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9 minutes, $195: We tested a heli-taxi vs. an Uber to the airport

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Thursday, November 21, 2024

On paper, the 16-mile commute between New York City and its biggest airport sounds like a cakewalk. But the reality of getting to John F. Kennedy International Airport is neither short nor sweet.At peak times, a cab from Manhattan can take an hour and costs $70 before surcharges, tip and tolls. With surge pricing, Uber fares can far exceed $100. For under $20, there’s the train, which can take anywhere between a half-hour and 75 minutes, depending on where you hop on.Or, if you really can’t wait, you could take a helicopter.Blade, a New York-based helicopter taxi service, promises to shuttle customers between the city and JFK (or Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey) in five minutes. Its base fare for a one-way trip is $195. No switching trains, no hurried cabbies — just smooth sailing over the gridlock below.Blade takes customers to airports and the Hamptons on Long Island by helicopter (or fancy bus), and it offers private jet charters in the region and beyond. Blade is also the largest dedicated air transporter of human organs in the United States, said CEO Rob Wiesenthal, who founded the company in 2014.While a $900 jaunt to the Hamptons is exponentially out of my price range, Blade’s airport service is less far-fetched.On a recent Sunday, before a late-afternoon flight from JFK to D.C., my cheapest Uber option from the Upper West Side was $146. For a comparable price (with a first-time-rider coupon), I could take back a half-hour of my time and pretend to be a character in “Succession.”To compare experiences, I sent my husband in an Uber while I tried Blade.The booking processLike Uber, booking a ride with Blade can be done quickly through its app or website. Unlike Uber, you can’t hail an affordable ride around-the-clock.Wiesenthal wouldn’t say how many flights Blade offers per day but said that during the week, “you can fly to Newark or Kennedy pretty much 12 hours a day.”The standard window for “by-the-seat” trips (vs. chartering the entire cabin) to JFK generally runs weekdays between 7 a.m. and 8 p.m., and from 1 p.m. to 8 p.m. on Sundays. There are no such flights on Saturdays.Customers can “crowdsource” flights that aren’t on the schedule. After requesting a specific time, Blade will open slots for the public to book; the more people who join in, the less it costs the original requester. Alternatively, you can book the entire aircraft for yourself and up to seven other guests, starting at $1,875.I booked my seat a couple days in advance — and still had limited options. The best one for my schedule left an hour before my Delta flight boarded and cost $265, which was $70 higher than the advertised base fare. Again, like Uber — or commercial airlines — the company practices dynamic pricing. The same trip during the week of Thanksgiving, for example, was $325.With my first-time-flier coupon registering a $50 discount, the total came to $215.The loungeBlade operates from three heliports across the city. My trip departed from Lounge West, located on the Hudson River near Hudson Yards.It’s a portable building like you’d find at a construction site, but it’s painted matte black (save a few white Blade logos). A black chain-link fence with privacy netting surrounds the tarmac, protecting the identity of the travelers beyond. Wiesenthal told me that 60 percent of customers use the airport shuttle for business travel; leisure travelers account for the rest — not only people who want to get out of Dodge fast, but also tourists who want one last sightseeing adventure.The company recommends arriving at least 15 minutes before takeoff; I got there with 20 to spare to enjoy the perks. A friendly receptionist checked me in, took my luggage and gave me a colored wristband to indicate my flight group. There was no metal detector or TSA staff to flag my liquids. Then I was free to enjoy the 1960s-themed lounge.The place felt designed with Instagram in mind. Andy Warhol prints, neon acrylic tables, mushroom lamps. The furniture — like tulip chairs and leather barstools — looked the part but felt flimsy, more Temu than TWA Hotel.While my husband texted from crawling Brooklyn traffic, I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of complimentary white wine. There was Acqua Panna water and packaged snacks such as a maple blueberry protein bar and “skinny dipped” dark-chocolate-covered almonds.The rideBlade has a reputation for being on time; my chopper-mate told me he’s taken the airport service 50 times and it had never been late before. But that afternoon we ran 15 minutes behind schedule.Air traffic can cause delays. So can weather. Blade will cancel flights if the weather is deemed unsafe or heavy turbulence is expected and will take you to the airport by car instead.It wasn’t clear why we were held up, but the staff apologized for the delay. Soon, a helicopter landed in front of the lounge window and our wristband group was called. We filed into a line by the door, were given instructions on how to board and were escorted to the aircraft. I must have missed dibs on the shotgun seat next to the pilot and was slotted in the main cabin with two other fliers.The ethical dilemmaThe helicopter took off after a quick safety briefing from the pilot, who was wearing a hoodie, and in seconds we were hovering over the city skyline.Every passenger had their phone out at some point to capture the splendor. It felt surreal and a little nauseating — mostly because I’m prone to motion sickness, but also metaphorically. As we descended, and the skyscrapers gave way to houses, I thought about the people living below. The helicopter was incredibly loud; it had to be annoying to hear us screech past.The luxury is controversial. Nonessential helicopter traffic has been increasing for years, and residents living under the flight paths are filing evermore noise complaints. The New York nonprofit Stop the Chop also cites high carbon emissions among its primary reasons for a push to ban nonessential flights over the region.“Taking a helicopter ride is definitely more environmentally damaging than an hour-long Uber ride,” Peter DeCarlo, an associate professor of environmental health and engineering at Johns Hopkins University who studies atmospheric air pollution, told me in an email.Blade says it plans to transition to cleaner, quieter electric vertical aircraft once they’re available in the coming years.There wasn’t much time for my guilt to fester; we were on the ground about nine minutes (not five) after liftoff.In addition to the potential for small delays, travelers should factor in that Blade can’t drop you off at the curb like a taxi. Once we landed on the JFK chopper tarmac, a Blade attendant wheeled our bags on a luggage trolley through a small lobby and out to a parking lot, where chauffeurs were waiting to drive us to our respective airport terminals.I hopped in an SUV but was told I could have paid to upgrade to a Mercedes-Maybach. Depending on airport traffic, the ride can add another five to 10 minutes to your ETA.The takeawayMy driver told me that celebrities, like musicians and National Basketball Association players, are fans of Blade. If it wasn’t for the noise and environmental concerns, I’d be a fan of Blade, too. (Okay, I didn’t love being queasy afterward, either.) Once the company goes electric and I win the lottery, maybe we’ll talk.In the end, my husband got the last laugh. Factoring in the 20 minutes it took me to get to the Blade helipad, my lounge time and the flight, he actually beat me to JFK in his hour-long Uber ride, arriving with enough padding to get some Shake Shack and relax.

On a Blade helicopter, a one-way trip from Manhattan to John F. Kennedy International Airport runs $195.

On paper, the 16-mile commute between New York City and its biggest airport sounds like a cakewalk. But the reality of getting to John F. Kennedy International Airport is neither short nor sweet.

At peak times, a cab from Manhattan can take an hour and costs $70 before surcharges, tip and tolls. With surge pricing, Uber fares can far exceed $100. For under $20, there’s the train, which can take anywhere between a half-hour and 75 minutes, depending on where you hop on.

Or, if you really can’t wait, you could take a helicopter.

Blade, a New York-based helicopter taxi service, promises to shuttle customers between the city and JFK (or Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey) in five minutes. Its base fare for a one-way trip is $195. No switching trains, no hurried cabbies — just smooth sailing over the gridlock below.

Blade takes customers to airports and the Hamptons on Long Island by helicopter (or fancy bus), and it offers private jet charters in the region and beyond. Blade is also the largest dedicated air transporter of human organs in the United States, said CEO Rob Wiesenthal, who founded the company in 2014.

While a $900 jaunt to the Hamptons is exponentially out of my price range, Blade’s airport service is less far-fetched.

On a recent Sunday, before a late-afternoon flight from JFK to D.C., my cheapest Uber option from the Upper West Side was $146. For a comparable price (with a first-time-rider coupon), I could take back a half-hour of my time and pretend to be a character in “Succession.”

To compare experiences, I sent my husband in an Uber while I tried Blade.

The booking process

Like Uber, booking a ride with Blade can be done quickly through its app or website. Unlike Uber, you can’t hail an affordable ride around-the-clock.

Wiesenthal wouldn’t say how many flights Blade offers per day but said that during the week, “you can fly to Newark or Kennedy pretty much 12 hours a day.”

The standard window for “by-the-seat” trips (vs. chartering the entire cabin) to JFK generally runs weekdays between 7 a.m. and 8 p.m., and from 1 p.m. to 8 p.m. on Sundays. There are no such flights on Saturdays.

Customers can “crowdsource” flights that aren’t on the schedule. After requesting a specific time, Blade will open slots for the public to book; the more people who join in, the less it costs the original requester. Alternatively, you can book the entire aircraft for yourself and up to seven other guests, starting at $1,875.

I booked my seat a couple days in advance — and still had limited options. The best one for my schedule left an hour before my Delta flight boarded and cost $265, which was $70 higher than the advertised base fare. Again, like Uber — or commercial airlines — the company practices dynamic pricing. The same trip during the week of Thanksgiving, for example, was $325.

With my first-time-flier coupon registering a $50 discount, the total came to $215.

The lounge

Blade operates from three heliports across the city. My trip departed from Lounge West, located on the Hudson River near Hudson Yards.

It’s a portable building like you’d find at a construction site, but it’s painted matte black (save a few white Blade logos). A black chain-link fence with privacy netting surrounds the tarmac, protecting the identity of the travelers beyond. Wiesenthal told me that 60 percent of customers use the airport shuttle for business travel; leisure travelers account for the rest — not only people who want to get out of Dodge fast, but also tourists who want one last sightseeing adventure.

The company recommends arriving at least 15 minutes before takeoff; I got there with 20 to spare to enjoy the perks. A friendly receptionist checked me in, took my luggage and gave me a colored wristband to indicate my flight group. There was no metal detector or TSA staff to flag my liquids. Then I was free to enjoy the 1960s-themed lounge.

The place felt designed with Instagram in mind. Andy Warhol prints, neon acrylic tables, mushroom lamps. The furniture — like tulip chairs and leather barstools — looked the part but felt flimsy, more Temu than TWA Hotel.

While my husband texted from crawling Brooklyn traffic, I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of complimentary white wine. There was Acqua Panna water and packaged snacks such as a maple blueberry protein bar and “skinny dipped” dark-chocolate-covered almonds.

The ride

Blade has a reputation for being on time; my chopper-mate told me he’s taken the airport service 50 times and it had never been late before. But that afternoon we ran 15 minutes behind schedule.

Air traffic can cause delays. So can weather. Blade will cancel flights if the weather is deemed unsafe or heavy turbulence is expected and will take you to the airport by car instead.

It wasn’t clear why we were held up, but the staff apologized for the delay. Soon, a helicopter landed in front of the lounge window and our wristband group was called. We filed into a line by the door, were given instructions on how to board and were escorted to the aircraft. I must have missed dibs on the shotgun seat next to the pilot and was slotted in the main cabin with two other fliers.

The ethical dilemma

The helicopter took off after a quick safety briefing from the pilot, who was wearing a hoodie, and in seconds we were hovering over the city skyline.

Every passenger had their phone out at some point to capture the splendor. It felt surreal and a little nauseating — mostly because I’m prone to motion sickness, but also metaphorically. As we descended, and the skyscrapers gave way to houses, I thought about the people living below. The helicopter was incredibly loud; it had to be annoying to hear us screech past.

The luxury is controversial. Nonessential helicopter traffic has been increasing for years, and residents living under the flight paths are filing evermore noise complaints. The New York nonprofit Stop the Chop also cites high carbon emissions among its primary reasons for a push to ban nonessential flights over the region.

“Taking a helicopter ride is definitely more environmentally damaging than an hour-long Uber ride,” Peter DeCarlo, an associate professor of environmental health and engineering at Johns Hopkins University who studies atmospheric air pollution, told me in an email.

Blade says it plans to transition to cleaner, quieter electric vertical aircraft once they’re available in the coming years.

There wasn’t much time for my guilt to fester; we were on the ground about nine minutes (not five) after liftoff.

In addition to the potential for small delays, travelers should factor in that Blade can’t drop you off at the curb like a taxi. Once we landed on the JFK chopper tarmac, a Blade attendant wheeled our bags on a luggage trolley through a small lobby and out to a parking lot, where chauffeurs were waiting to drive us to our respective airport terminals.

I hopped in an SUV but was told I could have paid to upgrade to a Mercedes-Maybach. Depending on airport traffic, the ride can add another five to 10 minutes to your ETA.

The takeaway

My driver told me that celebrities, like musicians and National Basketball Association players, are fans of Blade. If it wasn’t for the noise and environmental concerns, I’d be a fan of Blade, too. (Okay, I didn’t love being queasy afterward, either.) Once the company goes electric and I win the lottery, maybe we’ll talk.

In the end, my husband got the last laugh. Factoring in the 20 minutes it took me to get to the Blade helipad, my lounge time and the flight, he actually beat me to JFK in his hour-long Uber ride, arriving with enough padding to get some Shake Shack and relax.

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

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Plans to transform an iconic San Francisco highway into a park ignite recall furor

San Francisco residents voted to permanently close the Upper Great Highway to cars and turn it into a park. That sparked a recall effort against a local lawmaker.

SAN FRANCISCO —  On a recent Sunday on the far edge of the Outer Sunset, a cozy oceanfront neighborhood with rows of pastel bungalows, hundreds of people enjoyed a stretch of the iconic coastal road known as the Great Highway. A dad taught his kid how to ride a bike. A young couple strolled with their baby in a bassinet. Two surfers hauled their boards toward the crashing Pacific waves. A day later, the same swath of asphalt was covered with cars, transformed back into a commuter route for thousands of drivers who use the Great Highway to get to work, the airport, school or other parts of town.This two-mile stretch, known as the Upper Great Highway — which starts at the tip of Golden Gate Park and runs south along Ocean Beach — has become a political traffic jam in recent years, with locals clashing over how best to use the historic avenue as coastal erosion and sea level rise threaten its future. Division over the Upper Great Highway’s fate adds to an ongoing debate between so-called urbanists who want to see the city develop more green space and promote public transportation, and those who rely on their cars and worry about traffic. (Paul Kuroda / For The Times) The dispute reached a new fervor in last month’s election, when the majority of San Francisco voters approved a controversial ballot measure to permanently close the Upper Great Highway to cars and convert it into a full-time park, instead of a weekend-only promenade. The measure, Proposition K, passed with nearly 55% of the vote. The bulk of support came from voters on the city’s east side, in neighborhoods closer to downtown and miles from the beach. Voters in the Sunset and Richmond districts, west side neighborhoods that will be most affected by the closure, overwhelmingly voted against the measure.The stark division added to an ongoing — and very San Francisco — debate between so-called urbanists who want to see the city develop more green space and promote public transportation and those who rely on their cars and worry about traffic. It’s also sparked tension between old-timers clinging to their neighborhood’s middle-class roots and other city residents who embrace the coast as an urban oasis. The fight could cost one local politician his job.Soon after Proposition K passed, opponents organized a recall petition against Supervisor Joel Engardio, a Democrat elected in 2022 to represent the Sunset and other west side areas who helped get Proposition K on the ballot. San Francisco Supervisor Joel Engardio, a Democrat elected in 2022 to represent the Outer Sunset and other west side neighborhoods, is facing a recall against for his support of Proposition K. (Jeff Chiu/Associated Press) Recall organizers say Engardio abandoned the neighborhoods he represents by backing an initiative his constituents clearly didn’t want. “This recall is based on the fact that he just betrayed the district,” said Vin Budhai, an Outer Sunset resident who campaigned against Proposition K and filed the recall petition. Budhai said residents fear that closing the highway will push traffic into the neighborhood, polluting the air and making the sleepy streets unsafe. He worries about workers who either can’t afford to work from home or don’t have the option to bike or take public transit to their jobs. “There’s a conversation going around about how we should utilize our roads, but that conversation doesn’t include the driver,” he said. The recall petitioners are waiting to be cleared to collect signatures to qualify for the ballot in a special election before 2026. If it’s successful, Engardio would become the latest in a string of local politicians who have been removed from office in the last three years. In 2022, San Francisco voters recalled progressive Dist. Atty. Chesa Boudin and three school board members over voter frustrations during the pandemic. In November, East Bay voters ousted two other progressives, Oakland Mayor Sheng Thao and Alameda County Dist. Atty. Pamela Price. Engardio said that he was “humbled” by the votes in his district against Proposition K and that he was dedicated to working with the opposition to address traffic and road safety concerns before the Upper Great Highway closes to cars, possibly by next spring. But he also sees a unique opportunity to reimagine the historic highway in the face of climate change. Already, a southern extension of the Great Highway near the San Francisco Zoo is slated to close because of erosion and other environmental concerns. City officials estimate closing the Upper Great Highway to cars and rerouting traffic through other eastern roadways would add only three minutes to drive times.“Do we keep it as a road with less utility? Or do we turn it into an ocean-side park that could have huge benefit to generations of people and the local economy and be good for the environment?” Engardio said. “This has the potential to be transformational, not just for the Sunset but for all of San Francisco.”Drama over the Upper Great Highway goes back to the pandemic, when city officials closed the road to cars as part of a broader effort to free up outdoor recreation space. In 2021, the city modified those rules to allow traffic during the week while reserving the road for pedestrians during weekends. The highway transitions into a park beginning at noon on Fridays and until 6 am on Mondays. In the November 2022 election, advocates frustrated with the anti-car rules organized a ballot measure to reopen the highway to vehicles full time. Voters rejected the measure, Proposition I, with more than 65% of the vote. As a compromise after that election, the Board of Supervisors approved a three-year pilot program to keep the split use of the road. In June, Engardio and four other supervisors sponsored an ordinance to put Proposition K before voters, rather than having the 11-member board decide the highway’s fate. “I felt that it is better for everyone to have an equal vote and equal say on what to do with their coast, because the coast belongs to everyone,” Engardio said. Engardio said he had confidence that his district wanted a park. Many west side voters rejected the 2022 measure to reopen the road full time to cars, and a coalition of Outer Sunset residents campaigned for the weekend promenade and Proposition K. “This idea came from Sunset residents. And I’m the Sunset supervisor,” he said. City officials recorded more than 420,000 weekend visits to the park in 2023, making it the third-most-visited park in the city, after Golden Gate Park and the Marina. A separate study from the city estimated up to 26,400 weekly visitors for a full-time pedestrian promenade. The San Francisco controller’s office also estimates shutting down the road to cars could save the city up to $700,000 annually in sand removal and other maintenance issues that regularly close down the highway. Supporters of Proposition K celebrated its passage as a unique opportunity to transform the road into a park accessible to all people, with paved portions for the elderly or disabled, and teeming with native plants and restored sand dunes. And they’re adamant that local businesses and restaurants will benefit from the increased foot traffic. “The temperature over the past few months on this issue has really overlooked the incredible positive opportunity that San Franciscans had,” said Lucas Lux, an Outer Sunset resident and “Yes on K” campaign manager. “You’ve opened the coast to be enjoyed by more people as part of daily life in San Francisco.”Lux and other supporters of the new park hope it will eventually become as popular as the JFK promenade in Golden Gate Park. Voters in 2022 approved another measure to close it permanently to cars, and it has since become a favorite recreational road, now decorated with art installations, ping-pong tables, a piano and lawn chairs. But bitterness still simmers through the west side. (Eric Risberg / Associated Press) Matt Boschetto, who ran unsuccessfully for supervisor representing the nearby Inner Sunset neighborhood, said he sees the closure of the Upper Great Highway as San Francisco abandoning working-class people. “I’m not trying to silence urbanist views and people who want to see more open spaces and people who are concerned about the climate and concerned heavily about housing,” he said. “But you also gotta respect the other view of San Francisco as well.” Boschetto ran a campaign committee against Proposition K that raised roughly $239,000, with at least $65,000 from Boschetto’s family members. In comparison, a committee backing Proposition K raised more than $780,000, including $350,000 from Jeremy Stoppelman, co-founder and chief executive of Yelp. “We did the best we could,” Boschetto said. “I feel like maybe history might not be on our side, but morally I feel like it was a victory in a lot of ways. I think it’s really mobilized the west side.” The California Coastal Commission this month voted to grant San Francisco’s permit to make the road into a park. Opponents were disappointed but said they hope Mayor-elect Daniel Lurie, who takes office in early January and opposed Proposition K, slows implementation of the closure. In a statement, Lurie said that he was “committed to respecting and upholding the will of the voters” and that his administration “will work hand in hand with residents on both sides to ensure that the measure is implemented thoughtfully.”As for Engardio, he said he is also dedicated to spending the next many months working with outraged voters to address road safety and traffic concerns. He said he respects the “democratic right” to organize a recall against him, but hopes that voters consider how he has worked on other issues important to the district during his time in office, including public safety and organizing popular night markets to support local businesses. “At this point, I have to only look forward,” he said. “I can’t undo the past.”

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A filing error put more than 90,000 acres of Yakama Nation land in the hands of Washington state

More than 170 years later, the Yakama are still trying to get their land back.

It was barely a choice. In 1855, a time when the ink of border lines on United States maps had scarcely dried, Yakama Chief Kamiakin was told to sign over the land of 14 tribal nations and bands in the Pacific Northwest — or face the prospect of walking “knee deep” in the blood of his people. Legend has it that, when he put pen to paper, he was so furious he bit through his lip. By signing, he ceded over 10 million acres across what is now known as Washington state. In return, the Yakama Nation was allowed to live on a reservation one-tenth the size of their ancestral lands, about 100 miles southeast of Seattle. But the story doesn’t end there. The treaty map was lost for close to 75 years, misfiled by a federal clerk who put it under “M” for Montana. With no visual record to contradict them, federal agents extracted even more Yakama land for the nascent state, drawing new boundaries on new maps. One removed an additional 140,000 acres from the reservation, another about half a million, and still other versions exist. By the time the original map was discovered in the 1930s, it was too late. Settlers had already made claims well within reservation boundaries, carving the consequences of this mistake into the contours of the land. Non-Native landowners remain to this day. The Yakama want that land back. Most tribal members know the story of Kamiakin and his bloodied lip when he signed the treaty. Ask Phil Rigdon, a Yakama citizen and nationally recognized forester. As the superintendent of the Yakama Nation Department of Natural Resources, he deals with a medley of issues, but his most important work is getting the reservation land back. After working on this for nearly 20 years, he knows that it takes time and an entire community to make the progress they want. “It’s a family thing for us, as we do this business,” he said. Pahto, also known as Mount Adams, looms over the western edge of the Yakama reservation. In 1972, President Richard Nixon signed an executive order acknowledging that the mountain had been mistakenly excluded from the reservation. Maria Parazo Rose / Grist Pushed up against the eastern slopes of the Cascade Range mountains, the Yakama reservation is over a million acres — but not all of it belongs to the tribe. The primary non-tribal landowner on Yakama Nation is the state of Washington, which owns close to 92,000 surface and subsurface acres of state trust land within the reservation’s boundaries, in addition to other types of land holdings.  As part of the Enabling Act of 1889, the federal government gifted tracts of land to states when they graduated from territories to join the Union. These parcels, known as state trust lands, are considered resources in perpetuity: States can sell or lease these lands to make money from grazing, timber, and other activities. The profit is then used to fund a state’s institutions: universities, jails, hospitals, and, especially, public schools.  These lands can be a meaningful revenue source. A Grist investigation from earlier this year found that state trust lands across the Western U.S. that send money to land-grant universities paid out about $6.6 billion dollars from 2018 to 2022. Read Next The extractive industries filling public university coffers on stolen land Tristan Ahtone, Robert Lee, Amanda Tachine, An Garagiola, Audrianna Goodwin, Maria Parazo Rose, & Clayton Aldern Washington’s state trust lands, including those on the Yakama reservation, are managed by its Department of Natural Resources, or DNR. The state is eager to return the lands back to the tribe; it recognizes that a return would both complete the Yakamas’ ownership of the reservation and support the region’s environmental health. However, the state’s efforts are dictated by legal policies and priorities that ensure the land is exchanged only on the condition that Washington is compensated for the lands’ value, even though it was wrongfully taken.   Grist has reported on over 2 million acres of state trust lands that exist within the borders of 79 reservations across the Western U.S. Our investigation has shown that extractive industries, like mining, logging, and oil and gas drilling, operate on that land that generates billions of dollars for state entities. But the Yakama Nation’s history with state lands is singular in its legal morass.  When the treaty map was “misfiled,” two main areas on the reservation were repeatedly depicted as non-tribal land on incorrect replacement maps. One is along the northern border of the reservation, known as Tract C. The other is Tract D, in the reservation’s southwestern corner.  Today, nearly 71,500 acres of surface and subsurface state trust lands on Tract D, and 19,700 acres on Tract C, send revenue to Washington’s institutions, mostly benefitting public K-12 schools. The map the Washington DNR uses to reference the Yakama reservation still marks Tract C as a “disputed area.” Prior to settler colonialism, the ancestral Yakama homeland stretched for 10 million acres — from Pahto (Mount Adams) in the west past Nch’i-Wàna (the Columbia River) in the east. In 1855, the Territory of Washington was just two years old, and settlers aimed to make it a state. That year, the United States forced a treaty upon the people of Yakama Nation, who were subsequently confined to a reservation — ceding roughly 90 percent of their more than 10 million acres. To establish the reservation, negotiators relied on natural features to define its boundaries. 6 Yakama Nation v. Klickitat Cnty. Commencing on the Yakama River, at the mouth of the Attah-nam River; thence westerly along said Attah-nam River to the forks; thence along the southern tributary to the Cascade Mountains; thence southerly along the main ridge of said mountains, passing south and east of Mount Adams, to the spur whence flows the waters of the Klickatat and Pisco rivers; thence down said spur to the divide between the waters of said rivers; thence along said divide to the divide separating the waters of the Satass River from those flowing into the Columbia River; thence along said divide to the main Yakama, eight miles below the mouth of the Satass River; and thence up the Yakama River to the place of beginning. The according treaty text and map illustrated a reservation that stretched from the Cascade Range eastward to the Yakima River, with a southern boundary south of Mount Adams. But the treaty map disappeared shortly after the treaty's signing, throwing the reservation boundary — especially the southwestern edge — into dispute. Subsequent federal surveys would seek to delineate this boundary. The Schwartz survey, conducted in 1890, cut nearly a half-million acres out of the reservation relative to the understanding reached in the treaty. A federal report released in 1900 fixed some of the more obvious errors of the Schwartz survey but failed to appropriately reflect the southwestern boundary of the reservation. The Supreme Court ruled in 1913 that the Yakama reservation extended to the main ridge of the Cascade Range. In the early 1920s, a new federal survey implemented this correction — but still used an unnatural straight line to denote the southwestern side. Despite the recovery around 1930 of the 1855 treaty map, which prompted a new federal survey of the boundary in 1932, the southwestern boundary of the Yakama reservation would remain in dispute. This 120,000-acre section of land, highlighted in a mid-20th-century Yakama claim to the Indian Claims Commission, became known as Tract D. The litigation of Tract D — which appropriately captures the natural geographic boundaries of the 1855 treaty — would define the next seven decades of Yakama land claims. Today, between surface and subsurface rights, more than 70,000 acres of Washington state trust lands sit within Tract D. What happened to Tract D? Scroll to continue Parker Ziegler and Clayton Aldern / Grist The boundary errors have been acknowledged by authorities ranging from Harold Ickes, the Secretary of the Interior during the Franklin Roosevelt administration in the 1930s, to former President Richard Nixon in the 1970s. But none of these acknowledgments were legally binding, said attorney Joe Sexton of Galanda Broadman law firm, based in Washington. That is, until the 2021 9th U.S. Circuit Court case of the ​​Confederated Tribes and Bands of the Yakama Nation v. Klickitat County, for which Sexton and Galanda Broadman, along with attorneys for the tribe led by Ethan Jones, argued the Yakamas’ case.  It started with a jurisdictional dispute over a criminal prosecution: In 2017, Klickitat County arrested a minor and enrolled tribal member for a crime in Tract D. The county claimed that the tribe had no jurisdiction over Tract D, since it wasn’t reservation land; the tribe declared the opposite. The Yakama Nation sued Klickitat County for stepping outside its jurisdiction; the county argued that Tract D was not included when the reservation was created. Sexton’s job was to prove that it was.   “If they had lost this, they would’ve really been brokenhearted about the fact that future Yakamas would not be able to consider this part of their reservation,” Sexton said.  With Sexton’s argument about interpreting and honoring treaty language, the Yakama Nation ultimately won the case, confirming that Tract D was and had always been a part of the reservation, within the original boundaries. This was further validated when, the following year, the U.S. Supreme Court rejected the county’s appeal against Yakama Nation. The case also set a meaningful precedent for how the Tract C boundary, which has had no such adjudication, might be approached in court, Sexton said.  While the court’s decision was monumental, it did nothing to address the continued existence of state trust lands on the reservation. Under the U.S. Constitution, federal treaties with tribal nations, as with other sovereign entities, are considered the supreme law of the land. Washington also has its own state Supreme Court decision, which expressly holds that tribal treaties are binding law. The Treaty with the Yakama of 1855 precedes the federal 1889 Enabling Act that distributed state trust lands, so it should have precedence. In other words, because the treaty was signed first, the subsequent expansion of state trust lands on Yakama land, due to incorrect maps, shouldn’t have happened.  “The Treaty of 1855 trumps it,” Sexton said. “There’s no question about that.” But because of how Western property law works, the state has legitimate legal claim to those lands.  It goes back to how the U.S. perceived its right over the land upon which it was building itself: Empowered by the Doctrine of Discovery, a Catholic decree authorizing colonial powers to claim land, the government decided that all of the land and everything on or under it was federal property until it was turned into a state, or national park, or reservation. Whoever had the property deed, which was initially held and then granted by the federal government, was in charge. And deeds are the key to ownership, Sexton said, seen to be almost as powerful as treaties, even though they’re not listed in the Constitution.  So despite the fact that the U.S. gave away Yakama land to which it no longer had any right, because it fell within the bounds of the reservation, the federal government’s distribution of trust lands to Washington state is still recognized as a legal transaction.  Washington has the ability to decide how these trust lands are handled. But because so much time has passed since the state’s inception in 1889, generations of settlement and ownership have been established in the area, and state beneficiaries have come to count on trust lands as a revenue source — which means it is unlikely that Washington would return the trust lands on the reservation to the tribe without some form of compensation.  “State officials, they’ll claim that the law ties their hands. But I don’t know that it does,” Sexton said. “And if it does, they’re certainly not working to change the law in any actual way.” Klickitat Meadow, like many of the forest meadows on Tract C of the reservation, is where the headwaters of the Klickitat River begin. Many Yakama tribal members come to this closed part of the reservation to hunt and gather food, and learn about the land. Maria Parazo Rose / Grist The October sun shone through fall-colored leaves above the truck Phil Rigdon drove into the forests of Tract D. Along a rolling ridgeline, he pointed out groves of pine stands.  “We call this area Cedar Valley, even though there’s no cedars here,” Rigdon said, gesturing out the window. “It was the homesteaders that called it Cedar Valley. And so I don’t know why it stuck.” Rigdon stepped into the superintendent role for Yakama Nation’s Department of Natural Resources in 2005, coming with a bachelor’s degree in forest management from the University of Washington and a master’s degree from the Yale School of the Environment. He steers land management across the entire reservation. But before that, Rigdon was a forester. In these backroads, he recognized copses of trees he once knew as saplings he planted decades ago, now stretching 40 feet tall.  “You never think you grow up, but holy shit,” he said. “Now you’re like the big trees, you’re the old growth.”  Driving through Tract D, there was a clear contrast between different parcels of the forest. Some were densely packed or dotted with stumps — those owned and managed by the state or private interests. The forest on tribal land, meanwhile, was thinned out, full of mature trees with thick trunks. Branches stretched into air. Thinning out trees has many purposes: It decreases the material that feeds wildfires, it enables a more complex plant system, and it slows the spread of insects and disease. It creates a healthier forest.  Both the state and private industry harvest timber more aggressively than the tribe, though Rigdon acknowledged that the state manages forest much better than private industry, which does more clear-cutting. After all, the state DNR must manage state trust lands so that schools and other institutions receive revenue years into the future.  This isn’t to say the tribe doesn’t log. They cannot tax people, as a tribe, so they harvest enough to help fund their government institutions, which partly depend on timber as a revenue stream. But the Yakamas’ approach is to view land as a continuum, to be managed for the very long run. They pay attention to the overall environment, making decisions based on what allows the entire ecosystem to work as it should. Their harvesting practices double as a way of maintaining forest health — the priority over revenue generation.  “What we leave on the ground actually is usually more valuable than what we take,” Rigdon said.  The tribe values land for more than its potential economic worth: There is kinship, memory, medicine. Like when Joe Blodgett, a tribal member and Rigdon’s cousin, described the Klickitat Meadow, he didn’t bring up the golden grass or jagged peaks on the horizon. He talked about weekends fishing with his dad. Klickitat Meadow is in the Tract C part of the reservation, checkerboarded with state trust lands and tucked up in the mountains behind roads that require four-wheel drive. This area, and others like it, is where Blodgett and other members of Yakama Nation learned to gather food and about their connection to the land.  “It gets back to the importance of what our resources are offering us,” Blodgett said. “They’re making a sacrifice, they’re making that offering. And we’ve got to appreciate that.” Read Next The extractive industries filling public university coffers on stolen land Tristan Ahtone, Robert Lee, Amanda Tachine, An Garagiola, Audrianna Goodwin, Maria Parazo Rose, & Clayton Aldern Blodgett manages the Yakima Klickitat Fisheries Project, a tribal initiative that works on restoring sustainable and harvestable fish populations. His work involves overseeing environmental restoration projects, like in the Klickitat Meadow, which has been far too dry. A warmer climate played a part in this, but the full reason is more nuanced. A history of state-sanctioned sheep grazing permitted on adjacent state trust lands led to grazing on the meadow that never should have happened. Large herds, which wouldn’t normally be in the area, compacted the dirt so much that water can no longer percolate into the ground to feed the streams and rivers that start in mountain meadows like this.  Actions that damage the environment in seemingly small ways add up, Blodgett said. Scale matters. But by the same token, small environmental mitigation practices also add up to meaningful improvements. In a meadow stream nearby, for example, the tribe has built human approximations of beaver dams that slow the water and help it absorb into the ground. Solutions like these are called “low tech,” but the simplistic name belies their necessity for other projects to succeed.   For example, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers is ready to move forward with the removal of the Bateman Island Causeway, an unauthorized, artificial land bridge in the Columbia River that connects Bateman Island to the shore. Tribes have long advocated for its removal, given its disturbance to the surrounding ecosystem. Removing it will restore fish populations off the reservation, but Blodgett said the situation won’t get better without cold water coming down from the mountain streams on the reservation. That’s where the low-tech fixes come in.   “They’re equally important,” Blodgett said of the low-tech fixes and bigger infrastructure projects. “You’re going to see the biggest bang out there when you pull that causeway out. But if [fish] don’t have these types of systems to go back to, you’re just going to continue to spin your wheels.” Climate change adds pressure to the Yakamas’ environmental restoration efforts. Because the effects of a rapidly changing environment are becoming more prevalent, Blodgett and other Yakama experts know that they have to take faster, bigger action to stay ahead of and be resilient to even harsher future conditions. It will require landscape-scale restoration projects, more sustainable management of forests, and smarter water- and land-use practices — big projects for which the Yakama Nation would need cohesive control over its reservation, without pockets of state or private ownership.  The Yakama Nation has a plan for land reclamation. The tribe began buying land back from companies and private landowners in the mid-1990s, returning close to 40,000 acres. One of the bigger single acquisitions was a deal with a private landowner to buy back roughly 7,500 acres in Tract C for about $5 million. But the remaining 19,700 surface and subsurface acres of state trust land in Tract C have proved to be elusive; the tribe has been negotiating to reacquire those lands for over 20 years.  The complications come from the Enabling Act rules that govern Washington state’s financial responsibility to its beneficiaries: The state cannot lose money from state trust lands. In practice, were the state to return trust lands to Yakama Nation, it would need to be paid however much that land is worth, or receive land that is the equivalent value of what they exchange. Without that compensation, public schools and other institutions will feel the financial pinch.  Between 2021 and 2023, the state trust lands within Yakama reservation generated $573,219.85 — which is .16 percent of all the revenue that state trust lands across Washington state produced in that same time period. Washington does have one avenue for transferring state trust lands from the DNR to other entities, as long as those lands are deemed financially “unproductive.” The Trust Land Transfer program’s benefit is that the state legislature funds land exchanges, instead of an entity, like a tribe, buying it back. But you have to have a legislature willing to do that. It’s a unique program, one that the DNR says they operate in the spirit of collaboration with the tribes.  Read Next How schools, hospitals, and prisons in 15 states profit from land and resources on 79 tribal nations Anna V. Smith & Maria Parazo Rose The state trust lands on Tract C are eligible for this program and are on the final list of this year’s proposed transfers, with “minimal long-term revenue potential.” The state DNR has requested $15 million from the state legislature to return roughly 9,900 surface acres to the tribe. Per state policy, the state would retain the rights to any subsurface materials under these lands, even if the surface rights go to the tribe. The DNR would use the payment money to purchase new lands in place of the transferred trust lands, to continue supporting beneficiaries. Comparatively, Tract D, which courts confirmed is a part of the Yakama reservation, is still productively generating revenue and not eligible for the Trust Land Transfer program. The legislature could theoretically fund a direct transfer to compensate the DNR and its beneficiaries for the Tract D state trust lands, but that would be a hefty price tag. So, instead, the state has brought in the federal government to facilitate an exchange, given that it has more resources and holds so much land in the area. The DNR has identified federal lands off reservation that they want and now it’s a matter of negotiation, said Commissioner of Public Lands Hilary Franz.  “The reason this situation exists is because the federal government created a situation of injustice to the tribes. To right the situation doesn’t mean you create a wrong,” Franz said, explaining that giving those trust lands away without an exchange would unfairly take revenue away from schools and other beneficiaries. “It means, federal government, you made the wrong allocation of lands to the state for trust lands, when it should have gone to the tribe. Now, correct that … and you make the tribes whole and you make our schools whole.” Franz said that if the legislature doesn’t approve funding for the Tract C Trust Land Transfer — though she is confident they will — the DNR would likely approach it in the same way as Tract D, negotiating with the federal government for a direct transfer. Otherwise, the alternative would be the arduous process of amending the state constitution and federal Enabling Act. But, Franz said, that’s too hard. Hard, but not impossible. Section 11 of the 1889 Enabling Act, dealing with lands granted to support schools, has been amended eight times, most recently in 1970. Washington’s state constitution has been amended 109 times, one of the most recent in 2016 for a redistricting issue. The state legislature will decide whether or not to fund the Tract C trust land transfer in the spring of 2025. But no matter how the issue of trust lands is resolved between the Yakama Nation and Washington state, it sets a meaningful example for tribes on the 78 other reservations where trust lands exist. One cool morning last October, about 170 years after the Yakama treaty signing, a crowd of about 90 people gathered in a dusty clearing next to the Klickitat River on the southwest corner of the Yakama reservation, in Tract D. Cupped by pine-covered hillsides, they were there to commemorate the groundbreaking of long-awaited upgrades to the Klickitat Hatchery. On October 11, 2024, the Yakama Nation hosted a groundbreaking ceremony for updates to the Klickitat Hatchery. Seen here are Yakama staff, joined by Tribal Chairman Gerald Lewis (far left) and Tribal Councilman Jeremy Takala (far right). Maria Parazo Rose / Grist It had been run by the state until 2006, when it was turned over to the tribe; tribal members have managed it back to health, holding things together with duct tape and determination. Over the low rumbling of river water, representatives from the county, state, federal, and tribal governments praised the collaborative effort that had gone into restoring the hatchery. The tribe was also celebrating the forthcoming return of the land the hatchery is located on. On December 13, Washington state transferred the title to the 167 acres and all the hatchery facilities from the state Department of Fish and Wildlife, or DFW, to the Yakama Nation. Bill Sharp, coordinator for Yakama Nation Fisheries’ projects, has worked on environmental restoration projects for 35 years. He’s white, a non-tribal member. To him, navigating the title transfer with the DFW has been faster and easier than land transfers with the state DNR. The presence of state trust lands on the reservation, he said, is an insult to injury. “Can you just clean the slate, say, ‘Our bad, here it is, all back’? That’s how it should go,” Sharp said, about the state trust land return efforts. “But the way things were funded, and the easements and restrictions that white people put on top of that — those things just really get in the way of doing what’s right.” What is the right way to settle an injustice? Who is justice for? Rigdon, Blodgett, and other Yakama experts working on this issue know that land return is a long game, even on their own reservation. They’re in it for the very long haul, which means that each new challenge is just another day — and that every win, like with the hatchery, is cause for celebration.  “I’ve always had the opinion that you can never lose if you never stop trying,” said Sharp. “So as long as the Yakama are here, and they live and breathe, they’re going to keep fighting to protect the resources that sustain their lives. And we all benefit from that, everyone, whether you’re a tribal member or not.” Read Next Top 5 takeaways of our investigation into state trust lands Tristan Ahtone At the end of the ceremony, the faint smell of a warm, fresh salmon meal slipped into the air, prepared by Yakama staff for the festivities. After the closing speeches, the crowd moved like a wave, chattering about this and that while they waited in a winding line. A row of tables held trays of salad, salmon, bread, and grapes. Folks from state and federal organizations sat with their tribal counterparts, full plates in hand. The Klickitat County commissioner was there, her presence marking a fresh page in the tribal-county relationship.  Kids squirmed in plastic chairs before bolting across the grass to play between bites. The salmon was simple and smoky, well-salted. People ate what they wanted and took what they needed. Some came up for second helpings. Anyone could walk away with a heavy box of leftovers for a later meal. For a moment, at least, there was no competing for resources or space. There was enough to share. This story was produced with support from Renaissance Journalism’s 2024-2025 LaunchPad Fellowship for NextGen Journalists, and the Nova Institute for Health 2024 Media Fellowship. This story was originally published by Grist with the headline A filing error put more than 90,000 acres of Yakama Nation land in the hands of Washington state on Dec 20, 2024.

Business
Climate
Food

Why I'm optimistic about cleantech over the next four years

Having spent over 15 years deeply involved in the cleantech industry, I’ve experienced its peaks, valleys, and everything in between. Since Trump’s win, industry insiders and the media have been wallowing in an unusual amount of doom and gloom. Many are concerned about policy uncertainty, shifting market conditions,…

Having spent over 15 years deeply involved in the cleantech industry, I’ve experienced its peaks, valleys, and everything in between. Since Trump’s win, industry insiders and the media have been wallowing in an unusual amount of doom and gloom. Many are concerned about policy uncertainty, shifting market conditions, and the challenges of scaling up technologies that are inherent in our sector.But let me share a contrarian view. I think we’re on the brink of a golden era for renewable energy and clean transportation deployments. In fact, I believe the next four years will redefine our industry in ways we’ve only dreamed of. Here’s why. Renewables + storage will dominate energy economics Lithium-ion battery prices have been falling for years, driven by the expansion of manufacturing and technological innovation. By the end of this decade, renewable energy combined with storage solutions will offer the lowest cost of energy for most hours of the day. This is the inevitable outcome of economies of scale meeting the pressing global need for clean energy.Wind and solar, paired with increasingly cost-effective storage systems, will soon surpass fossil fuels — not just on environmental grounds but on pure economic competitiveness. This shift will transform energy markets, making clean energy the default for businesses, municipalities, and consumers alike. However, there’s an important caveat: Dispatchable sources will still be essential for the foreseeable future.While renewables will meet the majority of our energy needs, delivering consistent energy with these resources will still be a challenge at night or on days when the sun does not shine or the wind does not blow. This is where dispatchable sources like virtual power plants and biogas play a crucial role.Both are gaining traction as reliable, scalable solutions. VPPs aggregate decentralized energy generators and loads, such as demand-response assets, rooftop solar, and batteries, to dial down grid loading in real time. Meanwhile, biogas (in the form of renewable natural gas) offers a carbon-negative, dispatchable energy source that can be ramped up quickly when the grid needs it most. Together, these technologies fill the gaps left by intermittent renewables, ensuring reliability without compromising on sustainability.Then there’s geothermal — which happens to be having a moment.For decades, geothermal energy has been the underrated player in clean energy discussions. That’s changing fast. Recent advances in drilling and heat-extraction technologies are making this underdog both reliable and cost-competitive.Unlike wind and solar, geothermal provides a consistent baseload power supply, regardless of weather conditions. As deployment ramps up, it will solidify its position as a cornerstone of clean energy infrastructure, complementing other renewable sources. EV adoption is speeding up Passenger electric vehicles are no longer just better for the environment — they’re objectively better products. Now that EVs and internal-combustion-engine vehicles have reached cost parity, the tipping point has arrived. Hockey-stick adoption rates are already evident, and the momentum will only accelerate. Meanwhile, Class 5 to 8 vehicles (commercial trucks) are next in line to electrify. Advances in battery technology and increased manufacturing will make these heavy-duty EVs the standard across logistics, freight, and public transit sectors. This isn’t speculative; it’s occurring now, and the trend is unstoppable.

Business
Energy
Technology

Indigenous people defending their land face a disproportionate share of violence and threats

Corporations must be accountable for attacks that advance their business interests, researchers say.

In the first-ever global study of its kind, researchers concluded that more attention needs to be paid to physical attacks and threats against land defenders, since those incidents often are the precursor to death.  Last year, a human rights and environmental watchdog group determined that 177 land defenders were killed in 2022. Land defenders are people who seek to protect their communities and environmental resources from destructive development projects ranging from pipelines to mines to farms to wind projects.  This month, however, the Alliance for Land, Indigenous, and Environmental Defenders, or ALLIED, found that there were 916 non-lethal incidents in 46 countries in 2022 — or about five for every death. Non-lethal incidents range from written and verbal threats to kidnapping or detention to physical assaults. The probable perpetrators identified by ALLIED include paramilitary forces, police, local government officials, private security guards, and corporations.  “While police was the commonly named probable perpetrator of the violence, often we see state actors operating on behalf or at the request of other parties, including private businesses,” said Eva Hershaw, who co-chairs ALLIED as part of her work with the International Land Coalition, where she heads their global data and land monitoring. ALLIED drew on news outlets, social media posts, eyewitness interviews, court filings, and police reports to make its conclusions. The group’s researchers consulted data sets from 12 organizations and talked with affected communities in these countries to assure accuracy. Roughly a third of the organizations that ALLIED worked with used locally based data collectors who confirmed acts of violence with municipalities. For many of these data collectors, this was the first time their data has been used in a global study, Hershaw said.  Of the 916 incidents that didn’t lead to death, nearly a quarter of the victims were Indigenous, despite the fact that Indigenous people make up only 6 percent of the global population. With respect to the assaults and threats that often lead up to killings, “Indigenous Peoples were disproportionately targeted with such violence,” Hershaw said.  Violent attacks and threats against Indigenous land defenders are often underreported due to victims’ fear of retaliation. Also, attacks often happen in rural places away from the eye of the media. The report detailed repeated violence and harassment against individuals as well as whole communities.  Among the most violent places for Indigenous land defenders were Colombia, Guatemala, and Mexico, which together accounted for 75 percent of all attacks and threats. Across the 46 countries included in the report, land defenders who spoke out against industrial agriculture and mining were the most at risk.  Read Next Nearly 200 people were killed last year protecting the environment Taylar Dawn Stagner Philippe Le Billon, a professor at the University of British Columbia who focuses on natural resources and armed conflicts, said this data is important for preventing further violence and should be utilized to develop transparency that doesn’t exist in a lot of places. “Early warning mechanisms need to be developed using this data,” he told Grist. He said companies need to hold themselves accountable to the communities in which they operate and develop procedures to address conflicts when they arise. Risk factors for violent incidents included vague and undefined land rights in a particular nation. When private businesses or infrastructure developments are already present in a community, that can increase the risk as well. Around 40 percent of violent incidents happened while the victims were actively protesting development projects that threatened their land or communities.  Another risk factor is what the report calls weak rule of law. “Weak rule of law indicates that laws are not properly or equally enforced,” said Hershaw, meaning that laws that were supposed to protect Indigenous land defenders did not lessen the threats. Verbal and written threats were the biggest act of violence documented in the report, comprising 33 percent of all non-lethal incidents. Arbitrary detentions — the act of detaining someone without evidence or without following legal due process — made up 10 percent of the incidents.  According to the report, around 30 percent of all non-lethal incidents in 2022 targeted not individuals but entire Indigenous communities. For instance, the Tumandok, an Indigenous people living in the mountains of the Philippines, have a long history of conflict with various development projects. In 2018, six tribal members were killed, then a steady stream of violence and killings led up to the forced removal of Tumandok people to make way for a hydroelectric dam. The Philippine government is courting projects in the mining sector as well, and other tribal communities across the country have decried the government’s disregard for Indigenous rights.  As mining operations increase worldwide in the service of the energy transition, Indigenous people are at greater risk of potential violence. The report recommends that national governments better document attacks and create stronger legal protections for vulnerable communities. ALLIED also says corporations need to be held accountable for violence and threats that advance their business interests.  Hershaw gave one example of what accountability could look like: This year, Hudbay Minerals settled three lawsuits filed a decade ago by the Q’eqchi’, an Indigenous Mayan group in Guatemala. The Q’eqchi’ alleged that the Canadian-owned company was responsible for the sexual assaults of nearly a dozen women and the killing of a community leader during a land rights dispute. The Q’eqchi’ were compensated for an undisclosed amount.  Le Billon said that pursuing compensation for the loss of loved ones and land is incredibly difficult for tribal communities. “Court cases are hard to put together,” he said. “You need lawyers. It costs money.” Le Billon said information and documentation, like the data ALLIED uncovered, is hard to get and it takes a lot of time to collect, creating another barrier for environmental land protectors seeking justice. “These things can last decades, literally.”  At COP30, the United Nations climate change conference slated to take place next year in Brazil, ALLIED plans to release data on non-lethal attacks in 2023 and 2024.   This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Indigenous people defending their land face a disproportionate share of violence and threats on Dec 19, 2024.

Business
Indigenous
Climate

EPA Grants California Authority to Ban Sales of New Gas Cars by 2035. Action Faces Reversal by Trump

The Environmental Protection Agency has granted two requests from California to enforce strict standards for vehicle emissions, including a rule aimed at banning sales of new gasoline-powered cars in the state by 2035

WASHINGTON (AP) — The Environmental Protection Agency on Wednesday granted two requests from California to enforce strict standards for vehicle emissions, including a rule aimed at banning sales of new gasoline-powered cars in the state by 2035. The incoming Trump administration is likely to try to reverse the action. The California rule is stricter than a federal rule adopted this year that tightens emissions standards but does not require sales of electric vehicles.EPA said its review found that opponents of the two waivers did not meet their legal burden to show how either the EV rule or a separate measure on heavy-duty vehicles was inconsistent with the federal Clean Air Act.“California has longstanding authority to request waivers from EPA to protect its residents from dangerous air pollution coming from mobile sources like cars and trucks,” EPA Administrator Michael Regan said in a statement. “Today’s actions follow through on EPA’s commitment to partner with states to reduce emissions and act on the threat of climate change.”The new waiver is important not only to California, but to more than a dozen other states that follow its nation-leading standards on vehicle emissions. Any effort by the new administration is likely to spawn a new set of legal challenges that could delay any action.Democratic Gov. Gavin Newsom, who often touts California's leadership on climate policy, has cited the advanced clean-cars rule as a key accomplishment. Environmental groups hailed the new waiver.“EPA’s approval is a critical step forward in protecting our lungs from pollution and our wallets from the expenses of combustion fuels,” said Paul Cort, director of Earthjustice’s Right To Zero campaign. “The gradual shift in car sales to zero-emissions models will cut smog and household costs while growing California’s clean energy workforce."The EPA's action comes as the Supreme Court said last week that it will take up a business-backed appeal challenging an earlier California waiver issued by the Biden administration. The justices agreed to hear an appeal filed by fuel producers who object to an EPA waiver granted in 2022. The waiver allows California to set more stringent emissions limits than the national standard.The high court will not be reviewing the waiver itself, but instead will look at a related issue: whether fuel producers have legal standing to challenge the federal waiver. A federal appeals court ruled that the companies lacked the right to sue because they produced no evidence that they would be affected by the waiver, which directly affects vehicle manufacturers.Ford, Honda, Volkswagen and other major automakers already are meeting the California emission standards, the Biden administration noted in court papers.But the fuel producers told the high court that the appellate decision, if left in place, would “imperil future challenges to administrative action.”Copyright 2024 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Photos You Should See - Sept. 2024

Business
Climate
Energy

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