This story originally appeared on High Country News and is part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

Last summer, scientists at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration observed dust blowing 85 miles from its source, Lake Abert and Summer Lake, two dried-up saline lakes in southern Oregon. This has happened before: Saline lakebeds are some of the West’s most significant sources of dust. California’s Owens Lake is the nation’s largest source of PM10, the tiny pollutants found in dust and smoke, while plumes blowing off the 800 square miles of the Great Salt Lake’s exposed bed have caused toxin-filled dust storms in Salt Lake City.

Saline lakes are rapidly losing water to climate change and agricultural and urban uses, becoming some of the West’s most threatened ecosystems. Now, new legislation is offering some support. On December 27, President Joe Biden signed the bipartisan Saline Lake Ecosystems in the Great Basin States Program Act, which allocates $25 million in funding for research and monitoring at saline lakes across the Great Basin. While this funding is an important step, it cannot give the lakes what they really need: more water.

The Interior West is full of salt lakes, created when snowmelt pools in the valley bottoms of the Basin and Range region. The valleys have no outflow, so the water remains until it evaporates, leaving behind the particles that were suspended in it. These accumulate over time, giving the lakes a high salinity.

“It creates a unique system that supports brine shrimp and alkali flies that can feed incredible populations of migratory birds,” said Ryan Houston, executive director of the Oregon Natural Desert Association, which seeks to conserve Oregon’s high desert, including Summer Lake and Lake Abert.

Yet this balance of runoff, salts, and evaporation also makes saline lakes highly sensitive to climate change. Decreasing snowpack and increasing evaporation due to higher temperatures means that there is less water in the lakes and a higher concentration of salt. That stresses shrimp and flies, which have adapted over time to specific salinities, and it also exposes dry lakebeds, creating dangerous dust storms.

Decades of diversions for agricultural and municipal use have also taken the lakes’ water. California’s Owens Lake, for instance, has been almost completely dry for nearly a century since its water was diverted to Los Angeles. A report released this month by Utah scientists and conservation organizations warned that the combination of water diversions and climate change has put the Great Salt Lake on track to disappear within five years. 

Many see poor air quality as the main reason to save the lakes. But the dust is a sign that the entire ecosystem is withering. Saline lakes are key stops on the Pacific Flyway, the bird migration route that extends from Alaska to Patagonia, Chile. “That we’re worried about dust says to me that we’ve already gone past the point of Lake Abert being lost as part of the Pacific Flyway, its most important ecological value,” said Houston. Over 80 species of birds either inhabit or migrate through Lake Abert, and 338 species depend on the Great Salt Lake.

This is the original story It was published on High Country News It is part of Climate Desk collaboration.

Many of the once clear streams and rivers found in Arctic Alaska have turned orange-colored and become more acidic. The landscape, which was once undeveloped, now appears as though an industrial mine is in existence for many decades. Scientists are eager to find out why.

Roman Dial is a Professor of Biology and Mathematics at Alaska Pacific University. He first saw the drastic changes in water quality while fieldwork in Brooks Range, 2020. A group of six students from his graduate program accompanied him for a month, but they couldn’t find enough water. “There’s so many streams that are not just stained, they’re so acidic that they curdle your powdered milk,” he said. In others, the water was clear, “but you couldn’t drink it because it had a really weird mineral taste and tang.”

Dial, who has spent the last 40 years exploring the Arctic, was gathering data on climate-change-driven changes in Alaska’s tree line for a project that also includes work from ecologists Patrick Sullivan, director of the Environment and Natural Resources Institute at the University of Alaska Anchorage, and Becky Hewitt, an environmental studies professor at Amherst College. They are now investigating the mysteries surrounding water-quality. “I feel like I’m a grad student all over again in a lab that I don’t know anything about, and I’m fascinated by it,” Dial said.

Most of the rusting waterways are located within some of Alaska’s most remote protected lands: the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, the Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, the Kobuk Valley National Park, and the Selawik Wildlife Refuge.

It is strikingly visual. “It seems like something’s been broken open or something’s been exposed in a way that has never been exposed before,” Dial said. “All the hardrock geologists who look at these pictures, they’re like, ‘Oh, that looks like acid mine waste.’” But it’s not mine waste. The researchers believe the land caused the rusty appearance of streambanks, rocks, and other structures.

It is believed that the climate is warming, which is leading to permafrost degrading. This releases iron-rich sediments, which oxidize when they come in contact with water. Water may become more acidic due to the possible oxidation of minerals from the soil. Although the research team has begun to identify the causes, it is not yet clear what the implications are. “I think the pH issue”—the acidity of the water—“is truly alarming,” said Hewitt. Although pH is important for many chemical and biotic processes, it has no effect on intricate food webs found in rivers and streams. The research team doesn’t know what could happen to fish, stream bed bugs or plant communities.

The rusting of Alaska’s rivers will also likely have an impact on human communities. Rivers such as the Wulik and Kobuk have been found to be rusting. These rivers also provide drinking water for many Northwest Alaska Native communities. Sullivan stated that if the water quality continues to deteriorate it could affect species which are the primary source of food for Alaska Native residents living a subsistence lifestyle.

The metaphor for changing is powerful. But when it comes to the future and how we want to change, we can find many models in the natural world. 

“What about the lowly cockroach or the lowly earwig?” says Jessica Ware, an associate curator of invertebrates at the American Museum of Natural History, rolling her eyes. (Or Imbler’s gum-leaf skeletonizer.) By some estimates, around  60 percent of all animals go through what scientists call holometabolism—a fancy word for reforming your entire body like butterflies do. Ladybugs, beetles, bees, lacewings, and flies all wrap themselves up and go through an incredible transformation. “You know, there’s a lot of really cool insects out there, but they get no press, they get no greeting cards. It’s all butterflies, butterflies, butterflies,” Ware says.

Stories of collaboration and transformation are common in the natural world. These stories are ones we can all likely learn from. 

For example, some sea slugs eat algae, and then extract the chloroplasts and make it into their own photosynthesis. Others sea slugs, which eat poisonous sponges, store the poison in their body to protect themselves. Spade sees this as a connection to Spade’s belief that groups could benefit from each other’s different attributes and skill sets. “We could all get skilled up, and we could gain the most interesting skills that various people in the group have brought.” For Dean, it’s a reminder that “we are each a very small part of something very big.”

For Liz Neeley, a science communicator and founder of the firm Liminal, it’s a giant, dorky-looking fish that offers a metaphor for change. She points to the mola mola—also known as the giant ocean sunfish. And giant is no overstatement—by the time they’re adults, these fish can weigh over 4,000 pounds. They are not born this large. When they’re born, they’re 3 millimeters long—about half the length of a grain of rice. The mola mola’s total body weight increases by 60 million over the course of their lives. That changes everything. “Your ability to perceive your environment, the things you find frightening, even how much effort it takes to move through water,” says Neeley. “At that size, water is heavy, it’s thick, it’s gloppy. You’re kind of swimming through syrup.”

That car-sized giant fish can now be seen swimming across the sea with an inkling of how it felt to be small and vulnerable as it fought against all the water. “I don’t know exactly what size I am as a fish,” says Neeley. “But I hope I can continue to build a practice of revisiting those core assumptions I have about myself in the world and what’s a threat to me and how I move through it.”

This is all because my podcast fundamentally, Flash forwardIt was all about transformation. Is it possible to make a difference in the future? How do we get to the tomorrows we want and not the ones we don’t? A key piece to that answer has to do the way that insects turn into goo. To get the future we desire, must we completely dissolve our bodies and world? Is it necessary to completely destroy the world and build new ones? Are we able to change slowly and incrementally?