — using words like “super” or “Godzilla” to describe it. The worst of the bad weather is projected to arrive in December: The southern half of the continental US is expected to see unusually rainy and stormy weather, while areas of the Great Lakes and Pacific Northwest could see extreme dry spells. 

It will also serve as a crucial test of our reduced capacity for predicting and responding to disasters. Trump’s “big beautiful bill” cut funding for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s weather forecasting and public alert programs by $200 million, and 17 percent of FEMA’s workforce left the agency in 2025 amid the administration’s DOGE purge. 

For now, if you’re in the danger zone for Isaias, please pay attention to local and national weather alerts this weekend. If you’re not, count yourself lucky — but there are storm clouds on the horizon.

One link for later

➨ These days, it feels like we’re all swimming in a sea of AI hype and hysteria — all the ways this technology will make our lives better, all the ways it could kill every single one of us. But what if the two are more related than we think? Eric Levitz’s new piece asks whether the AI companies themselves warning us about the apocalypse is part of their own marketing strategy. It’s a useful guide for how to think about all of these existential conversations.

Before you go…

• Did you know…the world’s largest penguin colony has declined by two-thirds since 2011? Scientists pin the blame on climate disruption and warming sea temperatures.
• Today’s trivia: What’s a three-letter abbreviation for the successor of tube TVs? (You can find this and other brain puzzles in Vox’s daily crossword. Look for the answer in tomorrow’s edition.)
• Yesterday’s trivia: Yesterday we asked you which fruit kills more people than sharks each year, according to long-standing urban legend. That would be the coconut, and the claim (which is unprovable, since there’s no systematic tracking of coconut deaths) appears to have been started by shark scientists.

This story was originally published by The Guardian and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

The world’s largest penguin colony has declined by two-thirds since 2011, most likely because of the climate crisis, a study has revealed. Scientists said the rapid demise of chinstrap penguins on Zavodovski, the northernmost of the South Sandwich Islands in Antarctica, increased the risk of a wider ecosystem collapse.

“It is an enormous population crash, equivalent to half a million breeding individuals being lost from that island,” said the leader of the research, professor Norman Ratcliffe, a penguin ecologist at the British Antarctic Survey.

The Guardian reported in 2020 that chinstrap penguin populations were decreasing on Low in the South Shetland Islands, prompting concerns among scientists that “something is broken” in the world’s wildest ecosystem. The new study, published on Wednesday in the journal Current Biology, indicates that the speed of collapse may be accelerating so rapidly that the distinctive bird — which gets its name from a black line that runs below the beak from cheek to cheek — may need to be classified as an endangered species.

Zavodovski Island had by far the biggest penguin colony in the world, with about 600,000 chinstraps and 90,000 macaroni penguins when the population was measured in 2011. Given the decline between then and 2025, it is likely to have lost that title to Cape Adare in the Ross Sea.

Scientists believe the most likely cause is climate disruption. Human-driven heating has pushed up winter temperatures on and around the Antarctic Peninsula to 5 degrees Celsius above preindustrial levels, one of the fastest rises in the world. On 6 June, the Argentinian Esperanza base on the Trinity Peninsula registered a record winter high of 15.4°C, about 20°C above normal for the time of year — a margin that scientists described as “absolutely crazy.”

Chinstrap penguins are struggling to adapt because they have special diets and specific ocean temperature preferences. Tracking data shows they prefer to forage in cooler waters to the northwest of the island, where they would expect to find Antarctic krill, which make up the bulk of their diet. But as the waters warm, the krill have moved south into the Weddell Sea.

Macaroni penguins, by contrast, are less fussy eaters and their numbers rose 30 percent — though not nearly enough to make up for the loss of chinstraps. Ratcliffe said this was only small comfort because if current trends continued, all penguins would run out of space.

He said the loss of chinstrap penguins would have wider repercussions for food webs. “Each ecosystem could be regarded as like a giant Jenga set, and every component that you remove increases the risk of ecosystems collapsing completely.”

The scientists ruled out several other possible causes of decline. There was no sign that chinstrap and macaroni penguins were in competition for food. The nearest humans lived thousands of miles away.

Although the island is volcanic and had a major eruption in 2016, prompting a “Penguin Pompeii hypothesis” of a sudden population fall, this theory was not borne out either by the data, which showed a steady linear decline, or by observations that showed the chinstraps avoided the main “asphyxia plain” area where the ash and lava were deposited.

This story appeared in The Logoff, a daily newsletter that helps you stay informed about the Trump administration without letting political news take over your life. Subscribe here.

Welcome to The Logoff: Donald Trump is trying to fix the diesel crisis he caused. 

What’s happening? On Monday evening, Trump signed an executive order intended to lower diesel prices by temporarily expanding access to red-dye diesel. 

What’s red-dye diesel? A kind of diesel usually reserved for farm and construction equipment and other off-road uses — and marked with a little bit of red dye to distinguish it from other diesel sold for use in on-road vehicles. Ordinarily, it’s tax-exempt and not available to on-road vehicles, but Trump is expanding access in a bid to bring down the overall cost of fuel ahead of the midterm elections. 

Trump’s order defers payment on — but does not actually suspend — the federal tax on red-dye diesel for on-road vehicles through the end of the year, while also directing his Cabinet “to explore pathways to eliminate the obligation to pay the deferred taxes.” 

What’s the context? Diesel prices are way, way up because of the Iran war. Currently, the national average price per gallon is $6.32, compared to $3.68/gallon one year ago. 

Will this do anything to lower prices? Not very much, in all likelihood, for a whole slew of reasons ably explained here — including that the order can’t change the underlying reality of a global diesel shortage.

Why does the price of diesel matter? Most people don’t use diesel to fill up their tank, but semitrucks shipping food and other goods around the country rely on it. That means that when diesel gets more expensive, nearly everything else does too, sooner or later. 

Why does Trump care? This is best explained by the fact that Trump signed the executive order while on the campaign trail in Nebraska — ordinarily a comfortably Republican state that instead looks potentially in play for independent Senate candidate Dan Osborn. 

High diesel prices have hit hard in Nebraska and other agriculture-heavy states like Iowa and Kansas, jeopardizing Republican Senate seats in all three.

And with that, it’s time to log off…

Here’s a story worth clicking for the cover photo alone: Scientists have discovered two new challengers for the title of world’s loudest bird, the bare-throated bellbird and the red-legged seriema. Both can top out at more than 120 decibels — louder than a jackhammer, according to 404 Media. 

If you’re curious, there are videos of both bird calls in the article, though I have not played them out of respect for the sleeping dachshund on my lap.

Thanks for reading, have a great evening, and we’ll see you tomorrow!

A grove of coast redwood trees is a forest of forests. Individual trees can live for thousands of years, and as they grow, their canopies develop mats of soils and ferns, creating something like a second forest floor hundreds of feet above the ground.

These elevated ecosystems are home to creatures like the wandering salamander, which can spend its entire life cycle on top of a single tree, and the marbled murrelet, a seabird whose nesting habits were a mystery until one day in 1974, when a tree-trimmer stumbled upon a nest 150 feet above the ground. Sometimes a stray seed — a sitka spruce or oak or even another redwood — finds its way up a massive redwood and grows into another tree entirely, nestled among the branches of a giant. 

For millennia, redwoods have been the anchors of this incredibly stable ecosystem; they can even survive wildfires that devastate other tree species. They’ve also been the source of plenty of human inspiration and drive millions of dollars to California’s tourist economy. But like other living things, they aren’t immune to warming temperatures, and it turns out these trees have a particular weak spot. 

A new study from researchers at University of California Davis, using measurements taken twice a month for two years, found that coast redwood leaves essentially dial down their photosynthesis during periods of extreme heat. This means trees are slowing their “breathing” and “eating” because they can’t cool down fast enough when temperatures rise. It’s a problem that’s only going to get worse as climate change continues to drive global temperatures up, and it raises urgent questions about the future of these iconic trees and the layers of life that live on and around their shadow-dappled lengths. 

How a redwood fasts

To understand what’s happening to the redwoods — and what that may mean for the species that rely on them — first we need to take a quick foray into tree anatomy. Trees use the pores in their leaves, stomata, to do two things: take carbon dioxide in, and let water out. Open stomata mean the tree is “breathing” in carbon dioxide and photosynthesizing, but probably also letting water out. Closed stomata mean the tree is conserving water but also slowing down its photosynthesis, since it isn’t taking in any carbon dioxide. 

“Because leaves are a physical, light-absorbing object, they heat up just like asphalt would in the sun,” said Lily Klinek, a PhD student at UC Davis who was the lead author on the study. 

“They’re heating up faster than the air around them,” she said. “And one way that they can cope with this is by opening their stomata and allowing water to transpire out of the leaf, which is kind of like the way that humans sweat. When water evaporates off our skin, it cools us down, and it’s the same for leaves. But they can only really do that if they have enough water to lose.”

Klinek and her colleagues studied coast redwoods in Mendocino County, near the southern part of their range, where the researchers used specialized instruments to measure whether or not individual leaves were photosynthesizing. During heat waves, they found, coast redwoods hit a point where they can’t cool down fast enough, and they just keep their stomata closed. While that saves water, it also means the tree isn’t taking in more carbon — which means it’s not “eating” or building up energy stores it can use to keep growing. 

This may sound like a technicality of tree physiology. But it could have a big impact on these forests, creating a vicious cycle where trees don’t have enough carbon stored to replenish their leaves in the future, which means they won’t be able to photosynthesize as efficiently, which will starve them even further, repeating until trees eventually die. And while this sort of behavior has been observed in tropical trees, it’s the first time anyone has studied how coast redwoods respond to the same heat stress. 

“The term people use is carbon starvation,” said Chris Still, a forest ecologist at Oregon State University who didn’t participate in the study. “Leaves can be expensive to build for a plant.” 

Most of the redwoods in California and the Pacific Northwest nowadays are new-growth forests planted in the last couple of centuries. That means the trees are relatively hungry, like growing adolescents, compared to their old-growth cousins, so they need to suck in lots of carbon dioxide to grow taller. 

Redwoods are also incredibly good at storing carbon. Thanks to their bulk and long lives, they store more carbon dioxide per acre than any other forest in the world. “Not only is it negative feedback on the climate system itself, with less carbon sequestration from these trees and forests, but the trees themselves are going to obviously not grow as big,” said Anthony Ambrose, a plant physiological ecologist and co-founder of the Ancient Forest Society. So even if the trees survive, they might not have as much space for fern and soil mats, which means less habitat for the creatures that live in them, and they may not grow as tall as they once used to, which could hurt them in another way. 

The fog of old forests

A central threat to these trees, Klinek explained, is that in addition to the heat stress, they may also lose a crucial source of hydration and protection: Coast redwoods have an intricate relationship with the fogs of their native Northern California and the Pacific Northwest. The trees are so tall that their canopies reach high into fog layers, where they can sip water directly from the sky. The fog also shades the trees from the sun and helps coast redwoods create their own microclimate, which is why these forests are noticeably cooler than the areas adjacent to them. But warmer oceans and drier air are making fog more sporadic, which means the trees are missing a crucial source of relief from heat that is only getting more intense. 

“It’s kind of a double whammy,” said Todd Dawson, a plant ecophysiologist at the University of California Berkeley, who also didn’t participate in the study. “They’re running out of water and also getting this heat stress,” he said. “They’re used to living in a very narrow temperature range of 8 to 27 degrees Celsius (about 46 to 80 degrees Fahrenheit). California, like everywhere, has been getting long periods of much warmer days than we’ve ever experienced, and now the fog, which is normally kind of like an air conditioner, has also declined between 30 and 40 percent.” 

These temperature swings also impact the organisms living high up in the trees. “If they experience really excessive heat throughout the summer,” Ambrose said, “then the soil mats and ferns will probably dry out much faster. And then those salamanders and birds might not be able to live there. So we’ll see cascading effects through the whole ecosystem at that point.”

Klinek said, the trees seem to be doing okay after the heat passes; while the leaves she and her team looked at over their two-year study didn’t acclimate to the heat, they also didn’t lose their capacity to photosynthesize after the heat passed. While that’s a bit of hopeful news, it doesn’t reduce the urgency of the need to better understand the impact of climate change on these trees, and to reduce the warming itself. 

“Right now the temperatures are coming back to normal in the fall and winter and letting the trees recover,” Klinek said. “But in five or 10 years, if temperatures are even hotter and heat waves are even more frequent, we don’t really know if there would be a recovery.”

For now, the salamanders and seabirds still have their homes high atop the coast redwoods. But we’re a part of the redwoods’ larger ecosystem too, even if we don’t live near them — they, like all trees, are key to keeping our planet hospitable. The trees Klinek studied have the potential to live for more than a thousand years. The question is if we’ll let them. 

Inside Chief Justice John Roberts are two wolves.

The first wolf is a staunch conservative who spent much of his career litigating on behalf of corporate interests. This wolf looks at a series of climate change lawsuits that could potentially cost the oil industry billions of dollars or more, and recoils in horror.

The second wolf is a judge tasked with following the law wherever it leads. And that wolf seemed baffled by the oil industry’s arguments in Suncor Energy v. County Commissioners of Boulder County, a Supreme Court case where two oil companies are asking the justices to shut down dozens of climate change lawsuits.

The Court’s decision in Suncor is likely to shape the future of climate litigation in the United States. If the oil industry prevails, that will probably shut down climate change-related suits in state courts — and it may shut them down entirely because it is unclear whether federal law allows these suits to proceed in federal court. If the oil industry loses, by contrast, it could face dozens of suits in state courts across the country seeking billions of dollars or more.

And the outcome in Suncor is likely to turn on which wolf shows up to the justices’ conference on how to decide the case. Roberts, who asked the most ambiguous questions at Monday’s oral argument in Suncor, clearly wants these lawsuits to disappear. But he also appeared doubtful that the oil companies’ weak legal arguments will allow him to make that disappearing act happen.

Notably, Justice Samuel Alito, who owns stock in oil and gas companies, is recused from hearing the case. So, in the likely event that all three of the Court’s Democrats hold together against the oil companies, Roberts would split the Court 4-4 if he decides to join them. That would leave the Court unable to render a decision, and a lower court opinion, which rejected the oil companies’ bid for lawsuit immunity, would remain in effect.

That said, at least two other justices asked questions suggesting that their votes may potentially be in play. Justice Clarence Thomas, who otherwise appeared sympathetic to the oil companies, repeatedly asked whether his Court has jurisdiction to hear Suncor in the first place. Meanwhile, while most of Democratic Justice Elena Kagan’s questions seemed to favor allowing the climate change lawsuits to proceed, she did ask some questions at the end that indicated that she may be looking for a narrow reason to hand the oil companies a win.

The bottom line is that it is difficult to predict how this case will turn out, as more than one justice asked questions that suggest that their vote is, at least, in play. But the outcome is likely to hinge upon the tension within Roberts — who both signaled that he wants the oil companies to win, but who also expressed deep skepticism of their primary legal argument.

So what is Suncor actually about?

Suncor is one of many lawsuits brought by state or local governments (in this case, the plaintiff is Boulder, Colorado) who’ve sued oil companies claiming that those companies should be liable for the harms caused by climate change within those governments’ jurisdictions. In this particular case, the defendants are Exxon Mobil and Suncor, a company that operates two oil refineries in Colorado. 

The lawyer for these two companies, Kannon Shanmugam, told the justices that there are about 60 similar cases brought by municipal governments throughout the country. And, in one of his more pro-oil moments during Monday’s oral argument, Roberts predicted that if Boulder wins in the Supreme Court, there will be numerous other copycat lawsuits filed by other municipalities.

The question in Suncor is whether state courts, including Colorado’s own courts, are forbidden from hearing these sorts of climate change lawsuits.

As Roberts pointed out in one of his less pro-oil moments during Monday’s argument, “there are a lot of familiar situations where conduct outside of a state has broad effects on other states…and yet we allow the state courts in a particular state to bring litigation.” He pointed to “mass tort” suits and “complaints about operations of the internet” as two examples where state courts hear lawsuits involving harms that arise across state borders.

The oil companies’ primary argument is that suits involving air and water pollution are special. But their evidence supporting this argument is confusing and difficult to parse. 

Briefly, the oil companies point to several cases, many of which were decided more than a century ago. These cases held that, before Congress enacted the Clean Air Act in 1963, states could sometimes sue other states for cross-border pollution, even though no federal law forbade such pollution. The Supreme Court created “federal common law” permitting these suits, and the oil companies claim that this federal common law preempted any state lawsuits that covered a similar subject matter.

This federal common law, they now argue, has itself been displaced by the Clear Air Act and its partner statute, the Clean Water Act, but the principle that state suits involving air and water pollution are preempted is somehow still in effect. Although there is no provision in the text of the Constitution that supports this argument by the oil companies, those companies claim that their argument is implicit in the “structure of the Constitution.”

The oil companies’ primary legal argument is difficult to understand

If you are confused by all the arcane history and logical leaps contained in the oil companies’ argument, don’t worry. So were most of the justices. Only Justice Brett Kavanaugh, who repeatedly claimed that his Court’s precedents bar Boulder’s lawsuit, seemed to buy what the oil companies are saying without reservation. Most of the other justices expressed at least some reservations.

Justice Amy Coney Barrett, for example, argued that even under the older “federal common law” regime, states still retained some authority over environmental lawsuits, although she noted that the Court’s previous decisions do not really define the scope of that authority. Kagan pointed out that the many suits challenging climate change are similar to past litigation against tobacco and opioid manufacturers. But those suits were heard by state courts.

Many of the justices appear bothered that these lawsuits exist, but the most skeptical justices couldn’t agree on a legal theory they could use to shut them down.

It seems unlikely, in other words, that there are five votes for the oil companies’ convoluted claim that the “structure of the Constitution” somehow bars state courts from hearing climate change lawsuits. But several of the justices did appear troubled by what could happen if dozens of state courts reach conflicting judgments on who is responsible for climate change and who should receive compensation because of it. And some of these justices floated alternative theories for how to hand the oil companies a win. 

At one point, for example, Barrett floated the possibility that, if the plaintiffs lose in Suncor, they might file a new suit under the now-defunct federal common law that existed prior to the Clean Air Act. Kagan, meanwhile, suggested that perhaps the Clean Air Act could be read to preempt these suits like Suncor. According to Kagan, that law “sets up an extremely complicated scheme about how regulations of emissions should operate,” and allowing states to hear lawsuits like Suncor would “get in the way of how Congress decided to regulate greenhouse gases.”

And Roberts didn’t so much offer a legal argument in favor of the oil companies’ position as express incredulity of what would happen if those companies lose. “Presumably if you prevail,” before the Supreme Court, Roberts told Kevin Russell, the lawyer for Boulder, “the next day a municipality in every single state will file a lawsuit, copy your pleadings, and then there will be at least 50…how do you think that will work out on the ground?”

All of which is a long way of saying that the outcome in Suncor is uncertain. The oil companies led with a weak legal argument, and only Kavanaugh seemed to fully embrace that argument. Many of the justices appear bothered that these lawsuits exist, but the most skeptical justices couldn’t agree on a legal theory they could use to shut them down.

For what it is worth, the oil companies actually do make a strong policy argument that it is a bad idea to allow state courts to do so. As they argue, climate change is a global problem caused by many polluters (and companies like Exxon that supply the oil burned by polluters) throughout the world. It could be impossible to determine which specific companies caused the specific problems caused by climate change in Boulder, Colorado. And even if this obstacle can be overcome, there are many thorny questions about which state’s law should apply when pollution from one state crosses over into another, not to mention the difficult diplomatic issues that could arise if a state court orders a foreign company to pay a large sum of money.

But under our Constitution, the proper solution if the oil companies want federal law to preempt state court suits like Suncor is that they can lobby Congress, and Congress could then draft a statute that balances these companies’ interest in avoiding many conflicting legal decisions with the interests of plaintiffs like Boulder who say they are experiencing real harms from climate change. Congress has the power, for example, to combine all of these state lawsuits into one grand federal lawsuit, where a single proceeding could determine how to portion out the costs of climate change to various energy companies, and how to divide whatever these companies are ordered to pay among the various plaintiffs.

But that solution would undoubtedly require compromises that companies like Exxon will not like. So, instead, they’ve asked the Supreme Court to give them the legal regime that they want, despite the fact that they could not articulate a persuasive legal argument for that outcome. It remains to be seen whether this Court will give the oil companies a win anyway.

There’s no place like Kansas, a state whose howling winds are so fierce that in the 1800s, the roaring soundscape drove local farmers into madness. It is so windy in Kansas that every so often, trains get swept off their tracks or trampolines get hurled into the air and flung into neighbors’ trees. 

But today, the same gusts that whisked away Dorothy’s home have made Kansas the third-most wind-powered place in the country, its great plains dotted with thousands of twirling turbines responsible for generating over half of the state’s energy. 

And for years, Kansas has been trying to share. 

But that’s easier said than done in the US, where building power lines across state borders can be an onerous, litigious, and bureaucratic slog. The Grain Belt Express, a proposed 800-mile high-voltage line carrying Kansas’s windy riches across Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana, has been trying to get built for the past 16 years. When completed, it will allow Kansas to pump five times as much wind power into Missouri as it does now. But though the project received its first approval in 2013, it will likely not open until 2029 at the earliest, beset by regulatory hurdles across multiple jurisdictions and an endless stream of legal challenges that immediately halt progress every time a new injunction is filed. Alas, the express — which only broke ground this year — was forced to run oh so local. 

But other projects like it might soon enjoy far more reasonable timelines. On Wednesday, a bipartisan group of Senators announced a deal called the Bipartisan American Affordability and Jobs Act, or BAAJA — an acronym that’s led to a slew of cringeworthy euphoric Baja Blast references from abundance Democrats, clean energy advocates, and oil industry lobbyists alike. If passed, it would significantly curtail Americans’ ability to endlessly litigate against energy projects they don’t like, and empower the federal government to push critical multistate projects forward even if one state or municipality drags its feet. That could remake the way the nation’s energy infrastructure gets built, including its interstate transmission lines, for decades to come. 

But the bill also suggests that easing the way for clean energy in the US may require simultaneously creating the conditions for more oil and gas infrastructure in a country that already has a lot of it. It would also mean defanging some of the landmark regulatory norms that for decades have, for example, given Americans a say over developments that could contaminate their drinking water and helped tribes protect sacred heritage sites. These laws were necessary in the first place because prior to the 1970s, American communities frequently found themselves both literally and figuratively steamrolled  by developers singularly focused on building things quickly with little regard for the oil spills, river fires, and bifurcated neighborhoods they left in their wake.

And yet today, half a century later, that same dilemma has, in some ways, turned on its head. America builds things too slowly, and in particular, it builds the kind of infrastructure desperately needed to usher in a transition to clean energy with little of the urgency you’d expect from a world in the throes of climate change-related disaster. Exasperatingly, some of the same protections that have played a critical role in making this nation safer may also be standing in the way of building a nation that is more affordable and sustainable in the long run.

There are still plenty of reasons to feel hopeful about the world’s transition away from fossil fuels, even in the US, which has lagged behind our peers while still building an extraordinary number of solar and wind farms, particularly in Republican-led states like Kansas and Texas. And yet, many of these projects have languished in never-ending Ticketmaster-esque queues to connect to the nation’s decrepit power grid, a direct result of the permitting hellscape that prevents much-needed high-voltage cables like the Grain Belt Express from coming online.      

This new bill aims to ease many of the bottlenecks that stymie clean energy, but it also throws a bone to fossil fuels, which, like renewables, would benefit from less onerous environmental reviews and quicker permissions. This is, after all, a bipartisan bill in a Congress that, at least for now, remains Republican-led, under the tutelage of an aggrieved president who has sabotaged some of the nation’s most promising clean energy projects with an often petty and relentless fervor. Some Democrats in Congress, along with other environmentalists, have raised serious concerns about the bill. Those initial objections may prophesize an uphill battle for it when it comes to a vote, likely after the November midterms. 

Even so, with American electricity bills spiking to frightening new heights, and a data center buildout that could all but snap the power grid in half, this ambitious deal is, at the very least, an indication that some of the nation’s representatives are finally listening. And if it passes into law in the months to come, it could very well remake how Americans get their energy for a generation. 

So why are environmentalists mad?

By most accounts, the Bipartisan American Affordability and Jobs Act almost didn’t happen. 

For months, the proposed permitting deal has been stalled by the Trump administration’s failure to assure Democrats that the president would lay off his attacks on “windmills” and other clean energy projects. But in recent days, lawmakers appear to have come close to a fragile détente on the back of a “very reasonable opening proposal” from the White House, according to Sen. Sheldon Whitehouse (D-RI), the ranking member of the Environment and Public Works Committee. 

If the BAAJA is passed, it will codify new protections that legally prevent presidents like Trump from meddling with already-permitted energy projects or singling out specific forms of energy, a prohibition that will also apply if a Democratic president attempts to halt an approved gas line or a petroleum refinery. The Biden administration’s freeze on approvals for new natural gas export plants, for example, would not be allowed. 

It’s this element of the proposed bill that worries many environmentalists most. According to a transcript obtained by Punchbowl News, during a coalition call on Thursday, dozens of advocates from prominent environmental groups — including the Sierra Club, the National Wildlife Federation, and the Environmental Law & Policy Center — expressed their misgivings about the bill and strategized about how to lobby Democrats against it.

Most environmentalists acknowledge, however, that we need to spruce up the power grid and fix how permitting works for clean energy projects and transmission lines. As clean energy advocates know all too well, the projects they support are, paradoxically, more likely to be hampered by environmental reviews than fossil fuel projects are, because renewables usually require more space and represent the bulk of new energy developments. But many advocates understandably take issue with the idea that reforming this overcomplicated process may require weakening the right to challenge other projects, a right affirmed by the National Environmental Policy Act, the Clean Water Act, the Endangered Species Act, and the National Historic Preservation Act. 

The bill’s fate may ultimately depend on whether this trade-off is worth it. The BAAJA still does leave some room for court challenges if they’re filed within 150 days of an approval. But it will still place a much larger burden for determining these damage thresholds on federal agencies, which are, of course, currently controlled by Trump.

“The question’s not whether that would be a good idea — it’s one of the basic building blocks for converting more of our energy system to renewables,” the environmentalist Bill McKibben wrote of grid expansion and permitting reform on his Substack this week. “It’s how many pounds of flesh the fossil fuel industry would demand in return, and how close to vital organs that flesh would be located.”

The problem is, no matter how many Congressional seats Democrats seem poised to scoop up in November, they will still need to get Republicans on board if they want Americans to be able to really see the benefits of solar, the cheapest energy source of all time, reflected on their power bill. And for most of the nation, if not Earth itself, that transition can’t come soon enough. 

Everyone knows how much gasoline prices matter. The recent spike in gas prices triggered by the war with Iran has fueled deep pessimism about the economy and weighed heavily on President Donald Trump’s approval ratings.

But diesel fuel — the lifeblood of shipping, agriculture, and heavy industry — usually flies under the radar. Its price has surged too, and while truckers and farmers are feeling the initial blow, the rest of the country won’t be far behind.

“Most products in America are shipped along the road via trucks,” Nathan Bomey, a business reporter at Axios, told Today, Explained co-host Noel King. Diesel prices “directly affect their cost of doing business, which then eventually trickles down and affects the consumer.”

On the podcast, Bomey discusses what’s driving the price spike, how quickly it’s going to become a problem for everyday consumers, and whether electric semi trucks could offer a way out.

Below is an excerpt of the conversation, edited for length and clarity. There’s much more in the full podcast, so listen to Today, Explained wherever you get your podcasts, including Apple Podcasts, Pandora, and Spotify.

What is happening with diesel?

There was one major geopolitical event this year that disrupted the entire energy economy, which is the US and Israel attacking Iran. Iran is at the center of the oil economy in some ways, but primarily you have to look at the closure of the Strait of Hormuz and the jockeying over it that has happened in the months since.

Once they closed the strait, it disrupted the entire global energy economy because it handles a substantial portion of the shipping bringing supplies out of the Middle East. That affected diesel prices, gasoline prices, jet fuel prices, and effectively everything based on crude oil.

Who are the people right now that are profoundly freaked out about the cost of diesel?

First off, truckers are freaked out because their cost of doing business is going much higher. Farmers are also freaked out because they’re already facing real pressures from trade wars and things that are out of control, like climate issues, that have caused their costs to go higher. 

The price of diesel affecting farmers eventually affects the price they charge, which ultimately gets to the consumer because it ends up costing more to pay for things like an ear of corn.

How stark do you think this might be? In a month or two, do you think I could go down to Walmart and see that something I buy all the time is now a dollar more expensive? 

I think the impact is imminent. This flows through very quickly. We’re not talking about months; we’re talking about weeks, if not days, before people will start to notice increases, especially in the grocery aisle. That’s the first place people will notice it because fresh food has to be shipped on a weekly basis. Diesel prices are going to have a big effect on food inflation. This is coming off of several years of food price increases that we experienced in the wake of the pandemic.

We’re also barreling toward the holiday shopping season, which is going to be affected by this as well. If a toy, for example, is made with a resin affected by the cost of crude oil, which also affects the cost of diesel, and then it’s shipped over the road to Walmart in a truck that uses diesel, all of these things add up and will probably lead to higher prices.

We’ve also got an issue with heating oil, which is a fuel used primarily by households in the Northeast to heat their homes. Heating oil, diesel, and all of these oil-based products are caught up in this vortex right now. Ultimately, it is not something the ordinary person can do much about.

Do the industries that rely on diesel have any other options?

There are definitely alternatives to diesel, but in many cases, they cannot be switched to quickly. If you think about the trucking industry, they are invested heavily in big rigs that take products from place A to place B. If you are invested in a truck, yes, you could theoretically switch, but you would be scrapping this huge investment you’ve made. Diesel trucks are not really going anywhere immediately. A lot of times, they’re simply still the best way to get somewhere.

You can switch to rail; railroads are definitely a competitor to trucking, but really only best for certain types of products. There are other types of trucks you can buy. Compressed natural gas or liquid natural gas is an alternative fuel for some trucks, and biodiesel can actually be good. Hydrogen is more of a futuristic thing down the road.

In the short term, there is the possibility of using electric trucks. That is starting to become more realistic. In fact, in recent days, Tesla began major production of the Tesla Semi, an electric semitruck we’ve been waiting for for years. I remember covering this in 2018 when Tesla debuted the semi, and we all thought it was going to be coming out soon.

It has taken nearly a decade for this to finally become a reality in large proportions, but the Tesla Semi is an electric truck that could be an alternative for some. There are other companies making electric trucks too, so that could be viable. But the problem with electric trucks is that the battery is so heavy, making it tough to compete with diesel on shipping heavy items.

It was often joked that when the Tesla Semi first debuted, the very first thing it shipped was a bunch of bags of Cheetos because they were so light and the truck couldn’t handle extra weight. They had a deal with PepsiCo, and it wasn’t ready at the time to ship anything heavy. 

It’s a lot better now, but the issue is still how heavy electric truck batteries are, which will make them somewhat limited in capacity. However, we are seeing some demand for the Tesla Semi that indicates it might become more competitive because of the price of diesel.

So when prices are high, generally somebody somewhere is benefiting. Who is it, in this case?

The people benefiting from diesel prices being so high are the refineries, which a lot of people don’t think about much because they’re the middle person in this entire process. They take the crude oil and turn it into usable diesel for a pickup truck, a semi truck, or farming equipment. 

The refinery business is experiencing high demand right now, and there’s limited capacity to do this because of issues in Russia, Iran, and other places throughout the world. There’s really nowhere else to do this, and therefore they can charge higher prices. That means higher profits for the refineries.

All of this is shaping up to potentially mean a really ugly winter. One thing I think about a lot is that American consumers will accept a lot of pain. We had Covid — the inflation, and shortages of literally everything. Then we had the war in Ukraine, and prices went up again. 

People still keep spending money, even as we predict this one’s going to get bad. People go to the store and spend money, and maybe they gripe, but it’s not like we’re out in the streets. Do you think this coming diesel shock — imminent, in your words — is going to be different?

I’m not an economist, but there is an interesting phenomenon emerging in the economy where consumer sentiment is at rock bottom, but consumer spending is actually really strong. There’s a gap emerging between what people say they feel and what they’re actually doing — in this case, they’re still spending. 

Maybe it’s YOLO spending. They’re thinking they don’t have much going for them, so they’re just going to keep spending. I’ve experienced that a little bit, so I don’t blame anybody.

At the end of the day, the numbers matter a little bit more than what people say they feel. But I do think people are going to hit a breaking point because they simply cannot continue this level of spending if the underlying fundamentals of the economy start to collapse.

In a 2016 opinion, authored one year before he became a Supreme Court justice, then-Judge Neil Gorsuch warned against lawyers who tempt judges to reach conclusions that aren’t supported by the Constitution’s text. “Ours is the job of interpreting the Constitution,” the future justice wrote. “And that document isn’t some inkblot on which litigants may project their hopes and dreams for a new and perfected tort law, but a carefully drafted text judges are charged with applying according to its original public meaning.”

Gorsuch might have gazed into a crystal ball when he wrote this line, because it could have been written with a case that is now before Gorsuch’s new Court — Suncor Energy v. County Commissioners of Boulder County — in mind. 

In Suncor, city and county officials in Boulder, Colorado sued the oil behemoth Exxon Mobil, along with a company named Suncor that operates two oil refineries in Colorado. They sued in Colorado state court, seeking, in their own words, to require the two companies “to share a portion of the costs [Boulder] taxpayers face in coping with a climate altered” by the oil industry.

That alone makes Suncor, which the justices will hear on October 5, a hugely important case, because it could be the first of many lawsuits ordering oil companies to compensate the public for the costs of climate change. But the stakes in this case are even higher because of the audacity of the oil companies’ argument to the justices. 

Exxon and Suncor claim that their clients should be immune from this suit, not because any particular provision of the Constitution grants them immunity, but because state courts are forbidden from hearing climate change lawsuits under something called the “structure of the Constitution.” The oil companies claim that there’s a rule against many state environmental suits buried somewhere in this “structure,” even though it cannot be found in the Constitution’s text. 

This argument exists in an entirely different universe than the Supreme Court’s precedents governing environmental suits, which explicitly permit — and even sometimes require — state courts to hear lawsuits alleging that a company in another state or country caused pollution that migrated across state or international lines.

But there’s a bigger issue at stake here, too. If you take seriously these justices’ pledged allegiance to textualism — and its close cousin, originalism, which, in Justice Amy Coney Barrett’s words, claims that “constitutional text means what it did at the time it was ratified and that this original public meaning is authoritative” — then Suncor should be an easy case. The oil companies’ failure to even articulate an argument rooted in constitutional text should be disqualifying.

But Exxon and Suncor clearly believe they can win the case while thumbing their nose at many of the justices’ purported allegiance to textualism and originalism. It’s not hard to guess why they would believe this. Increasingly, the same justices who evangelize for textualism and originalism ignore the Constitution’s text when necessary to achieve their political goals. 

There is no textual basis, for example, for the Republican justices’ claim that President Donald Trump may use the powers of the presidency to commit crimes. Similarly, the Court’s Republican majority recently invented something called the “major questions doctrine,” which allows the justices to veto federal regulations that they deem too ambitious, even though the full Court has never even attempted to justify this doctrine by citing the text of the Constitution or any federal statute.

Now, Suncor will be a test of just how far they will go, with big ramifications not just for climate lawsuits, but potentially for any lawsuit that seeks to declare a state or federal law unconstitutional..

What are the actual legal issues in Suncor?

Many of Boulder’s claims against the oil companies arise out of a tort law theory known as “nuisance,” which often allows someone who uses their property in a way that harms someone else to be sued. If your neighbor lights a trash fire in their yard that fills your house with noxious fumes, they have created a nuisance and you may have a viable lawsuit against them.

Often, these nuisance suits involve major environmental claims, and they also often involve claims that cross state lines or even international borders. In Ohio v. Wyandotte Chemicals (1971), for example, the state of Ohio sued chemical companies located in Michigan and Canada, claiming that they “each dumped mercury into streams whose courses ultimately reach Lake Erie,” thus poisoning Ohio’s waters. The US Supreme Court ruled that Ohio’s state courts should hear this lawsuit.

In Suncor, however, the oil companies claim that lawsuits arising out of climate change are special, and may not be heard by any state’s courts. Broadly speaking, these oil companies raise two arguments, one of which is easily refuted by quoting a statute; the other is their cockamamie claim that the “structure of the Constitution” prevents state courts from hearing Boulder’s lawsuit.

One of the oil companies’ claims is that Boulder’s lawsuit is “preempted” by the federal Clean Air Act. On the surface, this argument is at least plausible, as Congress does have the power to enact federal laws that effectively nullify a state law. The Constitution states that federal laws are “the supreme Law of the Land; and the Judges in every State shall be bound thereby, any Thing in the Constitution or Laws of any State to the Contrary notwithstanding.” 

But the oil companies’ claim that the Clean Air Act preempts climate change lawsuits in state courts is weak. That law states that “air pollution control at its source is the primary responsibility of States and local governments.” And it states that, at least with respect to stationary polluters like factories, power plants, or Suncor’s refineries, “nothing in this chapter shall preclude or deny the right of” states to adopt or enforce air pollution standards or laws, unless the state’s rule is less stringent than what federal law requires. (The Clean Air Act does sometimes preempt state suits involving pollution caused by mobile sources, such as airplanes.)

So it’s pretty clear that the Clean Air Act does not bar state nuisance suits such as Suncor.

Which brings us to the oil companies’ claim that the Constitution’s “structure” somehow bars this suit. Their brief makes the extraordinary claim that “the Court has long held that interstate pollution is an inherently federal area in which state law cannot govern,” a claim that is easily repudiated by the Wyandotte Chemicals decision, among others.

In the same brief, the oil companies claim that the structural principle that only federal courts can hear climate change lawsuits can somehow be derived from an unusual approach to environmental lawsuits that the Court invented more than 100 years ago, and that it abandoned many decades ago.

In Missouri v. Illinois (1906), the Supreme Court heard a claim that Chicago, Illinois was dumping sewage in a river that eventually flowed into Missouri. Despite the fact that there was no federal law governing water pollution at the time, the Court apparently concluded that there should be some process that states can use to sue other states that do what Illinois was accused of doing. 

The Court’s opinion in Missouri weighed the evidence in the case before ruling in Illinois’s favor. So Missouri seemed to suggest that federal courts have some power to hear environmental suits even in the absence of an act of Congress permitting them to do so.

Based on this and similar older cases that reached similar conclusions, the oil companies claim that Missouri created a “federal common law” that governed interstate environmental lawsuits in the absence of a federal statute. And they also argue that this judicially created “common law” preempted certain state environmental lawsuits. They also argue that this preemption remains in place even though federal laws such as the Clean Air Act and the Clean Water Act have now displaced this federal common law.

Needless to say, that’s a lot of logical leaps. The oil companies’ argument is that an extra-statutory workaround that existed many decades ago still preempts state environmental lawsuits, even though that workaround no longer exists and has been replaced by an act of Congress. They also claim that this rule against state environmental suits can be found somewhere in the “structure” of the Constitution, despite the fact that it is nowhere in the Constitution’s text.

Among other things, this confusing argument is inconsistent with a case the Supreme Court decided as recently as April. As the Court said in Hencely v. Fluor Corp. (2026), “there is no federal pre-emption in vacuo,” a Latin term meaning “in isolation,” “without a constitutional text or a federal statute to assert it.”

So the oil companies’ claim that the “structure of the Constitution,” whatever the hell that means, somehow precludes climate change lawsuits in state courts should be easily dismissed. Further, as the Court said in Hencely, a litigant making a constitutional preemption claim must cite the text of the Constitution — and the oil companies have not done that here. 

The oil companies’ brief actually makes a pretty good policy argument for only allowing federal courts to hear climate change lawsuits

Setting aside the oil companies’ risible legal arguments, they actually make a decent argument that, as a matter of policy, it would be best if climate change cases were heard in one grand federal lawsuit rather than dozens of piecemeal suits brought in state courts.

Many different fossil fuel companies in both the United States and abroad have contributed to climate change. It may be impossible to determine which company is specifically responsible for any climate change-related problems that arise in Boulder, Colorado. And, because some of the responsibility for climate change falls on foreign actors, allowing a state court to adjudicate climate change-related suits raises difficult questions of international diplomacy. 

Additionally, the fact that the Clean Air Act treats pollution from stationary and mobile sources differently complicates this case even further. How is a court supposed to determine to what extent climate change in Boulder was caused by pollution emitted from oil refineries or power plants, rather than cars or airplanes?

But these are arguments that the oil companies should present to Congress, not the Supreme Court. It is Congress’s job to decide when to preempt state law. And there’s no question that Congress could pass a law shutting down lawsuits like Suncor, while simultaneously creating a federal process that will allow Americans who are injured by climate change to seek compensation in federal court.

Passing a federal law, however, requires compromise. It requires lawmakers to weigh the concerns of voters who don’t want the same outcome that Exxon wants. And, especially given the likely outcome of the 2026 midterms, it would require the oil companies to work with Democrats to come up with a legal framework that would actually earn some bipartisan support.

Instead, the oil companies want to bypass all that by getting a Republican Supreme Court to declare lawsuits like Suncor unconstitutional. And they are apparently so confident that they can convince these justices to do so that they barely even managed to articulate a legal argument for their position.

This story was originally published by High Country News and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk Collaboration.

At a specialized cold lab in Boulder, Colorado, where indoor temperatures hover around minus 4 degrees Fahrenheit (minus 20 degrees Celsius), atmospheric researcher Anthony Bernal Ayala slices hailstones with a band saw, revealing layers of icy growth like the rings of a tree. These frozen rings — clear or cloudy, thick or thin — indicate the conditions in which the hail formed: A clear layer signals the water froze slowly, while a cloudy layer means it happened quickly, trapping air bubbles. Bernal Ayala then analyzes the crystalline structures, particles, and isotopes preserved in these layers.

“All that information can tell you a wonderful story of how the hailstone was growing, but nobody — not until now — was able to tap into that history,” said Bernal Ayala, who works for Atmospheric and Environmental Research, part of the JANUS Research Group.

Bernal Ayala’s research, conducted at the National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR), is part of a historic effort to study one of the costliest weather hazards. Researchers hope their findings will help protect lives and property from the stones that careen to Earth, battering roofs, pummeling crops, and pockmarking cars.

From 2023 to 2025, annual severe thunderstorm losses exceeded $50 billion nationwide, according to the Insurance Institute for Business and Home Safety — more than double the losses seen just a decade earlier. Hail accounted for 60 percent to 80 percent of the damage.

In Colorado, one of the country’s most hail-prone states, hail — not wildfire — is the main factor driving up insurance premiums. And researchers expect larger, more damaging hailstones to become more common with climate change.

“It’s going to just keep getting costlier and costlier,” Bernal Ayala said.

Even basic questions about hail have been notoriously hard to study. But a long-awaited resurgence in research, including the first major US field campaign to study hail in more than 40 years, could help change that. 

ICECHIP — the “In-situ Collaborative Experiment for the Collection of Hail In the Plains” — aims to improve forecasts, make warnings more precise and help communities better prepare. It received $11 million in funding from the National Science Foundation in 2024, just before deep cuts hit the foundation in 2025. 

For six weeks in spring 2025, about 100 scientists and university students chased hailstorms across the Central Plains and Front Range, from the Canadian to the Mexican border, using radar trucks to track storms and drones to take aerial footage. Researchers photographed hail with high-speed cameras, measured its impact with a tool called a disdrometer, recorded hail’s distribution and size based on its imprints on foam pads, captured it in specialized funnels, and crushed it to test its strength. 

Scientists from the Australian Bureau of Meteorology also used balloons to release golf ball-sized sensors into storms. Once aloft, each hail-like probe collected data on how fast it was traveling and whether ice was growing on it; a microphone even recorded water droplets and hailstones hitting it.

“This has really been the first time where we’ve been able to do a real comprehensive look at hail on the ground, hail aloft, the storm itself, the environment around the storm — just everything all at once,” said Becky Adams-Selin, ICECHIP’s lead investigator and a principal scientist at Atmospheric and Environmental Research, JANUS Research Group. 

ICECHIP’s samples were packed into 26 cooler-sized boxes and brought to NCAR. This internationally renowned hub for weather and climate research has been used to study hail for decades. In one of its last major campaigns, in the 1970s, the US investigated Soviet claims that it could suppress hail. 

Researchers say there’s no other US lab like it; the backup plan to store ICECHIP’s samples involved using a walk-in freezer from a fast-food restaurant.

Now NCAR’s own future is uncertain: In late 2025, the Trump administration said it would dissolve the center and transfer its work out of state. The University Corporation for Atmospheric Research (UCAR), which manages NCAR, sued the administration in March, alleging that it’s targeting NCAR to punish Colorado for retaining its mail-in voting system and because Gov. Jared Polis initially refused to release former Mesa County clerk Tina Peters, a 2020 election denier imprisoned for breaching election security and undermining election integrity.

In June, a federal judge temporarily blocked the White House from dismantling NCAR. The government has until Sept. 30 to respond to the lawsuit.

“I can’t even quantify the impact that it would have to our community if we lost NCAR,” Victor Gensini, professor of meteorology at Northern Illinois University, told HCN. “They are the beating heart.”

Previous research has predicted climate change’s effects on hail, noting that warmer temperatures could melt smaller hailstones before they land but also fuel stronger updrafts, keeping hailstones airborne longer and allowing them to grow bigger, enabling the most damaging hail to become more common. 

A record-setting stone recovered in Yuma County, Colorado, in 2023 measured more than 5 inches across. That year, the state logged 176 reports of hail 2 inches or greater, surpassing the previous record of 91 reports in 2018, according to the Colorado Climate Center.

Scientists say it’s difficult to know how much of the rise in damage is due to the increase in large hail versus the increased development in hail hotspots. The connection between a rapidly growing human footprint and higher insured losses has been dubbed the “expanding bull’s-eye effect.”

Gensini, a principal ICECHIP investigator, cites the development boom east of the Front Range, along Colorado’s Interstate 25 corridor, which has grown explosively in recent decades. The population of the Fort Collins metro area alone has doubled since 1990 to around 375,000 residents, according to the US Census Bureau.

This is happening across the Western US, as previously rural or open areas become densely populated, increasingly expensive targets for hail.

“Colorado is the poster child for what I expect the next 25 years to look like for hail,” Gensini said.

In 2019, Fort Collins became one of the first cities to adopt hail-specific roofing requirements for new builds and remodels. Marcus Coldiron, the city’s chief building official, said it was partly in response to all the shingles and roofing materials taken to the landfill after a catastrophic hailstorm in 2018.

It’s still unclear how well the requirements are working: Coldiron said fewer permits were being issued for roof replacements and fewer shingles were going to the dump. However, Fort Collins also hasn’t experienced a hailstorm as devastating as the one that hit in 2018.

A growing number of Front Range communities now require impact-resistant shingles in their building codes, and Colorado legislators recently passed a law offering grants to residents who install more resilient roofing.

ICECHIP’s researchers are also investigating how they can improve building materials as billion-dollar losses from single storms become more common.

“The dollars are simply piling up so fast,” said Ian Giammanco, a lead research meteorologist at the Insurance Institute for Business and Home Safety, one of ICECHIP’s key partners. “We’re still trying to understand how do we get the best materials onto roofs, onto people’s homes, onto businesses to actually start shaving off these losses.”   

There is a kind of terror-tinged embarrassment that comes from dozing off on your beach towel on the sand, only to find a rising tide intrude upon your mid-nap bliss, lapping at your toes and sweeping away your sunglasses.

It is a truth I relearn every June, one that arrives like the season’s first sunburn: The ocean is inevitable, and Poseidon always reclaims his own. Actor Nicolas Cage learned a far more serious — or more expensive, certainly — version of that lesson earlier this month, when a furious high surf siphoned the ground beneath his Malibu, California, mansion, collapsing his driveway and front porch into a gigantic 30-foot-by-30-foot sinkhole. The cave-in ruptured a gas main, swallowed an access road, and forced dozens of locals to evacuate. In the process, it put into stark, cinematic relief the unyielding threat of coastal erosion in every community in the nation with a view of the sea.

It’s impossible not to imagine Cage standing on the edge of that yawning pit as he might in one of his films, bombastic in his bafflement, every outsize gesture a pantomime of confusion. But no one should have been surprised. As far back as 1976, the California Coastal Commission denied a proposal to build a home on the lot where Cage’s Malibu home now teeters over the void, citing “concerns over wave hazards.” In 1986, the same commission rejected another residential proposal on the land, deeming it an “extremely hazardous area” threatened by waves and erosion. 

So why, just a few years later, was a home built there anyway, one that would eventually come to be owned by a certain Hollywood eccentric? A few years after their initial rejections, the waterfront lot’s original owners were able to convince the commission that with enough clever engineering, including a sea wall and concrete stilts, the home, its septic system, driveway, and access road could be protected from the sea god’s wrath. But much like Odysseus before him, Cage has found the hard way that the lord of waves does not easily forget his due. “What is the Grail but Earth itself?” he once told the New York Times, characteristically mythologizing his real estate acquisitions. “The divine object is Earth.”

In this case, at least, Cage chose the wrong cup. But Cage is hardly alone in laying out his home atop the wrong stretch of sand. Nearly all of the nation’s coastal communities — from ritzy enclaves like Malibu to working-class quarters of the Rockaways in New York — rely on coastal engineering to remain inhabitable, dumping sand or erecting sea walls to put off a perpetually and increasingly rising tide. 

To put this into perspective, almost one-third of Americans live along a coastline, and while few of us have the kind of luxury oceanfront views that Cage and his neighbors enjoy, our beachside apartment complexes, utility lines, and coastal highways suffer from the same risks his driveway does. Most of us, however, lack the benefit of a second home or a private island to flee to if something goes catastrophically wrong. 

When a sinkhole opens underneath a celebrity’s driveway, or a stilted home collapses into the sea, it is a reminder that we have built huge swaths of our beloved coastal communities on land that was never meant to sit still. If we want them to survive, we will need to learn to embrace new ways of packing our beach towns up and wheeling them further upshore. Logistically implausible as it may sound — difficult as, say, stealing the Declaration of Independence — it’s a process that several American communities have become much better at in recent years. 

“This is not a problem that is unique to Malibu, which just so happens to be some of the most spectacularly beautiful and spectacularly expensive real estate in America,” said Kara Murphy Schlichting, an environmental historian at Queens College in NYC. “This is a question that is coming for all of America’s coastal communities.”

Say it ain’t sinkhole

The void that swallowed Cage’s driveway with the gusto of the actor chewing scenery in one of his films was no ordinary sinkhole. In fact, if you asked a geologist, they would tell you that it was not, technically speaking, a true sinkhole at all. 

“It’s not what I typically would consider a sinkhole,” Michael Sukop, a hydrogeology professor at Florida International University, told me. That’s because most sinkholes form when rainwater or a leaky pipe slowly seeps into the porous bedrock beneath our highways, homes, and soccer fields, creating a cavern that screeches open during a heavy downpour or when the infrastructure above it becomes too heavy to bear. 

There is no accurate accounting of every sinkhole in the US, but geologists widely believe that they have become more frequent globally, driven by extreme weather linked to climate change, aging infrastructure, and what Sukop calls “people moving into sinkhole country,” meaning places like Florida where the bedrock is highly soluble. Some of the worst places for sinkholes in the country are in landlocked states like Missouri, whose unique landscape boasts upward of 16,000 sinkholes, which often open after heavy rainfall.   

But Cage’s sinkhole was formed not from hidden cavities in the bedrock, but from a high surf strong enough to slip under his sea wall and wash away the soggy soil beneath his asphalt and, presumably, his Rolls-Royce Phantoms. It was spurred not by rainfall or a leaky pipe but by a tidal force akin to the one that can put a damper on — or literally dampen, anyway — a beach spot that seemed perfectly sandy when the surf was low. 

@accuweather

A homeowner on North Carolina’s Outer Banks paid to move their beachfront home away from the shore to prevent it from collapsing into the ocean, as several neighboring homes have.

♬ original sound – AccuWeather

But while I can learn to lug my sodden towel and cooler a little further upshore, the same cannot easily be said for Cage’s $10.5 million abode, built — like much of Malibu — atop a constantly shifting coastline. Which isn’t to say that it wouldn’t be a good idea to try.

“It’s a fiction that we can keep a coast in a single place,” said Schlichting. And it is a fiction upheld by hundreds of millions of dollars spent each year on temporary solutions meant to hold the ocean still, and protect the luxury homes and boardwalks we’ve built along it. 

The pristine, sandy beaches that most of us think of when we think of the word “beach” are often heavily manufactured for our pleasure, much like an urban park might be seeded with carefully cultivated trees and brush. In fact, the federal government spends hundreds of millions of dollars each year to dump sand atop eroded coastlines, a process known as beach renourishment, in addition to many more billions spent on sea walls and other structures that can keep a coastline in place for a little while. 

“The most endangered species on the coast is not a turtle or a piping plover; it’s an unengineered beach,” said Robert Young, director of the Program for the Study of Developed Shorelines, who has been tracking beach renourishment projects since the 1980s. “And it’s unsustainable because as sea level continues to rise, we are having to pump that sand more and more frequently.”

How to save coastal neighborhoods

Earlier this year, Malibu released a long-awaited Coastal Vulnerability Assessment that twice called out the acute dangers that erosion poses for Sea Level Drive, a small stretch of private road, upon which a gaping crater now sits where Nicolas Cage’s driveway used to be. As this year’s goliath El Niño gets into full swing, his misfortune is unlikely to be the city’s last. 

Already, the spectacular seafront Pacific Coast Highway faces a gauntlet of exigencies, among them landslides, wildfires, and, of course, a coastline that simply won’t sit still, creeping further and further inland each year. Just this weekend, officials in Malibu issued a warning about hazardous conditions at local beaches, with “severe beach erosion” exposing steel and concrete debris sticking across the coastline.  

“Nature itself does not destroy the coast. It moves the coast,” said Young, but if infrastructure like the Pacific Coast Highway lies in the way of that movement, then there is only so much that building a sea wall or dumping 300,000 cubic yards of sand every five years will do. “No matter where you are, whether you are in California or South Carolina or New Jersey, we are still building in dumb places.”

Much like laying a log in front of your beach towel won’t hold the tide back for very long, these measures are often only a temporary balm. But there is another way, one that involves moving the proverbial towel — or permanent infrastructure — away from the shore, a process known as managed retreat.

As implausible as it may sound, when you take into account just how much money has gone into keeping the coast still, lugging a few celebrity mansions, a beachside school, or a sliver of highway across town might be a Herculean labor worth attempting. 

“It’s totally doable,” said Young. “We can move just about everything.” On the coast of North Carolina, the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, one of the tallest brick lighthouses in the world, was moved in 1999, a feat that Young helped pull off. At the time, he said, locals  “wanted to shoot us over” the effort, sure that the centuries-old structure would fall down. “And you know what? It’s safe now,” he said, noting that just down the beach in Buxton and in nearby Rodanthe, dozens of homes have collapsed into the ocean since 2020.

But even in places where such coastal relocations were once commonplace, it’s still not an easy sell for most coastal policymakers and their constituents, especially in places like Malibu, whose density and geography make it all but impossible to move things nearby. But sooner or later, they might not have a choice. 

“I can’t tell you how many coastal elected officials have said to me, ‘Rob, you know, retreat is not an option from this place.’ And I’m like, well, actually, you are retreating here, here, here, and here,” Young told me. “It’s just you’re doing it in the worst way possible. You’ve got septic tanks rolling around in the sea. That is not a great Chamber of Commerce moment.”

This story was originally published in The Highlight. To get access to member-exclusive stories like this every month, become a Vox Member today.

PALAU, Micronesia — On a bright, sunny day last May, I stood on a boat surrounded by the turquoise waters of the island nation of Palau. I was there in the western Pacific watching scuba divers as they prepared to bring up evidence of a mysterious aquatic world. 

Palau is famous for its spectacular and rich coral reefs. But these divers were planning to descend past those sun-lit marine communities and down into a lesser-known twilight zone known as the “mesophotic coral ecosystems.” 

Mesophotic essentially means “middle” and “light,” which is where these ecosystems are — not quite in the bright daylight, not quite in the profound darkness, but somewhere in between. For simplicity’s sake, we’ll call these communities, which range from some 30 meters to 150 meters below the surface, the “deep reefs.” 

One of the divers on the boat with me was a zoologist and curator at the California Academy of Sciences named Luiz Rocha, who has spent decades studying these deep reefs and their secrets. 

“Anything between 30 meters and 150 meters is really, really unknown,” he told me.

Because these deep reefs are so unknown, researchers like Rocha are left with big questions. They want to get a baseline picture of what is going on in these ecosystems — even just who lives there! — so that they can better understand how they function.  They’ve also tried to work out whether (or not) these deep reefs might provide a refuge for species living in shallower coral reefs.

I was in Palau for Vox’s Unexplainable podcast because, in an effort to gather more information about these mysterious places, Rocha left some scientific structures down in these twilight depths back in 2016. Those structures then spent almost a decade becoming encrusted with all kinds of marine life. And now, Rocha was back to retrieve them, hoping that he — along with many other scientists — would be able to open them up, like a box of scientific puzzle pieces, full of clues about this under-understood marine world.

So what is a mesophotic “deep reef”? 

One thing that’s often acknowledged in papers about and descriptions of the “mesophotic coral ecosystems” is that scientists don’t know as much as they’d like to. A National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration article about them from 2019 is full of “may’s” as in: they may “serve as essential fish habitat for economically and ecologically important species.”

Researchers do know some things, of course. They know that these deep reefs can be found in many of the same locations as shallower coral reefs — so mainly the tropical and subtropical parts of the world, like Micronesia, the Caribbean, and even the Gulf of Mexico. They’ve found that there are many species that seem to be unique to these places, and recent research points to their potential susceptibility to climate change.

Researchers have also gotten a sense of some of the key differences between these deep reefs and their shallower coral neighbors. In shallow reefs, hard corals team up with photosynthesizing algaes. The algaes provide the corals with nutrients, and the corals secrete a calcium-carbonate matrix that helps create the architecture of the reef. 

As you go deeper, though, the light begins to fade, and the opportunities for photosynthesis start to fade with it. The temperature also drops. So the animals living down in the deep reefs are the ones that can survive in a dimmer, cooler world.

Why are these places so mysterious? 

Scientists can dive into the deep reefs to try to learn more about these understudied places — as Rocha has — but exploring down at 100 meters requires more difficult, riskier technical diving than exploring at shallower depths. The deeper you dive, for example, the faster gasses get pushed into your tissues, which imposes limits on these really deep dives.

“We have a very, very short time,” Rocha says, “And by short time, I mean five minutes. Six, seven minutes.” 

Scientists might take some pictures in that time, or make some measurements, or collect a few samples, but then they have to move back upwards, a process which can take hours because they have to rise slowly to avoid decompression sickness.

It is, obviously, not particularly efficient to study an ecosystem in five- to seven-minute bursts. People have also used remote operated vehicles and submersibles to explore the deep reefs, but those have their own issues, and cameras can’t always capture all the detail you might want, or photograph more secretive, cryptic animals. So huge gaps remain in scientific knowledge about these ecosystems. 

“Whenever we go somewhere,” Rocha says, “the first thing we find is new species. … It’s the most basic thing in science you can do.” But this effort goes beyond just cataloguing new species of fish or sponges or sea slugs. 

Rocha wants to answer seemingly fundamental questions like: What is the main energy source for everything down here in the dimmer light? What does the food chain look like? How have things evolved to live down at these depths? How similar are they to the shallow ecosystems, and how different? How are they affected by climate change — and what’s the most efficient way to protect them? 

But, “in some ways we don’t even know what questions to ask,” Rocha says. “We really only know what questions to ask after we have a baseline understanding of what the ecosystem is. And for deep reefs, we don’t know that yet.” 

A new way to understand the deep reefs using “prefab housing”

Rocha is not deterred by the enormous number of question marks that surround these deep reefs. For years now, he has been gathering bits of basic information about them, often via those very short dives. 

About a decade ago, though, Rocha got interested in another method for sampling the biodiversity of this sort of marine ecosystem — a technique involving “autonomous reef monitoring structures” (ARMS).

Basically, each ARMS is a stack of several PVC plates, separated at uniform intervals and attached to a base plate. They look like little grey, featureless hotels. You take them to a place that you want to study, bring them down, secure them, and then leave them alone for a while to let them collect…life.

“As soon as you drop any kind of clean structure on a reef,” Rocha says, “it starts getting colonized by larvae of everything around it — of sponges, gorgonians, corals. And then, because there’s all a lot of hiding spots between the plates — so between the floors of the hotel — they start getting colonized by shrimp, by mollusks, by ascidians, by anything you can imagine in the ocean. … And it becomes this stable, diverse mini reef, if you will, packed with a lot of biodiversity that would be very hard to collect all at once in any given reef.”

A few years after that initial drop, you come back, collect the ARMS, and then study the mini reef that has grown on them. You can sample and touch and analyze things to your heart’s content. 

It’s not only a very effective way to collect lots of creatures, all at once, but also a great way to do so in a standardized way. If you went down — or sent a robot down — to collect an encrusted rock from a reef, you could learn a lot about the life on it, but it would be hard to compare the life on that rock to life on other rocks from other reefs, or even the same reef, because each rock would have its own unique characteristics. Not so for ARMS.

“ Every one’s the same,” Chris Meyer, director of the Smithsonian Global ARMS program, told me, “It’s prefab housing, and then you just look to see who moves in.” 

To Rocha, this seemed like a great way to get a really good, long look at the deep reefs instead of the brief glimpses he was getting from diving. It was also, he told me, fairly cheap to deploy them. So from 2016 to 2018, with some private funding, he and his colleagues left ARMS in some of the deep reefs around Palau — as well as in Guam, the Marshall Islands, and French Polynesia. They installed some around 50 meters, and some around 100, and then some around 10 meters, so he could compare the deep reefs to their shallower neighbors. 

After that, he waited. 

In fact, he waited a little longer than he would have liked, because the retrieval of ARMS is more expensive than deploying them, so he had to work out more funding. 

Eventually, private funders agreed to underwrite the retrieval of the ARMS that Rocha had left. Which is how he and his fellow divers finally found themselves on a boat in Palau again, ready to pull up these structures for the deep.

Opening the scientific puzzle box

Over the course of a few days, I watched a whole team of people pull several ARMS out of the deep reefs of Palau. Some of the ARMS were relatively sparse, but others were almost fuzzy with organisms — vibrant with red and orange and green and pink and white. One had a massive sponge attached to it, another had several delicate fronds dangling from it like coralline ferns. The ARMS collected each day traveled to the Palau International Coral Reef Center in bins full of seawater, where the scientists quickly got to work — seeing and touching (and smelling) this mysterious ecosystem right up close.

The process was, as it turned out, equal parts magical excitement and well-oiled, Cheez-It fueled disassembly line. After the plates were taken apart, Meyer took photographs of the plates — what he called a “time capsule of the place.” Others in the lab picked carefully through trays of debris, hunting for tiny crabs and worms and mollusks, or scraped samples off the plates and deposited them in tubes.

They collected sea squirts, said to be our closest invertebrate relatives. They collected sponges — flat ones that felt dry underwater, thick ones with bristles like tiny, unmoving caterpillars, one as thin as a flake of skin and shot through with silver filaments. They collected strange, soft corals known as “octocorals,” and they collected colonies of animals called bryozoans, which created what looked like swirling, two-dimensional honeycombs.

“We’re looking for every unique thing, which we call a morphospecies,” a Smithsonian research biologist named Sarah Tweedt explained. “And we’re trying to get some representative tissue samples from all of these things so that we can sequence the DNA — and match the DNA to the organism.”

That is, of course, assuming there is already a known genetic match in our existing DNA libraries. 

On the first day that I spent with the team, a Cal Academy curator named Terry Goslinger identified several potential new species. He is an expert on colorful, delightful sea slugs known as nudibranchs, and so, because of his deep knowledge (and because nudibranchs’ bright hues and patterns make them somewhat easier to tell apart than some other underwater creatures), he was able to make some on-the-spot calls about whether or not certain species were likely to be new to science, pending genetic testing to confirm.

Many of the animals were trickier to pin down, though. The researchers did their best to identify the creatures they were finding, but even now, several months out, there’s still a lot of work to be done. Of the close to 3,000 specimens, only a small fraction were identified at a species level. The numbers are a little bit inexact because researchers are still processing the data, but when I checked in with a Cal Academy postdoc working on the project, Susanne Bähr, in July, she told me that only 3 percent of samples had been ID’d by species, and a little less than 20 had a genus designation. Many, many more were only identified at higher, broader taxonomic levels. Genetic testing of the samples, paired with photographs and descriptions of the samples, will help people work out more specific species, and also help them identify whether certain species are new to science.

Beyond discovering new species…and toward solving the big puzzle

The most important parts of this work will involve more than just identifying species. In fact, the more time I spent with these researchers in the lab, (including one evening spent with them as they worked past midnight), the more I got the sense that, while they seemed excited about seeing new species, they seemed equally excited to witness relationships between animals.

When I walked into the lab one day, for example, several people urged me to go over and look through a microscope at a creature known as a pompom crab — a tiny yellow crustacean holding purple anemones in its modified front claws. Tweedt was extremely jazzed when she found something referred to as a “skeleton shrimp,” which looked to me like the marine equivalent of a stick insect, blending in on something called a hydroid. She pulled me aside another time, around one in the morning, to show me “the frosting on the cake” of the day, which turned out to be some bright red sea snails and the bright red octocorals they seemed to live on

As she put it in a later conversation, these relationships are, in many ways, the key takeaway from this ARMS project, and what distinguishes it from efforts to bring up a few individual samples at a time. Studying them, or even just looking at the fuller picture ARMS provide, is what will let researchers tackle some of the outstanding questions about these ecosystems. Bähr, for example, is already working with the data from ARMS retrieved in Guam, trying to analyze how much overlap (or lack thereof) there is between species at different depths in the deep reefs.

Really, though, this is all just the beginning. In one of our conversations, Rocha compared the work they are doing now to ecology work done in the mid-20th century to understand how species’ vertical distribution changes as you go up a mountain. This drove home for me how far behind researchers working on the mesophotic deep reefs are compared to their colleagues working on, say, shallower coral reefs. I asked him what kept him working on such a difficult puzzle.

“It’s the reward at the end of it,” he said, “If it’s a hard puzzle, at the end of it, the reward is always bigger.” 

“But…in our lifetimes, will we assemble the deep reef puzzle?” I asked.

“No, we will not assemble the puzzle, no,” Rocha said, “but we’ll generate some good pieces for the next generation to assemble.”