santa susana field laboratory

It’s been seven months since I looked up from my desk here in The Times’ El Segundo office and saw smoke roiling over the horizon.

The sky behind the billowing dove-gray clouds was still blue and clear. Across the county, people who would not live to see the next sunrise still watered their plants and chatted with neighbors and went about their business. I snapped a photo of the Palisades fire, unaware that I was looking at an entity already in the process of changing Los Angeles irrevocably.

The Eaton fire erupted hours later. By the following afternoon there was no distinction between smoke and sky, just that acrid, asphyxiating gray that made eyes water and chests tighten throughout Los Angeles County.

For days, we breathed in each other’s lives. Flames took the contents of our homes — photographs, plastic toys, car batteries, attic insulation, every coat of paint and varnish applied across the decades — and reduced them to microscopic particles that wafted across the region, went into our windpipes, leached into our blood and settled in our brains.

At work I wrote obituaries, sorted through the medical examiner’s database, and listened to grieving people describe their loved ones’ finest qualities and heartbreaking final hours.

A total of 31 people died as a direct result of injuries sustained in the Palisades and Eaton fires. The remains of the last known victim, 74-year-old Juan Francisco Espinoza, were discovered just weeks ago in the wreckage of his Altadena home.

Smoke from the Palisades fire, seen from the window of the L.A. Times’ office in El Segundo, on Jan. 7.

(Corinne Purtill / Los Angeles Times)

The disaster’s true toll is likely far higher. Just this week, a research team compared the number of deaths Los Angeles County logged between Jan. 5 and Feb. 1 to those counted in previous, non-pandemic years. This year’s count was much higher than expected. Researchers estimate that the fires led to the deaths of an additional 440 people in January alone, through interrupted healthcare and hazardous air quality.

It’s the beginning of a long reckoning with the potential health consequences of the toxic pollutants that the fires unleashed into our air, soil and water.

It will almost certainly be impossible to attribute any individual case of cancer, dementia or cardiovascular failure — to name a few of the health issues associated with exposure to wildfire smoke — to a person’s proximity to the L.A. fires.

Similarly, it’s impossible to pinpoint the degree to which climate change exacerbates any individual natural disaster. But it’s highly likely that a chaotic climate contributed to the intensity of January’s firestorms.

Two extraordinarily wet years produced an explosion of vegetation that dried out over an unusually warm summer and unusually dry winter. The region was a tinderbox, and when the Santa Ana winds hit with the force of a hurricane, ignitions turned quickly into uncontrolled catastrophes.

In the last decade, wildfires have unleashed enough fine particulate pollution to reverse years’ worth of hard-won improvements under the Clean Air Act and other antipollution measures.

These itty-bitty particles of soot, measuring 2.5 microns or less in diameter, are fine enough to cross the barriers between the outer branches of our lungs and the blood, and the blood and the brain.

Such particles can originate from vehicle exhaust, construction projects, campfires and even volcanic eruptions. But wildfires are a particularly insidious source.

Compared with other sources, wildfire smoke “contains a higher fraction of ultrafine particles — particles 25 times smaller than PM2.5 — that can move directly from the nose into the brain, potentially damaging brain cells and eventually leading to dementia,” said Joan Casey, an environmental epidemiologist at the University of Washington.

“The other thing that differs is how people are exposed to wildfire smoke. Unlike other sources of PM2.5, [in which] exposure might be relatively constant throughout the year, people are often exposed to a few days of extreme wildfire smoke annually,” Casey said. “Think about it this way: it might be fine to drink one glass of wine per day, but some of these wildfire smoke events are like drinking four bottles of wine in an evening, which can overwhelm the body’s defense and harm health.”

That punch may land particularly heavy when the smoke comes from urban fires like January’s disaster.

Casey pointed to a paper that came out earlier this year looking at the relative toxicity of different types of wildfire smoke.

That research team found that smoke originating from fires that burned buildings had higher concentrations of lead, nickel and other carcinogenic substances than smoke from fires that burned primarily organic material.

After examining air pollution data captured at 700 air quality monitors over a 15 year-period, the researchers found that the share of pollutants that could be attributed to wildfire “significantly increased over time,” they wrote, “with wildfire-attributed concentrations of multiple carcinogenic metals significantly higher by the end of our sample.”

The team estimated that exposure to wildfire smoke may have caused 47 additional cases of cancer in the U.S. between 2006 and 2020 that would not have otherwise developed.

Momentous as a cancer diagnosis is for any individual, in the context of the national population this is a minuscule and statistically insignificant increase in context, they pointed out — there are more than 1 million new cancer diagnoses in the U.S. per year.

But most of that wildfire smoke was generated by “traditional” wildfires that mostly burn trees, brush and plants. We don’t know what the burden will be from increasing exposure to incinerated batteries, machinery, plastic and cars, said Emma Krasovich Southworth, a doctoral candidate at Stanford and co-author of the study.

“Given that we’re seeing more urban fires . . . we would expect that this risk to public health could change,” she said. “Even though [wildfire smoke] hasn’t added a significant cancer burden in the past, that’s not to say it won’t in the future.”

As anyone affected by January’s fires in any capacity knows, disasters of this magnitude also create an enormous amount of acute and chronic stress, which itself alters brain structure and function.

In a paper exploring the potential health effects of the fires, Casey and colleagues noted multiple ways that the upheaval and displacement they caused could contribute to ongoing mental health issues.

“Those evacuating face extreme stress and impacts on mental health, even years after the events,” they wrote. “Even when homes are not damaged or destroyed, evacuation disrupts multiple dimensions of people’s lives, including work, education, community gatherings, and health care access.”

This column looks often at the economic costs and consequences of a changing climate. There is also a toll our brains and bodies, a physical burden we all take on when the environment falls apart.

L.A.’s fires have reshaped the city. It is also possible that they have triggered changes in our very cells whose consequences we can’t yet see, and will become apparent to us long after the last lot has been cleared.

“I think [the fires have] the potential to be devastating to human health, especially over the long term,” Krasovich Southworth said. “We might see the immediate uptick of certain things that we know happen when exposed to [fire], like asthma or other respiratory issues. But I think the longer-term exposures to these chemicals . . . could be really devastating to the community.”

This is the latest edition of Boiling Point, a newsletter about climate change and the environment in the American West. Sign up here to get it in your inbox. And listen to our Boiling Point podcast here.

Two scenes. Two storytellers. Two visions for a climate-altered American West.

On an overcast spring morning, I hopped a low metal fence off a lonely dirt road in the Nevada desert, following botanist Naomi Fraga. She assured me she’d done this before — these were public lands, after all. We were 100 miles east of Yosemite, out in the middle of nowhere, except I’d long since learned there’s no such thing as nowhere. The desert may look barren, but its mountains and valleys teem with life. And precious metals.

Fraga led me up a small hill, the soil chalky-white and rich with lithium, a key ingredient in lithium-ion batteries for electric cars. We moved slowly, not wanting to trample any endangered wildflowers.

Wait, were those the flowers? The Tiehm’s buckwheat I’d come hundreds of miles to see?

“Very tiny,” Fraga confirmed. “When it flowers, its flower stalks might come about 4 or 5 inches high.”

“It snows here in this elevation zone,” she added, roughly 6,000 feet above sea level. “It’s a very cold desert, and when it’s cold, Tiehm’s buckwheat is just lying in wait, waiting for spring.”

For a flower that’s spurred high-stakes litigation, detailed scientific study and global news coverage, it was pretty ugly, at least in its dormant winter state. The clumps of gray-green buckwheat looked almost like mold.

Clumps of Tiehm’s buckwheat near the planned Rhyolite Ridge lithium mine.

(Sammy Roth / Los Angeles Times)

For Fraga, the flower’s current appearance is beside the point. Tiehm’s buckwheat doesn’t grow anywhere else in the world — just here, across three square miles of Esmeralda County. She’s enthralled by its role in an ecosystem of pollinators and bighorn sheep. She’s awestruck by its ability to survive winter snow and 120-degree heat.

“I just have an enormous amount of respect for the organisms that make this their home,” she said. “I feel like it brings for a reverence for harsh living, and ways in which life will find a way.”

The question now: Can Tiehm’s buckwheat survive a lithium mine?

Fraga doesn’t think so. Bernard Rowe disagrees.

The day after I met Fraga, Rowe took me to the same area. We drove down the dirt road past the metal fence, to a spectacular basin where his employer, Australia-based Ioneer, is preparing to dig for lithium.

“The good thing is, this is a natural amphitheater, and it is hidden from really everywhere,” Rowe said. “You’ve got the ring of volcanic rocks that completely surrounds this basin.”

Sight lines don’t matter to an endangered flower. But contrary to claims made by conservationists, Rowe said the Rhyolite Ridge mine won’t drive Tiehm’s buckwheat to extinction. He noted that mining activities won’t touch any subpopulations of Tiehm’s buckwheat — although the quarry could come as close as a dozen feet.

“We had to make sure we put buffer zones. We had to map all the plants,” he said.

So who’s right?

Bernard Rowe, managing director at Ioneer, discusses the company’s planned lithium mine in Esmeralda County, Nevada.

(Jonathan Shifflett)

It would be easy to make the company look like the bad guy. After all, here’s a profit-seeking foreign corporation seeking to exploit America’s public lands in the name of environmental progress. Potentially at the expense of an endangered species. With only a band of hardy activists standing in the way.

It’s a good story. Arguably an accurate story. And yet…

And yet the climate crisis makes everything complicated. To phase out oil and natural gas — whose combustion fills the air with deadly pollution and fuels devastating storms, wildfires and heat waves — we’ll need enormous amounts of lithium, for electric vehicle batteries and solar energy storage to keep the lights on after dark. Most of the world’s lithium is currently produced in Australia and China, and at destructive evaporation ponds in Chile.

Those geopolitical dynamics help explain why lithium mining has garnered bipartisan support even as President Trump kills other clean energy projects. The Biden administration approved Rhyolite Ridge last year, then backed the developer with a $996-million loan. The Trump administration has let both decisions stand.

Already, Rowe estimated, the U.S. consumes 100,000 tons of lithium carbonate per year for electric car batteries.

“By the time you add in grid batteries, hand tools, recreational vehicles, cellphones … it will soon be hundreds of thousands of tons,” he said. “And into the future, it’ll be 1 million tons of domestic demand.”

Let’s say the Rhyolite Ridge’s critics are right, and the mine would, in fact, annihilate Tiehm’s buckwheat. Is that a reasonable price to pay for ditching oil-burning cars and shutting down gas-fired power plants?

The answer might depend on your vantage point.

Botanist Naomi Fraga examines Tiem’s buckwheat on a hill near the planned site of the Rhyolite Ridge lithium mine.

(Jonathan Shifflett)

Take Fraga. She was born and raised in Southern California’s San Gabriel Valley and is now a botany professor at Claremont Graduate University. She started doing research in Nevada a few years before the COVID-19 pandemic. She sees Rhyolite Ridge as part of a landscape so unique it might be a national monument were it in California.

Rowe, meanwhile, grew up in an Australian farm town. He was inspired to study geology by a university lecturer’s tales of travel and adventure, which led him to the mining industry. He’s spent 20 years splitting his time between Sydney and Nevada, where he helped identify the value in Rhyolite Ridge’s mineral deposits.

Part of the value is lithium. The rest is boron, a durable, heat-resistant metalloid. Rowe could riff for hours about the vast array of products that require boron, including steel alloys, carpet fibers, car parts, wind turbine magnets and many types of glass, including cookware, windshields, TV screens and thermal insulation.

Right now, Turkey is the world’s top boron producer by far. Rhyolite Ridge was a rare find.

“Most other metal deposits — copper, gold — they can be quite young, in terms of a few million years old. Or they can be hundreds of millions, even a billion years old,” Rowe said. “You don’t find old boron deposits.”

For Rowe, Rhyolite Ridge is treasure buried in plain sight. For Fraga, it’s just the latest example of callous outsiders attempting to exploit Nevada’s public lands — a history that began with silver mining and continues with housing development, solar farms and nuclear waste storage. Nevada is already home to America’s only active lithium mine, not far from Rhyolite Ridge. The Thacker Pass mine is also under construction near the Oregon border.

Angelenos driving electric vehicles ought to think about how their choices affect Nevada, Fraga suggested.

“There’s a real tension there, where we need to avert the worst of the climate crisis. But in doing so, we can cause real harm to ecosystems,” she said.

So how do we resolve that tension?

Tiehm’s buckwheat in bloom.

(Naomi Fraga)

I put off writing this column for three months because I didn’t have a good answer. How could I defend the mine when it might doom an endangered species? Yet how could I condemn it when we need lithium, and when so few large-scale clean energy projects don’t face environmental conflicts?

As far as the sparring parties are concerned, the facts speak for themselves. Ioneer points to a biological opinion from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service concluding that its mine is “not likely to jeopardize the continued existence” of Tiehm’s buckwheat or “result in the destruction or adverse modification of its critical habitat.”

Conservationists counter that when the Fish and Wildlife Service declared the flower an endangered species in 2022, the agency described “mineral exploration and development” as one of the “greatest threats” to the flower. The Center for Biological Diversity, the Western Shoshone Defense Project and Great Basin Resource Watch sued federal officials over their approval of the mine last year, contending they rushed the environmental review.

It’s possible we’ll never know who’s right. Ioneer is scrambling to secure new funding after the South African firm Sibanye-Stillwater — which was supposed to invest $490 million — backed out this year amid falling global lithium prices. Ioneer said this month it wouldn’t start construction until at least March. If and when the company is ready to start digging, the groups in the lawsuit could ask the judge to block construction.

But whatever happens at Rhyolite Ridge, these types of questions aren’t going away — especially in the American West, where public lands have traditionally supplied big cities with energy, water and food. We’ll need to be more thoughtful than ever about how we use land. We’ll need to get comfortable evaluating trade-offs.

In an ideal world, we’d never have to choose between lithium mines and lovely flowers. Or at least, we’d find ways to resolve these types of conflicts amicably — and quickly, because climate chaos is coming fast.

Sometimes it’s possible. Alas, sometimes we’ll have to choose.

This is the latest edition of Boiling Point, a newsletter about climate change and the environment in the American West. Sign up here to get it in your inbox. And listen to our Boiling Point podcast here.

For more climate and environment news, follow @Sammy_Roth on X and @sammyroth.bsky.social on Bluesky.

Amid a string of setbacks for clean energy — tariffs, the Trump administration, Tesla’s declining sales numbers — California officials delivered a big win last month, approving the nation’s largest solar-plus-storage project.

Planned for 14 square miles in Fresno County, the project will provide up to 1,150 megawatts of solar energy and 4,600 megawatts-hours of battery storage. Dubbed the Darden project, it should be able to power 850,000 homes after dark. The developer, Intersect Power, will pay hundreds of millions of dollars in property taxes over time.

And because Darden will be built on retired farmland in an area running low on water, rather than pristine public lands in the desert, there are few environmental conflicts. No Joshua trees to chop down or endangered tortoises to displace. An easy place to build renewable energy and slow the climate crisis.

So why are many farmers in water-scarce parts of California fighting the solar industry?

State lawmakers are under pressure from Big Ag to kill or rewrite legislation that would make it easier to convert farmland to solar production. The Legislature rejected a similar bill last year, despite looming regulations that will require Central Valley farmers to pump less groundwater.

In southeastern California, meanwhile, the powerful Imperial Irrigation District — which controls more Colorado River water than the entire state of Arizona — voted this month to oppose further solar development on Imperial Valley farmland, even as a climate-fueled megadrought drains the river’s major reservoirs.

Again, why are farmers gumming up the clean energy transition?

“Agricultural land is very productive, and it’s something that we want to protect,” said J.B. Hamby, vice chair of the Imperial Irrigation District’s board of directors. “There’s ample opportunity to develop solar in other places.”

“One in 6 jobs in the Imperial Valley is directly tied to agriculture,” he added.

The California Aqueduct runs between farmland and a solar plant in Kern County, carrying water south from the Sacramento-San Joaquin River Delta.

(Al Seib / Los Angeles Times)

Big Ag groups are making a similar argument in the Central Valley, where Assembly Bill 1156 would boost solar by weakening a law called the Williamson Act, which is designed to keep lands in crop production.

“The bill removes that smart approach to land-use decisions, where you’re [putting] solar on the least-productive agricultural lands,” said Peter Ansel, director of policy advocacy for the California Farm Bureau Federation.

On the surface, those talking points sound fair. But they’re not the whole story.

State officials need to get real about the enormous amounts of renewable energy we still need to build to replace deadly, destructive fossil fuels — an estimated 60 gigawatts of solar, wind and battery capacity in the next decade (and twice that much by 2045). For context, California has never used more than 52 gigawatts of electricity at one time before. The huge jump is partly due to the expected rise in electric vehicles and data centers.

Thus far, many of the biggest solar plants in the western U.S. have been built on public lands in the desert, where the Obama and Biden administrations encouraged renewable energy. But conservation activists have increasingly raised concerns over harm to wildlife habitat and endangered species, slowing development.

To Shannon Eddy — executive director of the Large-scale Solar Assn., a California trade group — promoting more solar on farmland is an obvious response. That’s one reason her group is sponsoring AB 1156.

“We have to add more clean energy to the grid than we have ever added in the history of the electricity grid,” she said. “And somehow we have to find a way to look at this through a shared lens, understanding that if we are not able to reduce climate emissions by 50% globally by 2030, we’re toast.”

I wouldn’t go quite so far. If we fail to cut climate pollution nearly in half by 2030 — which scientists say is needed to limit global warming to 1.5 degrees Celsius above preindustrial levels — the world won’t suddenly end.

But heat waves, wildfires, storms and droughts will keep getting worse. Which is why we should do everything we can to avoid that outcome. Like trading some productive farmland for some badly needed clean energy.

A smoldering home during the Eaton fire on Jan. 8.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

The details of AB 1156 are complicated, but the results would be simple.

Across California, 16 million acres — about half the state’s farms and ranches — are protected by the Williamson Act. The 1965 law offers lower property taxes for landowners who agree to keep their holdings in agricultural use or open space. For a grower to renege on a Williamson Act contract — for instance, if they want to sell to a home developer — they have to pay a big fee, or else wait out the duration of their contract.

It’s a good deal for farmers — and, historically, a good way to prevent suburban sprawl.

The problem arises when a solar company finds a farmer who wants to stop cultivating some or all of their lands, but those lands still have years remaining on a Williamson Act contract. Solar companies work on thin margins, and Williamson Act cancellation fees can derail otherwise viable projects. That’s especially true now that Congress and President Trump have eviscerated federal incentives for renewable energy.

AB 1156 would let growers in water-stressed areas suspend their contracts to enable solar development, without anyone paying the fee. The solar company would pay full property taxes. Local officials would need to sign off.

And again: If less water inevitably means lost farmland, why not incentivize solar?

“You’re going to be restoring revenue to not only the landowner, but also to the local economy,” Eddy said.

Conservation activist Kim Delfino, president of consulting firm Earth Advocacy, often finds herself at loggerheads with the solar industry over large-scale projects in the desert. But she and one of her clients, the advocacy group Defenders of Wildlife, support AB 1156 — even though there are burrowing owls and a handful of other sensitive critters that have come to depend on agricultural lands.

“There’s no free lunch,” Delfino told me. “Anytime you put a project somewhere, it’s probably going to have some kind of environmental or habitat impacts.”

And that’s the crux of the challenge: There are lots of reasons to say no to clean energy in your community, even as we all collectively need it. Change is hard. It’s no surprise that farmers embracing solar are being drowned out by their neighbors who want to preserve agrarian communities as they’ve existed for a century.

Farmworkers weed rows of romaine lettuce outside Holtville, Calif., in the Imperial Valley.

(Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)

If California wants to soften opposition to solar, it should try to support farmworkers who see solar as a threat to their livelihoods — even if climate-driven water shortages would have threatened their jobs regardless.

Dustin Mulvaney, an environmental studies professor at San José State, recently co-wrote a paper on solar and environmental justice in the Imperial Valley. He said state officials should require solar companies to pay for more “community benefits” to make up for lost jobs, but not such high fees that companies stop building.

“It’s not a huge, profitable industry. They struggle,” Mulvaney acknowledged.

It’s hard to know what the future holds for Imperial County, which already has 13,000 acres of solar on farmland. The county supervisors are responsible for approving solar projects, not the irrigation district.

Here’s hoping the supervisors recognize that some change is inevitable. Even if they don’t approve every project, they could prod developers toward marginal farmland with lower-quality soil.

In the Central Valley, conditions are more likely to hinge on AB 1156, which passed the Assembly last month and is moving through the Senate. Lawmakers should send it to Gov. Gavin Newsom despite opposition from the farm bureau and other agricultural groups that are demanding amendments.

The farm bureau has argued that letting landowners out of their Williamson Act contracts except under extremely narrow circumstances would be unfair. Were it not for the climate crisis, that argument might have merit.

The thing is, there is a climate crisis. California should act like it.

This is the latest edition of Boiling Point, a newsletter about climate change and the environment in the American West. Sign up here to get it in your inbox. And listen to our Boiling Point podcast here.

For more climate and environment news, follow @Sammy_Roth on X and @sammyroth.bsky.social on Bluesky.

In an early episode of the TV series “Lost,” the plane crash survivors stranded on a mysterious island are running low on water. A fight breaks out, until emerging leader Jack Shephard admonishes everyone to work together.

“If we can’t live together, we’re gonna die alone,” he says.

California lawmakers contemplating our climate future ought to take that lesson to heart.

Senate Bill 540 would help establish a regional electricity market capable of tying together the American West’s three dozen independent power grids. Supporters say it would smooth the flow of solar and wind power from the sunny, windy landscapes where they’re produced most cheaply to the cities where they’re most needed. It would help California keep the lights on without fossil fuels, and without driving up utility bills.

That may sound straightforward, but the bill has bitterly divided environmentalists. Welcome to the Wild West of energy policy.

Some consider regional power-trading a crucial market-based tool for accelerating climate progress. Others see it as a plot by greedy energy companies to enrich themselves.

Those divides didn’t stop the Senate from unanimously passing SB 540. But amendments demanded by skeptical lawmakers are now threatening to derail the bill in the Assembly — even as Gov. Gavin Newsom threw his weight behind the concept Wednesday.

Critics warn that SB 540 would result in California yielding control of its power grid to out-of-state officials and the Trump administration, who could force Californians to pay for coal-fired electricity from Utah and Wyoming. They also worry about market manipulation driving up electric rates.

Those fears are understandable. I also think they’re misguided.

California by itself can’t stop the planet from heating up. The Golden State’s decades-long campaign to slow the wildfires, floods and heat waves of the climate crisis has been predicated on the conviction that eventually, other states and nations will follow along — even oil bastions and MAGA hothouses.

In other words: If we can’t live together, we’re gonna die alone.

Fortunately, even in the wake of President Trump’s “Big Beautiful Bill” gutting clean energy incentives, solar and wind power are still cheaper than planet-warming coal and fossil gas. Which is why Michael Wara, a Stanford energy and climate scholar, isn’t worried that SB 540 will leave Californians drowning in dirty power. In a regional market, solar and wind will usually outcompete coal and gas.

“Any energy source that requires fuel to operate is more expensive than an energy source that doesn’t,” he said.

The 20-megawatt Maricopa West solar project in California’s Kern County.

(Al Seib / Los Angeles Times)

California also needs to prove that a grid powered entirely by clean energy is affordable and reliable. The state’s rising electric rates are already a big concern. And although the grid has been stable the last few years, thanks to batteries that store solar for after dark, keeping the lights on with more and more renewables might get harder.

Regional market advocates make a strong case that interstate cooperation would help.

For instance, a market would help California more smoothly access Pacific Northwest hydropower, already a key energy source during heat waves. It would also give California easier access to low-cost winds from New Mexico and Wyoming. Best of all, that wind is often blowing strong just as the sun sets along the Pacific.

Another benefit: Right now, California often generates more solar than it can use during certain hours of the day, forcing solar farms to shut down — or pay other states to take the extra power. With a regional market, California could sell excess solar to other states, keeping utility bills down.

“This is about lowering costs,” said Robin Everett, deputy director of the Sierra Club’s Beyond Coal Campaign.

When I wrote about a past regional market proposal in 2017, the Sierra Club was opposed. It believed a regional market would throw an economic lifeline to Utah and Wyoming coal plants owned by Warren Buffett’s PacifiCorp company by giving them access to new markets — including California — to sell their power.

Eight years later, things are different. High costs are driving coal toward extinction. Solar and wind cost even less. Sierra Club staff now say California should be less worried about opening new markets to coal and more worried about averting blackouts or high utility bills that could trigger an anti-renewables backlash.

“Otherwise we’re going to see more and more gas, and a push to keep coal online,” Everett said.

But here’s where the politics get tricky.

Although the Sierra Club endorsed the Pathways Initiative — the detailed regional market plan on which SB 540 is based — it hasn’t endorsed the bill. That’s because many of the club’s volunteer leaders still hate the idea.

They’re not alone.

SB 540’s opponents include the Center for Biological Diversity, Food and Water Watch and Consumer Watchdog. (Full disclosure: My father-in-law, an energy lawyer, has advocated against the bill.) Eight chapters of 350.org and 73 chapters of progressive group Indivisible stand opposed. So does the Environmental Working Group.

On the flip side, supporters include Climate Hawks Vote, the Environmental Defense Fund, the Natural Resources Defense Council, the Nature Conservancy, the Union of Concerned Scientists and two chapters of 350.org.

Loretta Lynch, who led the state’s Public Utilities Commission during the early-2000s energy crisis, thinks SB 540 would open the door for more market manipulation, giving energy companies legally sanctioned tools to thwart climate goals and force Californians to pay for expensive fossil fuels.

Her warnings have resonated with activists frustrated by California’s investor-owned utilities, which keep raising electric rates and recently helped persuade officials to slash rooftop solar incentives. Indeed, SB 540’s supporters include Southern California Edison, Pacific Gas & Electric and trade groups for major power producers.

“They want no guardrails or limits on how they can fleece California,” Lynch said.

Montana’s coal-fired Colstrip power plant.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

It’s a compelling narrative. But most energy experts who have studied the bill aren’t convinced.

For one thing, electricity sales have changed dramatically since the energy crisis, with more oversight and fewer last-minute trades limiting the potential for shenanigans. Unlike with past regional market proposals, California would retain control of its grid operator, with only a few functions delegated to a regional entity. And California’s grid is already subject to federal regulation, meaning Trump could try undermining state policy at any time.

Labor attorney Marc Joseph, who helped lead the charge against previous regional market bills, described Lynch’s talking points as “good arguments against a thing that is no longer being proposed.”

“We’re in a different place because it’s a fundamentally different thing,” Joseph said.

Joseph represents the politically powerful International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. After years of fighting regional markets, IBEW is now a vocal supporter. What changed, Joseph said, is that SB 540 would safeguard state climate goals, thus making it a valuable tool to advance solar and wind farms — and create good-paying jobs.

Even with IBEW’s support, though, it’s not clear if SB 540 will reach Newsom’s desk.

To secure support in the Senate in May, Sen. Josh Becker (D-Menlo Park), the bill’s author, added amendments to assuage concerns about California giving up too much control of its grid. Ironically, many of the bill’s key backers now say they’re opposed unless the amendments are removed or tweaked.

Why would they say that? Because California is the biggest electricity user in the West, and other states won’t join a regional market unless they’re confident California will participate — and the amendments would make it easier for the Golden State to bail. Out-of-state utilities don’t want to waste time and money committing themselves to a California-led market only to lose California, and thus many of the economic benefits.

That’s especially true because those utilities have another option. Arkansas-based Southwest Power Pool, which operates the electric grid across much of the central U.S., is recruiting Western utilities to its own regional market. Already, utilities based in Arizona, Colorado and the Pacific Northwest have agreed to join.

Arkansas isn’t leading the West to a clean energy future. California can try — or it can close itself off to the world.

Living together is no guarantee. But dying alone is definitely worse.

This is the latest edition of Boiling Point, a newsletter about climate change and the environment in the American West. Sign up here to get it in your inbox. And listen to our “Boiling Point” podcast here.

For more climate and environment news, follow @Sammy_Roth on X and @sammyroth.bsky.social on Bluesky.

When Gov. Gavin Newsom vetoed a bill last year that could have led to reparations for Mexican American families forced from their homes in Chavez Ravine in the 1950s, few knew the Dodgers had weighed in.

Newsom’s explanation was brief. He supported making amends for the injustice that occurred when Los Angeles officials uprooted three communities, seizing land for a housing project that would ultimately fall through before selling it to the Dodgers to enable the team’s move from Brooklyn. But the governor didn’t like that the bill would create a state-level task force rather than a local commission.

“A task force to study the events that occurred should be established at the local level,” Newsom wrote.

But previously unreported records show that the Dodgers lobbied state officials on the bill — as did the baseball team’s previous owner, Frank McCourt, who still shares ownership of the Dodger Stadium parking lots. McCourt’s lobbyists at the time included a firm led by Newsom’s friend Jason Kinney, whose French Laundry birthday dinner Newsom infamously attended at the height of the pandemic.

The records show that the Dodgers and McCourt lobbied on Assembly Bill 1950 — but not what side they took, if any. Did they oppose the legislation? And if so, did that lead to Newsom’s veto? It’s hard to know, because neither the Dodgers nor McCourt responded to my requests for comment.

As for Newsom, a spokesperson told me the governor’s office wasn’t lobbied on the bill — despite McCourt’s real estate company reporting otherwise.

Whatever actually happened, the Dodgers’ involvement raises questions about what went on behind the scenes. The public deserves answers — especially now that President Trump’s immigration raids have placed the team in the political spotlight, forcing its owners to grapple with the political and cultural power they wield.

For nearly two weeks after federal agents began rounding up brown-skinned people across the region, the team refused to comment, despite its more-than-40%-Latino fan base. For many fans, the silence felt like a betrayal — particularly after the team’s recent visit with Trump. A Dodgers employee even told Latina musician Nezza not to sign the National Anthem in Spanish before a game. (She did it anyway.)

Only when immigration agents gathered outside the Dodger Stadium parking lots last month did the team finally show some backbone, denying the agents entry and pledging $1 million to assist local immigrant families.

I’ll get back to the ICE raids and reparations bill shortly. But first, let’s note that this is hardly the first time that the Dodgers have hesitated to stand for social justice — despite being the franchise of Jackie Robinson.

Since last summer, 28,000 people have signed a petition urging the team to end its relationship with oil company Phillips 66, which advertises its 76 brand gasoline throughout Dodger Stadium. State officials have accused the oil giant of participating in a “decades-long campaign” to cover up the climate crisis — a crisis that affects everybody but is especially harmful to low-income families and people of color, including L.A.’s Latino communities.

A 76 gasoline ad above the right-field scoreboard at Dodger Stadium, seen during a July 4 game against the Astros.

(Kevork Djansezian / Los Angeles Times)

In March, California Senate Majority Leader Lena Gonzalez (D-Long Beach) called on the Dodgers to drop Phillips 66 as a sponsor. In a letter to controlling owner Mark Walter, she pointed out that Angelenos breathe some of the nation’s most polluted air. She also alluded to the link between fossil fuels and more devastating wildfires.

“For decades, the Dodgers have been ahead of the curve. On issues from banning cigarette ads to making history by signing Jackie Robinson, this team has occupied a unique place in American sports,” Gonzalez wrote.

How have the Dodgers responded? At least publicly, they haven’t. Every time I’ve written about Phillips 66, they’ve declined to respond. I suspect they’re hoping the whole issue will just go away.

News flash: It’s not going away. Especially after the ICE raids.

To understand the connection between immigration and environmental justice, I’d recommend listening to Alicia Rivera. She’s an organizer with Communities for a Better Environment, and she’s spoken at rallies outside Dodger Stadium protesting Phillips 66. Even before Trump launched his harsh anti-immigrant crackdown last month, she was explaining how deportations and dirty air are part of the same system of injustices.

As drivers entered the Dodger Stadium parking lots before a game in May, she talked about her young grandson, and her fears over what kind of world he would inherit: How much worse would wildfires get? Would fossil-fueled weather disasters in other countries prompt even more refugees to flee to the U.S.?

“Workers are being detained, arrested in the middle of the street, people who don’t even identify themselves are deporting them. And these oil companies have been complicit in denying us to know the truth, paying millions to pay so-called scientists to deny that their products have caused climate change,” Rivera said.

When I asked Rivera if dumping 76 would be a worthy response to the ICE raids — a way for the Dodgers to show that they care about Latino fans — she had a simple answer: “Of course. That would be a major breakthrough.”

“I see a consistent pattern of disregard for the well-being of the people they are profiting from,” she said.

Community organizer Alicia Rivera speaks at a rally outside Dodger Stadium on Sept. 22.

(Marcus Ubungen / Los Angeles Times)

That pattern arguably goes back decades.

The Chavez Ravine bill wouldn’t have forced the Dodgers to pay a cent to displaced families or their descendants; all it would have done is create a task force to study reparations. But the team has long shied away from so much as discussing the land’s grim backstory.

Only five entities paid lobbyists to weigh in on AB 1950, per an open-source database that compiles state records. Two of them — Fieldstead and Co. and Inclusive Action for the City — went on record supporting the legislation. I confirmed that a third group, the Western Center on Law & Poverty, was also in support.

Only the Dodgers and McCourt’s real estate company, McCourt Partners, haven’t publicly taken a stance.

The Dodgers lobbied the Legislature on AB 1950, while McCourt lobbied both the Legislature and the governor’s office, the records show.

Again, it’s tough to know what happened behind the scenes. Lawmakers passed the bill overwhelmingly, but only after a Senate committee nixed plans for a local task force — exactly what Newsom claimed he wanted.

As far as Wendy Carrillo is concerned, though, the lobbying records speak for themselves.

Carrillo was the state Assembly member, no longer in office, who wrote AB 1950. When I told her what I’d learned, she was outraged. She felt the records confirmed her suspicion that the Dodgers helped kill the bill.

She accused the team of “being disconnected from the very fan base that they have.”

“That same criticism can be made toward their visit to Trump at the White House, and their lack of understanding this moment in Los Angeles amid the growing ICE raids,” Carrillo said.

Dodgers owner Mark Walter looks on as President Trump speaks at the White House in April. The team visited Washington, D.C., to celebrate its 2024 World Series championship.

(Alex Wong / Getty Images)

Indeed, many fans are far from satisfied with the team’s response to Trump’s cruelty. Which is no surprise, given that the Dodgers still seem eager to avoid angering Trump. Team president Stan Kasten was maddeningly vague in his statement touting the $1 million for immigrants, describing the raids as “what’s happening in Los Angeles” and acknowledging only that said happenings have “reverberated among thousands upon thousands of people.”

In contrast, L.A. women’s soccer team Angel City spoke up immediately about the “fear and uncertainty” created by the raids. Its players wore “Immigrant City Football Club” shirts that declared, “Los Angeles is for everyone.”

To Carrillo, the Dodgers’ latest failure to show true solidarity with its Latino fan base is another manifestation of the team’s original sin — its decades-long refusal to acknowledge the Mexican American communities of Bishop, La Loma and Palo Verde, which were bulldozed to make way for Dodger Stadium.

Carrillo, who’s running for state Senate in a district that would include Dodger Stadium, wants Walter and his co-owners — who include basketball legend Magic Johnson and tennis star Billie Jean King — to support a memorial for displaced Chavez Ravine families. And to offer more vocal support for persecuted immigrants today.

The team said its $1 million in donations would be followed by “additional announcements.” So far, crickets.

Owning up to Chavez Ravine’s sordid history would be a great step. So would getting rid of the 76 ads.

Both actions would infuriate the MAGA crowd — but so would just about anything the Dodgers might do in response to the ICE raids. In fact, the backlash has already started. A group co-founded by Trump aide Stephen Miller, the architect of Trump’s anti-immigrant policies, has filed a civil rights complaint against the Dodgers.

Whatever they do next, the Dodgers will make some enemies. Just like they did when they signed Jackie Robinson and broke baseball’s color barrier. The only question is whether they’ll once again stand for justice.

This is the latest edition of Boiling Point, a newsletter about climate change and the environment in the American West. Sign up here to get it in your inbox. And listen to our “Boiling Point” podcast here.

For more climate and environment news, follow @Sammy_Roth on X and @sammyroth.bsky.social on Bluesky.

Masked federal agents are snatching up immigrants. It’s been less than two weeks since the U.S. bombed Iranian nuclear facilities. President Trump’s long-threatened tariffs could finally kick in next week.

Given all that, most people probably aren’t focused on climate change.

But they should be. Because Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill,” which passed the Senate this week and was poised to clear the House early Thursday, would do more than gut Medicaid, cut student loan relief and increase funding for deportations. It would kill federal support for solar and wind power, undoing President Biden’s historic climate law and punishing Americans with deadlier air, more lethal heat waves and higher electric bills.

I’m usually a climate optimist. But it’s hard to find reasons for hope right now.

The Senate bill would eliminate tax credits for solar and wind farms that don’t come online by the end of 2027 — a brutal deadline for projects that take years to permit, finance and construct. That would slam the brakes on new development and also jeopardize hundreds of projects already in the works — not only solar and wind farms, but also factories to build solar panels, wind turbines, lithium-ion batteries and other clean energy technologies.

Solar and wind farms that start construction by June 2026 would get tax credits no matter when they come online, a last-minute concession to the handful of Republican senators with a modicum of sense.

As if needing to counterbalance that concession, Republican leaders added lucrative tax credits for metallurgical coal, an incredibly dirty fossil fuel that’s mostly shipped to China and other countries to make steel.

The bill would also end tax credits for rooftop solar, electric vehicles and energy-efficient home upgrades — while reducing royalty rates for coal mined on public lands, and requiring more oil and gas leasing on those lands.

“The fossil fuel industry helped pay for this government, and now they’re getting their reward,” Bill McKibben, the preeminent climate author and activist, wrote in his newsletter.

That’s part of the explanation. Another part, I think, is that most voters aren’t paying close attention.

Polls consistently show that an overwhelming majority of Americans want cleaner energy, and climate action writ large. But polls also show that climate ranks low as a priority for most Americans.

Wind turbines in the California desert, seen from Highway 58.

(Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times)

So when it comes time for Trump and his allies to pay for their deficit-ballooning tax cuts — which mostly benefit the rich — clean energy is an easy target. They can tell outrageous lies about solar and wind being unreliable and expensive, and many people will either believe them or not care enough to seek out the truth.

Indeed, Trump wrote on social media last month that renewable energy tax credits are a “giant SCAM.” He claimed that wind turbines “and the rest of this ‘JUNK’” are “10 times more costly than any other energy.”

That’s not even remotely true. Authoritative sources, including the investment bank Lazard, report that solar and wind are America’s cheapest sources of new electricity, even without tax credits. Those low costs help explain why solar, wind and batteries made up 94% of new power capacity in the U.S. last year. Even in Texas, they’re booming.

For now, at least. John Ketchum, president of Florida-based NextEra Energy, warned the Trump administration in March that shelving renewables and battery storage would “force electricity prices to the moon.”

Lo and behold, research firm Energy Innovation estimates the Senate bill would cause average household energy costs to increase $130 annually by 2030. The firm also predicts 760,000 lost jobs by 2030.

“Families will face higher electric bills, factories will shut down, Americans will lose their jobs, and our electric grid will grow weaker,” said Abigail Ross Hopper, president of the Solar Energy Industries Assn.

The point about the grid growing weaker is key. North Carolina Sen. Thom Tillis, one of three Republicans to vote against the bill, mentioned a global turbine shortage that’s slowing the construction of gas-fired power plants. He stated plainly what energy executives know: that renewables and batteries are needed for a reliable grid.

“What you have done is create a blip in power service,” Tillis told his colleagues.

Here’s a question: If clean energy is so cheap, and in such high demand, why does it need subsidies?

For one thing, solar and wind projects require big upfront investments, after which the fuel, be it sun or wind, is free. Gas plants are often less expensive to build, but they can subject consumers to huge utility bill swings when fuel costs soar — during geopolitical turmoil, for instance, or during climate-fueled weather disasters.

The Los Angeles Department of Water and Power’s Eland solar and storage plant, located in Kern County, generates electricity for a record-low price.

(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

Also relevant: Fossil fuel subsidies are so deeply entrenched in the U.S. tax code that they rarely make news. Coal, oil and gas benefit from tens of billions of dollars in subsidies every year, by some estimates.

And that’s without accounting for the bigger wildfires, harsher droughts, stronger storms, hotter heat waves and other harms of fossil fuel combustion, including air pollution that kills millions of people worldwide each year. Oil, gas and coal companies don’t pay those costs. Taxpayers do.

So, yes, solar and wind still need a leg up. But even under Biden’s climate law, the U.S. hasn’t been reducing heat-trapping emissions enough to help keep global warming to less-than-catastrophic levels.

And now, under Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill,” the U.S. will be moving backward instead of forward.

So if you care about the climate crisis, what can you do?

I wish I could say California was doubling down on climate leadership, like it did during Trump’s first term. Sadly, Gov. Gavin Newsom hasn’t prioritized clean energy as he readies a possible presidential run. Again and again, he and his appointees have yielded to the fossil fuel industry and its allies — on plastics recycling, oil refinery profits, emissions disclosures and more.

Other Golden State leaders are doing no better. This week, lawmakers passed an awful law pushed by Assembly Speaker Robert Rivas (D-Hollister) that will pause new energy efficiency rules for homes until 2031. Meanwhile, a potentially transformative “climate superfund” bill — which would charge fossil fuel companies for their pollution and use the money to help Californians cope with climate disasters — is languishing in Sacramento.

The landscape is bleak. But we’re not doomed.

The planet will almost certainly warm beyond an internationally agreed upon target of 1.5 degrees Celsius above preindustrial levels. But 2 degrees is a lot better than 2.5 degrees, and way better than 3 degrees. Climate change isn’t a game we win or lose. Every bit of avoided warming means safer, healthier lives for more people.

Yes, the U.S. is a climate train wreck right now. But global warming is just like immigration or healthcare: Nothing will change if most of us do nothing. So don’t tune out. Don’t surrender to despair. Bring up climate when you talk to your friends and call your representatives. Make protest signs about it. Let it guide your vote.

As McKibben wrote: “Our job from here on out … is to make ourselves heard.”

“It may not work tomorrow. It may not work until we’ve gotten more decent people into office. But it’s our job, and not to be shirked,” he wrote. “And in some sad way it’s an honor: We’re the people who get to make the desperate stand for a country and a planet that works.”

This is the latest edition of Boiling Point, a newsletter about climate change and the environment in the American West. Sign up here to get it in your inbox. And listen to our “Boiling Point” podcast here.

For more climate and environment news, follow @Sammy_Roth on X and @sammyroth.bsky.social on Bluesky.