Science
The Grand Canyon, a Cathedral to Time, Is Losing Its River
As the planet warms, low snow is starving the river at its headwaters in the Rockies, and higher temperatures are pilfering more of it through evaporation. The seven states that draw on the river are using just about every drop it can provide, and while a wet winter and a recent deal between states have staved off its collapse for now, its long-term health remains in deep doubt.
Our species’ mass migration to the West was premised on the belief that money, engineering and frontier pluck could sustain civilization in a pitilessly dry place. More and more, that belief looks as wispy as a dream.
North Canyon, an ancient tributary.
The Colorado flows so far beneath the Grand Canyon’s rim that many of the four million people who visit the national park each year see it only as a faint thread, glinting in the distance. But the river’s fate matters profoundly for the 280-mile-long canyon and the way future generations will experience it. Our subjugation of the Colorado has already set in motion sweeping shifts to the canyon’s ecosystems and landscapes — shifts that a group of scientists and graduate students from the University of California, Davis, recently set out to see by raft: a slow trip through deep time, at a moment when Earth’s clock seems to be speeding up.
John Weisheit, who helps lead the conservation group Living Rivers, has been rafting on the Colorado for over four decades. Seeing how much the canyon has changed, just in his lifetime, makes him “hugely depressed,” he said. “You know how you feel like when you go to the cemetery? That’s how I feel.”
Still, every year or so, he comes. “Because you need to see an old friend.”
The lands of western North America know well of nature’s cycles of birth and growth and destruction. Eras and epochs ago, this place was a tropical sea, with tentacled, snaillike creatures stalking prey beneath its waves. Then it was a vast sandy desert. Then a sea once again.
At some point, energy from deep inside the Earth started thrusting a huge section of crust skyward and into the path of ancient rivers that crisscrossed the terrain. For tens of millions of years, the crust pushed up and the rivers rolled down, grinding away at the landscape, up, down, up, down. A chasm was cleaved open, which the meandering water joined over time with other canyons, making one. Weather, gravity and plate tectonics warped and sculpted the exposed layers of surrounding stone into fluid, fantastical forms.
The Grand Canyon is a planetary spectacle like none other — one that also happens to host a river that 40 million people rely on for water and power. And the event that crystallized this odd, uneasy duality — that changed nearly everything for the canyon — feels almost small compared with all the geologic upheavals that took place before it: the pouring, 15 miles upstream, of a wall of concrete.
Glen Canyon National Recreation Area
Grand Canyon National Park
Lake Mead National Recreation Area
Glen Canyon National Recreation Area
Grand Canyon National Park
Lake Mead National Recreation Area
Glen Canyon National Recreation Area
Grand Canyon National Park
Lake Mead National Recreation Area
Glen Canyon National Recreation Area
Grand Canyon National Park
Lake Mead National Recreation Area
Since 1963, the Glen Canyon Dam has been backing up the Colorado for nearly 200 miles, in the form of America’s second-largest reservoir, Lake Powell. Engineers constantly evaluate water and electricity needs to decide how much of the river to let through the dam’s works and out the other end, first into the Grand Canyon, then into Lake Mead and, eventually, into fields and homes in Arizona, California, Nevada and Mexico.
The dam processes the Colorado’s mercurial flows — a trickle one year and a roaring, spiteful surge the next — into something less extreme on both ends. But for the canyon, regulating the river has come with big environmental costs. And, as the water keeps dwindling, plundered by drought and overuse, these costs could rise.
As recently as a few months ago, the water in Lake Powell was so low that there almost wasn’t enough to turn the dam’s turbines. If it fell past that level in the coming years — and there is every indication that it could — power generation would cease, and the only way water would be released from the dam is through four pipes that sit closer to the bottom of the lake. As the reservoir declined further, the amount of pressure pushing water through these pipes would diminish, meaning smaller and smaller amounts could be discharged out the other end.
North Canyon, and a spring at Vasey’s Paradise.
If the water dropped much more beyond that, the pipes would begin sucking air, and in time Powell would be at “dead pool”: Not a drop would pass through the dam until and unless the water reached the pipes again.
With these doubts about the Colorado’s future in mind, the U.C. Davis scientists rigged up electric-blue inflatable rafts on a cool spring morning. Slate-gray sky, low clouds. Cowboy coffee on a propane burner. At Mile 0 of the Grand Canyon, the river is running at around 7,000 cubic feet per second, rising toward 9,000 — not the lowest flows on record, but far from the highest.
Cubic feet per second can be a little abstract. As the group paddles toward the canyon’s first rapids, Daniel Ostrowski, a master’s student in agronomy at Davis, says it helps to think of basketballs. Lots of them. A regulation basketball fits loosely inside a foot-wide cube. Draw a line across the canyon, and imagine 9,000 basketballs tumbling past it every second.
At Mile 10, the scientists float by a more tangible visual aid. Ages ago, a giant slab of sandstone plunged into the riverbed from the cliffs above, and now it looms over the water like a hulking Cubist elephant. Or at 9,000 basketballs per second it looms. At higher flows — 12,600 basketballs, say — it’s submerged to its knees. At three times that, the water comes up to its head. And at 84,000, which is how much ran through in July 1983, the elephant is all but invisible, a ripple at the river’s surface.
The big problem with low water in the canyon, the one that compounds all others, is that things stop moving. The Colorado is a sort of circulatory system. Its flows carved the canyon but also sustain it, making it amenable to plants, wildlife and boaters. To understand what’s happened since the dam started regulating the river, first consider the smallest things that its water moves, or fails to move.
The Colorado picks up immense amounts of sand and silt charging down the Rockies, but the dam stops basically all of it from continuing into the Grand Canyon. Downstream tributaries, including the Paria and Little Colorado, add some sediment to the river, but not nearly as much as gets trapped in Lake Powell. Plus, when river flows are weak, more sediment settles on the riverbed.
The result is that the canyon’s sandy beaches, where animals live and boaters camp at night, are shrinking. Beaches that were once as wide as freeways are today more like two-lane roads. Others are even scrawnier. The sandy space that remains is also becoming overgrown with vegetation: cattail and brittlebush, arrowweed and seepwillow, bushy tamarisk and spiny camelthorn. Before the dam came in, the river’s springtime floods regularly washed this greenery away.
Loss of silt-laden water is harming the ecosystem.
A lusher, less-barren canyon might not sound like a bad thing. But grasses and shrubs block the wind from blowing sand onto the slopes and terraces, where hundreds of cultural sites preserve the history of the peoples who lived in and around the canyon. Sand shields these sites, which include stone structures, slab-lined granaries and craterlike roasting pits, from weather and the elements. With less sand drifting up from the riverside, the sites are more exposed to erosion and trampling by visitors.
Also, not every place in the canyon is becoming greener. Drought can sap the water that courses within the porous stone walls, water that, where it spurts out, sometimes feeds eye-popping bursts of plant life. Lately, some of these springs, like Vasey’s Paradise at Mile 32, have dried to a dribble for long stretches. But a few bends downriver, the U.C. Davis scientists spot several hanging gardens that, for now, are still thriving.
Besides sand, the Colorado is failing to move larger objects in the canyon. Cobbles and boulders periodically tumble in from hundreds of tributaries and side canyons, often during flash floods, creating bends and rapids in the river. With fewer strong flows to whisk this debris away, more of it is piling up at those bends and rapids. This has made many rapids steeper and narrowed boaters’ paths for navigating them.
Today, when the water is low, more boulders in the river are exposed at certain rapids, making them trickier to negotiate for the 30-to-40-foot-long motor rigs that are popular for canyon tours. In a future of prolonged low flows, tour companies might find it harder to run such large boats safely, cutting off one main way to experience the canyon intimately.
Drought and low water aside, there’s another aspect of the canyon’s future that worries Victor R. Baker, a geologist at the University of Arizona. Dr. Baker has spent four decades exploring alcoves, high ledges and tributary mouths in the Colorado Basin. He scours them for the very particular patterns of sand and silt left by giant floods. The stories they tell are startling.
Mad cascades of water, ones at least as large as any the Grand Canyon experienced in the 20th century, swept through it at least 15 times in the past four and a half millenniums, Dr. Baker and his colleagues have found. Geological evidence upriver from the dam points to 44 large floods of varying sizes there, most of them in the last 500 years.
As the atmosphere warms, allowing it to hold more moisture, the risk of another such deluge could be rising. If one struck when Lake Powell were already flush with melted snow, it could take out the dam, not to mention do considerable work on the canyon.
“I would think the future is going to be one moving toward, as they said in war, long periods of boredom interrupted by short episodes of total, absolute terror,” Dr. Baker said.
None of the government agencies with a hand in managing the canyon can do much about that, not on their own. But they are trying to beat back some of the other forces remaking the canyon from within.
Since 1996, the Bureau of Reclamation, which owns Glen Canyon Dam, has occasionally released blasts of reservoir water to kick up sand from the riverbed and rebuild the canyon’s beaches. The effects are noticeable. But the bureau conducts these “high-flow experiments” only when there’s enough water in Powell to spare. In April, it held its first one in five years.
Redwall Cavern, and the Nankoweap granaries, built 1,000 years ago.
The National Park Service works to preserve the Grand Canyon’s archaeological sites against erosion, even if that means leaving them swaddled in sand, where nobody sees them. “Those cultural resources that are covered by the sand are well suited by being covered by the sand,” said Ed Keable, the park’s superintendent.
Other issues, though, are so entrenched that addressing them just creates other problems. Take the spread of tamarisk, an invasive treelike shrub that has displaced native vegetation in the canyon and around other Western rivers. About two decades ago, officials decided to fight back by releasing beetles that loved eating tamarisk leaves. But the beetles loved those leaves so much, and their numbers grew so quickly, that they began threatening the Southwestern willow flycatcher, an endangered bird that nests in tamarisk.
There is a similar no-win feeling to the bigger question of how to keep the Colorado useful to everyone as it shrivels. The dam is the root cause of the canyon’s environmental shifts, which also include big changes to fish populations. But simply allowing the river to flow more naturally through the existing dam, so water is stored primarily in Lake Mead instead of in both Mead and Powell, wouldn’t reverse the shifts entirely.
Jack Schmidt, the director of the Center for Colorado River Studies at Utah State University, has concluded that the only way to allow sufficiently large amounts of sediment-rich water back into the canyon, short of dynamiting the dam, would be to drill new diversion tunnels into the sandstone around it. That would be costly, and require careful planning to dampen the immediate ecological effects.
“Like everything else in that damn river system,” Dr. Schmidt said, “there’s a consequence to everything.”
It’s the U.C. Davis scientists’ sixth night on the Colorado, and it comes after several numbing hours of paddling against the wind. As the sun touches the canyon walls with the day’s last glimmers of orange and gold, the graduate students sit in camp chairs chewing over what they’ve seen.
They are preparing for careers as academics and experts and policymakers, people who will shape how we live with the environmental fallout of past choices. Choices like damming rivers. Like building cities in floodplains. Like running economies on fossil fuels. Once, those were first-rate answers to society’s needs. Now they require answers of their own — a whole wearying cascade of problems prompting solutions that create more problems.
“It becomes overwhelming,” says Alma Wilcox, a master’s student in environmental policy, sitting by a scraggly, haunted-looking grove of tamarisk. It helps, she says, to focus: “Having control over a really small aspect of it is empowering.”
The basement rocks: dark schist and pink granite.
Yara Pasner, a doctoral student in hydrology, says she feels a duty to make sure the load on future generations is lessened, even if, or perhaps because, our forebears didn’t do us that courtesy. “There’s been a mentality that we will mess this up and the future generation will have more tools to fix this.” Instead, she says, we’ve found that the consequences of many past decisions are harder to cope with than expected.
The next morning, the group floats into the realm of the canyon’s oldest rocks. Almost two billion years ago, islands in the primordial sea crashed into the landmass that would become North America. The unimaginable heat and pressure from the collision cooked the rocks and sediment on the seafloor into layers of inky, shiny rock. This rock then lay buried beneath mountains that were formed in the collision, becoming squished and folded to create the otherworldly masses flanking the river today, which resemble nothing so much as freshly churned ice cream: dark gray schist swirled with salmon-pink granite.
But the mountains that sat above them? Those are all but gone, ground down over eons, their remnants long since scattered and recombined into new mountains, new formations.
“There were the Himalayas on top of this,” says Nicholas Pinter, the Davis geologist who has helped lead this expedition, gesturing from the end of a raft at Mile 78. “And it’s eroded,” he says. “Worn to an almost infinitesimally flat plane, before it all begins again.”
Somewhere in among those grand happenings — within the tiniest, most insignificant-seeming snatches of geologic time — is the world we live in, the one we have.
Map by Elena Shao.
Produced by Sarah Graham, Matt McCann, Claire O’Neill, Jesse Pesta and Eden Weingart. Audio produced by Kate Winslett.
Additional expert sources: Ryan S. Crow, John Dillon, Ben Dove, Elizabeth Grant, Reed Kenny, Brandon Lake, Tom Martin, Abel O. Nelson, Joel B. Sankey, John Toner, Robert H. Webb, Brian Williamshen and Greg Yarris.
An industrial chemical used in plastic products has been cropping up in illegal drugs from California to Maine, a sudden and puzzling shift in the drug supply that has alarmed health researchers.
Its name is bis(2,2,6,6-tetramethyl-4-piperidyl) sebacate, commonly abbreviated as BTMPS. The chemical is used in plastic for protection against ultraviolet rays, as well as for other commercial uses.
In an analysis released Monday, researchers from UCLA, the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) and other academic institutions and harm reduction groups collected and tested more than 170 samples of drugs that had been sold as fentanyl in Los Angeles and Philadelphia this summer. They found roughly a quarter of the drugs contained BTMPS.
Researchers called it the most sudden change in the U.S. illegal drug supply in recent history, based on chemical prevalence. They found that BTMPS sometimes dramatically exceeded the amount of fentanyl in drug samples and, in some cases, had made up more than a third of the drug sample.
It was also a growing presence in fentanyl over the summer: In June, none of the L.A. fentanyl samples tested by the team contained BTMPS, the analysis found. By August, it was detected in 41% of them.
“This is effectively unprecedented,” said Morgan Godvin, one of the authors of the study and project director for Drug Checking Los Angeles, a UCLA project that works in partnership with the L.A. County Department of Public Health to analyze illicit drugs.
“We have no idea just how many people have been exposed,” Godvin said, but if the high prevalence among drug samples tested so far is any indication, “that translates to tens of thousands of fentanyl users being exposed to BTEMPS, sometimes at very high volume.”
The findings were publicly released as a preprint — research that has not been peer reviewed — on the website of Drug Checking Los Angeles and have been submitted to medRxiv, a website where scientists share preliminary findings.
BTMPS has been studied in rats for its potential to reduce withdrawal symptoms from morphine and affect nicotine use, but it can be toxic and even deadly to rodents at sufficient doses, and health researchers say there is an urgent need for more studies on its effects on the human body.
The PubChem database lists a number of possible hazards associated with BTMPS, including skin irritation and eye damage. Godvin was alarmed by animal studies indicating dangers from inhaling BTMPS — such as tremors and shortness of breath — because smoking is now common in L.A. among people who use fentanyl.
People who use drugs have said that BTMPS can smell like bug spray or plastic and have reported blurred vision, nausea and coughing after ingesting it. One told researchers that “it smelled so bad I could barely smoke it.” The UCLA and NIST researchers warned that “with such a sudden and sustained prevalence in the drug supply, users are at risk of repeated, ongoing exposures, which may compound health effects.”
A 35-year-old man in Los Angeles said that in recent months, he had noticed a rubbery or synthetic taste in the fentanyl he used. “I was asking my friend that I buy from, ‘What the hell is this?’” said the man, who requested anonymity to speak about his drug use.
When he took samples that were supposed to be fentanyl to Drug Checking Los Angeles to analyze, he learned that some contained the strange chemical. The 35-year-old said he now tries to avoid BTMPS, but “a lot of people are just trying to get anything to keep from being sick” from opioid withdrawal.
Whatever clandestine labs are doing, he said, “we’re the guinea pigs.”
L.A. and Philadelphia are far from the only places where the chemical has popped up: The team also detected BTMPS in trace amounts of drugs left behind on drug paraphernalia from other locations, including Delaware, Maryland and Nevada.
As of last week, a University of North Carolina program that tests drug samples from across the country had also found BTMPS in more than 200 samples from a dozen states stretching from the West Coast to Maine. UNC senior scientist Nabarun Dasgupta said the chemical began showing up in drug samples that it tested this summer, most often mingled with fentanyl, both in powder form and in fake pills.
Alex Krotulski, a director at the nonprofit Center for Forensic Science Research and Education in Pennsylvania, said the amount of BTMPS found in drug samples it has tested varies dramatically — sometimes making up a small amount, sometimes amounting to the “primary component” in the sample.
Unlike other adulterants added to fentanyl for their psychoactive effects, “it’s not like it’s something that you go out and you use a bunch of to get high,” Krotulski said. The UCLA and NIST team found that people who use drugs rated samples high in BTMPS as “bunk” — low in quality — and broadly saw it as “highly undesirable.”
Yet another oddity is that BTMPS has not followed a familiar path for new drugs in the U.S. Instead of showing up in one area and spreading to others, “this one has hit all at once across the U.S. within a two-week period,” said Tara Stamos-Buesig, founder and chief executive of the Harm Reduction Coalition of San Diego.
Stamos-Buesig, whose group helps analyze the contents of illegal drugs in San Diego to inform and protect people, said that “I’ve told people for a while — we can’t hyper-focus on fentanyl” as if it were the only threat.
“There’s a lot of other stuff coming on board,” Stamos-Buesig said.
The UCLA and NIST analysis suggested one possible scenario: Illegal drug manufacturers might be adding BTMPS to fentanyl precursors or to the final product “at a high level in the supply chain,” possibly to stabilize them from degrading from light or heat exposure as illicit drugs are made, stored and transported, they wrote.
UCLA assistant professor Chelsea Shover added that the team had found BTMPS for sale on online platforms like Amazon and Alibaba with similar wording to what Chinese chemical companies had used in the past to market to fentanyl producers, with sellers touting their “experience getting through Mexican customs.”
“This is clearly implying that this is to be used to make illicit drugs,” Shover said. “It’s stuff you wouldn’t expect to see if it was just selling an industrial chemical in a standard way.”
As it stands, there is no test strip that can quickly detect BTMPS as there is for fentanyl. Nor is the chemical routinely tested for by doctors or medical examiners, which means that if someone has been harmed by BTMPS they took accidentally, “clinicians would have no way of knowing,” the UCLA and NIST team wrote.
The UNC Street Drug Analysis Lab likewise said that much remains unknown at this point, including whether BTMPS poses an overdose risk, although the lab cautions that “EVERY substance at some volume will be toxic.”
Dasgupta said the detection of BTMPS represents the first example of the burgeoning network of drug checking programs working together to find a substance “before any health authorities or any law enforcement did.” Godvin said that “just a few years ago, we wouldn’t have even known about this” and urged Angelenos to get drugs analyzed through Drug Checking Los Angeles if they are able.
In a drug supply already riddled with threats like fentanyl and the animal tranquilizer xylazine, “this gives us a whole other thing to worry about,” Godvin said.
Approximately 600 times a day, the esophagus ferries whatever is in your mouth down to your stomach. It’s usually a one-way route, but sometimes acid escapes the stomach and travels back up. That can damage the cells lining the esophagus, prompting them to grow back with genetic mistakes.
About 22,370 times a year in the United States, those mistakes culminate in cancer.
Esophageal cancer can be cured if it’s discovered and treated before it burrows in deep or spreads to other organs. But that’s rarely the case.
“The way this usually goes is a patient has had reflux symptoms for many years, they’ve taken Tums or something, and then all of a sudden they have difficulty swallowing so they come to the ER,” said Dr. Allon Kahn, a gastroenterologist and associate professor of medicine at the Mayo Clinic in Arizona. That’s when doctors discover a tumor that has grown into the walls of the esophagus, and likely beyond.
“At that point,” Kahn said, “it’s incurable.”
This is why only about 20% of Americans with esophageal cancer are still alive five years after their diagnosis. To improve on that figure, doctors say they don’t necessarily need better medicines. What they need are better ways to find the cancer while it’s still in its earliest, highly treatable stages.
And to do that, they need a breakthrough in screening for the disease.
“The concept of screening is to find dangerous things before they do dangerous things,” said Dr. Daniel Boffa, chief of thoracic surgery at Yale.
It works for diseases like breast, lung and colon cancer. In those cases, there’s a clear progression of steps that leads to cancer — and only to cancer.
But that doesn’t seem to be the case with esophageal cancer.
“We don’t really know who to screen, how often to screen, and what is the thing that we can see that will tell us, ‘This person is going to develop a dangerous cancer,’” Boffa said.
He likened the situation to the difficulty of forecasting a tornado.
“Most tornadoes happen when conditions are favorable for a tornado,” he said. “But most of the time that conditions are favorable for a tornado, there’s not a tornado. And a lot of the time, tornadoes happen outside of those conditions.”
Another complicating factor is that cases of esophageal cancer are rare, accounting for about 1% of all cancers diagnosed in the U.S.
Picture the 100,000 college football fans packed into Michigan Stadium in Ann Arbor on a game day, said Dr. Joel Rubenstein, a research scientist based 3 miles away at the Lt. Col. Charles S. Kettles VA Medical Center and a gastroenterologist at the University of Michigan. Then picture yourself having to figure out which four of those fans will develop esophageal cancer this year.
Screening someone for esophageal cancer is not a trivial procedure.
The standard method involves inserting an endoscope — a flexible tube with a camera on one end — into a patient’s throat and threading it down to the stomach. The camera allows doctors to inspect the esophagus up close and check for abnormal cells that could become cancerous.
A probe protrudes from the instrument channel of an endoscope used to diagnose esophageal cancer.
(Cover Images via AP Images)
The tube also serves as a conduit for tools that can collect tissue samples, which can be sent to a pathology lab for diagnostic analysis. If a doctor sees a growth that looks like early-stage cancer, it can be removed on the spot.
It sounds straightforward, but patients must be sedated for the procedure, which means they lose a day of work. Endoscopy is also expensive, and there’s a shortage of doctors who can do it.
“We’re only catching 7% of cancers through endoscopy,” Kahn said. “We’ve got to find a way to increase that number.”
In the U.S., the most common form of the cancer begins at the base of the esophagus. The cells there aren’t built to withstand exposure to stomach acid, so in people with chronic acid reflux, they sometimes adapt by becoming more like intestinal tissue. That condition is called Barrett’s esophagus, and about 5% of U.S. adults have it.
“If that’s all that was, we’d say, ‘That’s great,’” Kahn said. “But unfortunately, when it makes that change in cell type, there are genetic changes that predispose a patient to cancer.”
About 0.3% of people with Barrett’s esophagus develop esophageal cancer each year, said Dr. Sachin Wani, a gastroenterologist and professor at the University of Colorado School of Medicine. And compared to people without Barrett’s, they are roughly nine times more likely to die of esophageal cancer.
That means screening for Barrett’s is tantamount to screening for esophageal cancer.
Doctors largely agree on a core group of risk factors, including chronic gastroesophageal reflux disease, smoking and carrying extra pounds in the abdomen. Other risk factors include being at least 50 years old, male, white and having a family history of either Barrett’s or esophageal cancer.
There is less agreement about how many risk factors a person must have to justify screening.
Based on recommendations from the American College of Gastroenterology, more than 31 million people are eligible for screening. Guidelines from the American Society for Gastrointestinal Endoscopy raise that figure to 52 million, and the American Gastroenterological Assn.’s advice expands it to 120 million, said Dr. Gary Falk, a gastroenterologist and professor of medicine emeritus at the University of Pennsylvania’s Perelman School of Medicine.
All of these recommendations leave room for improvement. Only 50% to 60% of people who meet screening requirements actually have Barrett’s, said Dr. Prasad Iyer, the chair of gastroenterology at the Mayo Clinic in Arizona.
“The screening criteria are not accurate enough,” he said.
Indeed, at least 90% of people who have risk factors for Barrett’s don’t actually have the condition, Iyer said. That includes the vast majority of people with acid reflux.
So doctors are turning to artificial intelligence to identify additional characteristics that can improve their ability to identify those most likely to have Barrett’s and esophageal cancer.
“Everyone in medicine is looking at AI,” Falk said. “We think it’s going to revolutionize things.”
Iyer and his colleagues are developing an AI tool that scours the electronic medical records of Mayo Clinic patients to find those who should be screened for Barrett’s. The tool considers more than 7,500 distinct data points, including past medical procedures, lab test results, prescriptions and more. (Among the surprises: A patient’s triglycerides and electrolytes had predictive value.)
“This is probably something a human would not be able to do efficiently,” Iyer said.
In tests, the overall accuracy of both tools was 84%. While those are substantial improvements, the team would like to bump that up to 90% before they are rolled out in the clinic, Iyer said.
Rubenstein and his colleagues in Michigan created something similar, using machine learning techniques to analyze the health records of VA patients across the country. Their tool also performed better than the official guidelines of medical societies, with an accuracy of 77%. Now the team is working to refine its threshold for screening by adding cost-effectiveness to the mix.
Once in use, tools like these could lighten the load of overburdened primary care doctors, who aren’t necessarily up to date on the latest screening guidelines and refer fewer than half of their eligible patients for testing.
“It will flag a patient and say, ‘This patient should be screened,’ or, ‘This patient should not be screened,’” Iyer said. “That’s what the future really needs.”
When Camp Hess Kramer burned down in 2018, I cried. My family had gone to the summer camp for generations. My grandma won the “best camper” award in the same dining hall where I tried soda for the first time. Overnight, it was gone. The place I grew up, once ringing with songs and laughter, had mutated into a black abyss strewn with the wiry corpses of oak trees.
It was one of the worst fire seasons in California history. Entire towns and many lives were lost.
In 2020, when COVID hit, I was just about to finish middle school. Instead of playing Magic: The Gathering with my friends in the hallways, I stared into my computer screen consuming information about the climate crisis. Feelings of terror morphed into anger. Decades of warning signs had been ignored because big oil was buying out politicians. These disasters were preventable; Hess Kramer didn’t have to burn.
Evacuated horses on a beach in Malibu in 2018 as the Woolsey fire heads seaward. At least 670 structures were destroyed inside the Malibu city limits.
(Los Angeles Times)
So, I signed up for every climate organization I could find online. My first meeting with the Sunrise Movement’s new Los Angeles youth hub was filled with the intimidating faces of high school seniors. I saw the gleam in their eyes as they talked about a future where everyone had a right to clean air, clean water, and good and meaningful jobs. They led protests and created spreadsheets and cold-called people — things I had no idea how to do.
I was 15 when Sunrise asked me to help lead the local portion of a campaign for a national Civilian Climate Corps. The idea was to push the federal government to create a program employing young people in good-paying jobs fighting the climate crisis.
Soon I was planning a sit-in at Sen. Dianne Feinstein’s Los Angeles office. It was 2021. We slept on the sidewalk for two nights until Feinstein agreed to support the program. Then we demanded a Zoom meeting with Sen. Alex Padilla to get his support too. Around the country for many years, our movement continued to push for a Civilian Climate Corps. In June, the first cohort of 9,000 young people were sworn in by the White House.
But fire season is here, and the places I love are still in danger and my future is still uncertain. We could be looking at four years with a presidential administration that is in the pocket of fossil fuel billionaires.
A helicopter flies with a load of water heads to the Bootleg fire near Bly, Ore., in 2021.
(Payton Bruni / AFP / Getty Images)
On July 29, eight of us blockaded the wooden door of JD Vance’s Senate office in Washington. Many more Sunrisers lined the marble hallways. Young people from all walks of life sang in unison: “I went up to JD Vance and I took back my humanity/ Ain’t nobody gonna walk all over me.”
In 2020, Vance, now a potential vice president, asserted that climate change was a threat. Yet after receiving nearly $300,000 from the fossil fuel industry during his 2022 Senate campaign, Vance seems to no longer believe this crisis is human-made.
Police began shoving their way through the crowd toward the door. Handcuffs dangled by their side. I wanted to run, but as the police gave their third warning, I remembered why I was here: An image of Camp Hess Kramer flashed through my head.
I was taken outside with my hands behind my back. I was told I was under arrest, alone in a sea of blue uniforms, but in the distance I heard 150 Sunrisers break out into another song. I could just make out the words. “Where you go, I will go, Simon. Where you go, I will go.”
Simon Aron is a freshman at Brown University, where he plans to continue his activism.
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Michigan Republicans continue to spar with Dems over deal with Chinese EV company in key House race
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