The Watson Fellowship
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"The Watson Fellowship is a rare window after college and pre-career to engage your deepest interest on a global scale. " -Watson Foundation 
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A year of independent explorationThe Thomas J. Watson Fellowship was everything I wanted to do with my life after college. Which is to say, I didn't know what I wanted to do and I wanted the chance to figure out how all of my passions fit together.
I proposed a Watson project at the intersection of several of my greatest interests-- science, photography, and rivers. From childhood raft trips to my college classes on sedimentology, rivers have become my hallmark example of how scientific understanding can infuse familiar things with wonder and sense. River science is also deeply personal- nearly every human on earth is affected by river processes, whether they know it or not. What better place to explore and practice science communication that is exciting, relatable, and allows people to see their world in a new light? Ultimately, my project is an exploration of river systems in terms of the geologic and biologic process they mediate, and how those processes shape human lives and landscapes around the world. |
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Project Focuses
I structured my project around 4 central "stories" of river processes that have far-reaching implications for life on earth. I planned my itinerary in part so that I could explore and showcase each of these stories in places where they play out at their most extreme or most dramatic, from river ecosystems in the Amazon to erosion in the Himalayas.
The Sediment CycleAs rivers transport and transform rocks from solid mountains into fine delta sands, they shape human lives by shaping the landscapes we live in. This is the story of how rivers relocate trillions of tons of material across continents, excavating valleys, blanketing flood planes, and constructing the deltas that house the world's mega-cities. Alongside this, the breakdown of rocks allows for the chemical interactions that liberate essential minerals like iron, zinc, calcium, potassium, phosphorus, making them available to nurture life on earth. Understanding that the surface of the landscapes all around me were sculpted into watersheds by the process of erosion was one of my first-ever experiences of scientific x-ray vision, and I want to share that by exploring the manifestations and implications this most ubiquitous and impactful of river processes. |
The Carbonate CycleThe story of carbonates unifies concepts as disparate as mountain uplift, shellfish physiology, and global climate change. The carbonate ion is formed when CO2 from the atmosphere dissolves in rainwater. This ion can can be combined with calcium to form the building block of sea shells, corals, and limestone. Through this process, atmospheric CO2 is interred in mineral form, burying it for millions of years until it is eventually sunk into the mantle and re-released though volcanoes. This cycle shapes landscapes everywhere and is one of the primary drivers of earth's climate over tens of millions of years. Carbonates exists at an intersection between biology and geology and have vast implications for global climate change. I'm interested in understanding and communicating this story to show how the geologic processes within rivers are relevant to all life on earth. |
How Rivers LiveFrom the migration of early life onto land, to the Fertile Crescent, to modern trade, agriculture, and drinking water, the story of our life on earth has been intertwined with rivers. I want to explore this story along the lengths of the world’s largest river— The Amazon. As the Andes drain to the Atlantic, these waters provide the irrigation and dissolved mineral nutrients to nourish the world's largest rainforest and most diverse freshwater fisheries. From flooded forests and oxbow lakes to a "river in the sky" of evaporation that promotes rainfall, river processes create a dazzling array of ecosystems with widespread impacts. I want to explore these stories, and experience first hand how human societies in The Amazon have grown to think about and make use of the river and its processes. |
How Rivers DieAs I explore what makes rivers vital to the the world around us, I want to show how rivers' greatest values are often also their greatest vulnerabilities; As humans seek to control or exploit the services that rivers provide, their actions often interfere with the river processes we have come to depend on. Whether from singular catastrophic disruptions like mega dams, or from the combined effects of pollution, infrastructure, development and extraction, rivers everywhere are being dramatically altered. Through stories of sinking delta cities, catastrophic floods, disrupted fish migration and food supply, or devastation wrought by failed attempts to control nature, I want to take a look at how the processes that we depend upon are changing unpredictably, or drying up entirely. |
The First Leg (July 2019-March 2020)
Zábalo
Cofán Territory, Ecuador
Within a day of arriving in Ecuador, I was zipping down the Aguarico river in a 45 foot motorized canoe, headed to the indigenous Cofán village of Zábalo. I was there with a group of chefs and food experts from Quito to help the Cofán develop an Amazon-based cuisine for their nascent ecotourism business, but I stayed after the chefs had left to experience life in a place where the river and rainforest are the core of one's home, highway and pantry. From hooking 4-inch minnows from a jungle stream, to netting 5-foot catfish with venomous spines in the Aguarico, it was amazing to participate in the ways that the Cofán depend on and interact with their rivers.
While here, I also got to learn first hand about the Cofán's longstanding fight to have their land rights recognized by the government and to fight off oil exploration. The fact that they have been relatively successful over the years has left them with some stunning expanses of primary forest and pristine river corridors, which house everything from pink river dolphins to harpy eagles.
Being hours from the nearest town and having no means to communicate with the outside world was also difficult from the outset, and I faced struggles with language barriers, constant bugs, and an insufferable parrot that lived in my host family's house and dropped putrid poops on the floor in front of me during every. single. meal.
Overall, it was the best start to my Watson I could have asked for-- emblematic of both the immense rewards and intense challenges I set out to have.
While here, I also got to learn first hand about the Cofán's longstanding fight to have their land rights recognized by the government and to fight off oil exploration. The fact that they have been relatively successful over the years has left them with some stunning expanses of primary forest and pristine river corridors, which house everything from pink river dolphins to harpy eagles.
Being hours from the nearest town and having no means to communicate with the outside world was also difficult from the outset, and I faced struggles with language barriers, constant bugs, and an insufferable parrot that lived in my host family's house and dropped putrid poops on the floor in front of me during every. single. meal.
Overall, it was the best start to my Watson I could have asked for-- emblematic of both the immense rewards and intense challenges I set out to have.
More from Zabalo
Around Quito
Ecuador
When I came back from the jungle and settled in Quito, I began working with a number of local organizations to see and understand the water and river issues around Ecuador's capital. Working with FONAG, I visited the alpine grasslands that act as a sponge and filter for much of Quito's drinking water and learned about the water fund that uses part of citizen's water bills to help preserve grassland areas and their natural ecosystem services. While working with Dr. Andrea Encalada and the aquatic ecology lab at University of San Fransisco, Quito, I traveled with them to field sites all over the andes and produced a video to help explain some of the ideas underlying their research.
More from around Quito
Tena
Napo Province, Ecuador
Tena sits at the gateway of the Ecuadorian amazon, where the steep gradient and high rainfall at the foot of the andes create a whitewater mecca. I came to kayak, have some fun, and see river life from a new angle, but what started as a one-week trip eventually blossomed into more than a month as I connected with local paddlers and activists. Through them I learned about the role that rafters and kayakers play as watchdogs against illegal mining and development along rivers. From the water I also saw the range and nuance of mining operations, from tiny "artisanal" gold panning, to the corporation-owned excavators tearing up the forest and riverbank for gold and construction materials. I also worked with the Ecuadorian Rivers Institute to take photos for a magazine article on the Piatua river, which had just been spared from a widely-opposed dam after the hydro company was caught bribing and blackmailing the presiding judges.
While I was in Tena, Ecuador was rocked with country-wide protests over a sudden repeal of gasoline subsidies, and several friends and I were stranded in a small mountain town for 4 days by a road block and spear-wielding locals. When the strike finally lifted, I got ready to head back to Quito, but not before paddling the famous Upper Jondachi, my first class 5 creek!
While I was in Tena, Ecuador was rocked with country-wide protests over a sudden repeal of gasoline subsidies, and several friends and I were stranded in a small mountain town for 4 days by a road block and spear-wielding locals. When the strike finally lifted, I got ready to head back to Quito, but not before paddling the famous Upper Jondachi, my first class 5 creek!
More from Tena
Iquitos
Loreto, Peru
Iquitos is the largest city in the Peruvian Amazon, and the largest in the world that is completely inaccessible by road. The streets are a chaotic tumult of rattling rickshaws, the air is thick with humidity and bugs, and much of the economic and cultural life revolves around the Amazon river. The most famous and spectacular attractions are the markets; crowded thrums of smells and colors which sprawl across entire neighborhoods and draw products from all over the Amazon. In a 10 minute stroll one can see roasted monkeys, live caimans, 200 pound paiche, tables stacked high with Ayahuasca and San Pedro, and more fish than you can fathom coming from a single river. As the markets wind down in the afternoon, tens of thousands of vultures descend upon every surface to scavenge the scraps.
Beyond witnessing this exotic river city firsthand, I had come to Iquitos to work with a few local NGOs, but it took weeks of slow and halting progress to finally make things happen. This ended up being a blessing in disguise, because it left me with almost a month to eat my bodyweight in mangoes and slowly fall in love with this unusual place.
Beyond witnessing this exotic river city firsthand, I had come to Iquitos to work with a few local NGOs, but it took weeks of slow and halting progress to finally make things happen. This ended up being a blessing in disguise, because it left me with almost a month to eat my bodyweight in mangoes and slowly fall in love with this unusual place.
More from Iquitos
Nauta and Nanay
Loreto, Peru
In my last week in the Amazon, my plans with local organizations finally came together and I joined two trips to remote communities along the Marañon and Alto Nanay rivers. The first of these, with the Wildlife Conservation Society and local guides with Radio Ucamara, was to collect photos and video interviews to accompany a cultural map they were making of the Ukama people's oral history around the Marañon. These trips were an amazing look into an entirely different worldview, one that both relates to the natural world with respect and personhood, and has come to incorporate chilling reminders of trauma at the hands of rubber barons and other western incursions.
On the second trip, I joined employees from regional government's environmental agency and the NGO Nature and Culture in the Alto Nanay Protected Area, where teams of local residents partner with the government to act as vigilantes against illegal mining and logging. The purpose of this trip was to help elect new leadership for the park guardians, as well as give presentations about illegal mining and teach GPS geotagging techniques to the vigilantes. On this trip we also witnessed the police seizure of an illegal mining dredge, which was lauded by some locals and infuriated others who been profiting from selling the miners gas and supplies. This trip really highlighted the complexity of conservation in these areas where people's livelihoods are often directly linked to natural resource extraction. I was also struck by how important science communication can be for getting people to understand the need for conservations measures, as was the case with explaining how mercury from illegal gold mining bio-accumulates in the fish that people here survive on.
On the second trip, I joined employees from regional government's environmental agency and the NGO Nature and Culture in the Alto Nanay Protected Area, where teams of local residents partner with the government to act as vigilantes against illegal mining and logging. The purpose of this trip was to help elect new leadership for the park guardians, as well as give presentations about illegal mining and teach GPS geotagging techniques to the vigilantes. On this trip we also witnessed the police seizure of an illegal mining dredge, which was lauded by some locals and infuriated others who been profiting from selling the miners gas and supplies. This trip really highlighted the complexity of conservation in these areas where people's livelihoods are often directly linked to natural resource extraction. I was also struck by how important science communication can be for getting people to understand the need for conservations measures, as was the case with explaining how mercury from illegal gold mining bio-accumulates in the fish that people here survive on.
More from Nauta and Nanay
Around Arequipa
Southern Peru
I came to Arequipa to meet my partner, Maddie, over thanksgiving. Together we explored the nearby Colca Canyon (the second deepest in the world!). I stayed in the region for about a month after she left to take a Spanish class (who knew not paying attention to the subjunctive in high school would come back to haunt me?) and then hike to the source of the Amazon River, which springs from the mountainside of Nevado Mismi at more than 17,300 feet of elevation (which was a hell of a climb even for a Colorado boy.)
Upon re-emerging from the backcountry, I was devastated to learn that one of my greatest mentors, Professor Jonathan Wright at Pomona, had died of a heart attack. It is hard to overstate how influential Professor Wright was in my inspiration and ability to pursue the Watson- he truly changed the way I see the world.
I hope this project does him proud.
Upon re-emerging from the backcountry, I was devastated to learn that one of my greatest mentors, Professor Jonathan Wright at Pomona, had died of a heart attack. It is hard to overstate how influential Professor Wright was in my inspiration and ability to pursue the Watson- he truly changed the way I see the world.
I hope this project does him proud.
More from around Arequipa
The Sacred Valley
Cusco, Peru
The spine of the ancient Inca Empire, from Cusco to Machu Picchu, runs along the Urubamba River Valley and contains some of South America's most impressive cultural and historical sites. I came here for some much-needed family time over the holidays and a chance to see some of the tourist track I had been avoiding. And anyway, can you even say you've been a tourist in Peru if you don't take a llama selfie in front of Machu Picchu?
More from The Sacred Valley
Traveling The Amazon
Peru and Brazil
As I grew ready to wrap up my time in South America and head on to new chapters of my Watson, I decided to finish my exploration of The Amazon by traveling along the length of the river by boat, from the Andes of Peru to the Atlantic in Brazil.
I made the 2,570-mile journey In several stages over the course of about 3 weeks. I started with an overnight speed boat from Yurimaguas at the foot of the Peruvian Andes back to Nauta, where I had been during my work with the Kukama. While there, I worked with Radio Ucamara and Wildlife Conservation Society again to help finish the Story Map I had started months ago. Then I carried on to Iquitos and caught the ferry down to the triple boarder, where Brazil, Colombia, and Peru all meet around the Amazon (or Rio Solimões, as it's called in Brazil). From Tabatinga, Brazil I paid for a hammock spot on a 4-day cargo boat to Manaus, where the massive Rio Negro (itself the 7th largest river in the world) joins and nearly doubles the size of the river. After a few days in Manaus, I took another 5-day cargo boat trip to the Atlantic port city of Belém.
The whole thing was an amazing look into how people and goods use the river as a major transport thoroughfare, and I finally got to fulfill a childhood dream of seeing the Amazon get so wide that the other bank is lost behind the curvature of the earth!
I made the 2,570-mile journey In several stages over the course of about 3 weeks. I started with an overnight speed boat from Yurimaguas at the foot of the Peruvian Andes back to Nauta, where I had been during my work with the Kukama. While there, I worked with Radio Ucamara and Wildlife Conservation Society again to help finish the Story Map I had started months ago. Then I carried on to Iquitos and caught the ferry down to the triple boarder, where Brazil, Colombia, and Peru all meet around the Amazon (or Rio Solimões, as it's called in Brazil). From Tabatinga, Brazil I paid for a hammock spot on a 4-day cargo boat to Manaus, where the massive Rio Negro (itself the 7th largest river in the world) joins and nearly doubles the size of the river. After a few days in Manaus, I took another 5-day cargo boat trip to the Atlantic port city of Belém.
The whole thing was an amazing look into how people and goods use the river as a major transport thoroughfare, and I finally got to fulfill a childhood dream of seeing the Amazon get so wide that the other bank is lost behind the curvature of the earth!
More from traveling the Amazon
India
Jaipur, Jodhpur, and Delhi
7 months to the day after arriving in south America, I flew out of Rio de Janeiro for New Delhi. I was finally feeling done with the Amazon and ready to move on to the next stage: exploring the rivers that drain the Himalayas in South Asia.
My plan was to head to India for a much-anticipated conference called WILD 11, which was to focus on all manner of subjects in sustainability, environmental advocacy, and conservation. I would also be attending a pre-conference seminar on management and advocacy for wild and scenic rivers, as well as a mid-conference workshop on conservation photography led by world-famous wildlife and indigenous rights activist Cristina Mittermeier. I was rather excited.
But before the conference I met up with my partner Maddie, who studied abroad in Jaipur, to adventure around a little and see some of the beautiful cities in Rajasthan. From the outset of our trip, news updates about the new coronavirus were getting more and more alarming by the hour, and 2 days in I got the email that WILD 11, like so many events around the world, had been cancelled.
I had been counting on the conference to give me the connections and leads for my next steps in Asia, so with that off the table I was suddenly adrift. I was unsure what my next steps would be, or whether I even wanted to stay in Asia as the crisis seemed to be taking over and causing a rising sense of panic everywhere we went. In the course of a single day we watched public spaces and tourist attractions go from relatively normal to a state of high-alert, with everyone in masks and forced "scans" for verifying that tourists weren't from an affected region.
With no clear path forward and much uncertainty about how bad things were about to get, I decided to do something I never thought I would do this year. After less than 10 days in India, I cut short the next big chapter of my Watson, and headed home.
My plan was to head to India for a much-anticipated conference called WILD 11, which was to focus on all manner of subjects in sustainability, environmental advocacy, and conservation. I would also be attending a pre-conference seminar on management and advocacy for wild and scenic rivers, as well as a mid-conference workshop on conservation photography led by world-famous wildlife and indigenous rights activist Cristina Mittermeier. I was rather excited.
But before the conference I met up with my partner Maddie, who studied abroad in Jaipur, to adventure around a little and see some of the beautiful cities in Rajasthan. From the outset of our trip, news updates about the new coronavirus were getting more and more alarming by the hour, and 2 days in I got the email that WILD 11, like so many events around the world, had been cancelled.
I had been counting on the conference to give me the connections and leads for my next steps in Asia, so with that off the table I was suddenly adrift. I was unsure what my next steps would be, or whether I even wanted to stay in Asia as the crisis seemed to be taking over and causing a rising sense of panic everywhere we went. In the course of a single day we watched public spaces and tourist attractions go from relatively normal to a state of high-alert, with everyone in masks and forced "scans" for verifying that tourists weren't from an affected region.
With no clear path forward and much uncertainty about how bad things were about to get, I decided to do something I never thought I would do this year. After less than 10 days in India, I cut short the next big chapter of my Watson, and headed home.
More from India
~Intermission~
We interrupt this program for an unexpected global catastrophe
Home for the Pandemic
USA
When I left the U.S. in July 2019 I could never have imagined that just 7 months later I would be back home, watching the world around me grind to an unprecedented halt. I weathered the uncertain first days of the pandemic with my family in Denver, grateful to be so safe and supported but slowly losing hope that I would be able to resume my travels in a week, or a month, or even a year. The Watson foundation said we could save our remaining grant money to resume our project when we saw fit, so I set about figuring out who I was without my identity as a Watson Fellow. Losing something that had so completely defined me for months left me unmoored and uncertain, but I slowly began to build a life for myself in the U.S.
I moved in with Maddie in California, settled down in Half Moon Bay, got engaged (!!), and started working at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. In the meantime I published my first article, produced a StoryMap about water in the Rockies, and did a project on the Story of Sand. You can see the rest of what I got up to on my Instagram.
Finally, in October 2021 I had a break between positions and the world was slowly opening back up again, so I had a chance to resume my travels with a brand new focus: The Colorado River.
I moved in with Maddie in California, settled down in Half Moon Bay, got engaged (!!), and started working at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. In the meantime I published my first article, produced a StoryMap about water in the Rockies, and did a project on the Story of Sand. You can see the rest of what I got up to on my Instagram.
Finally, in October 2021 I had a break between positions and the world was slowly opening back up again, so I had a chance to resume my travels with a brand new focus: The Colorado River.
More from the US: Hiking, rafting, and exploring the Bay Area
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When I first started my Watson Fellowship, I expected that the Colorado River would be the coolest place that I wouldn't get to go. The no-return rule that barred U.S. travel forced me to largely exclude the Colorado river from my plans, despite the fact that it, more than any other, has embodied the import and intrigue of river systems throughout my life.
Growing up in Denver, I drank Colorado River water from my tap every day, piped over the Rockies to feed the growing population of the Front Range. I learned about the Colorado River compact in school, took a 6th grade field trip to Lake Powell, and frequently overheard my mom talk about Colorado River water rights at work. When I was 14, the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon was my first major kayaking accomplishment. So it was a silver lining of the pandemic to be able to bring my Watson Project home with me and turn my attention to my native river. As luck would have it, the waning of the pandemic coincided with an unprecedented drought in the Colorado River Basin that had thrown water scarcity in the American West into high relief. It was a perfect chance to follow the Colorado along its length and see for myself how the country's hardest-working river was struggling under its load. |
The Colorado is neither the biggest nor the longest river in the American West, nor, except for certain sections described in nineteenth-century journals as 'awful' or 'appalling,' is it the most scenic. Its impressiveness and importance have to do with other things. It is one of the siltiest rivers in the world—the virgin Colorado could carry sediment loads close to those of the much larger Mississippi—and one of the wildest. Its drop of nearly thirteen thousand feet is unequaled in North America, and its constipation-relieving rapids, before dams tamed its flash floods, could have flipped a small freighter. - Marc Reisner, Cadillac Desert
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The Headwaters
Colorado & Utah
The Colorado River starts on the western flank of the Rocky Mountains, and what happens here affects everything that occurs downstream. I came to Colorado to check out some of the issues that affect these mountain tributaries, with a special emphasis on Ranching, Beavers, and Fire.
My first stops followed in the footprints of my internship from 2020, where I worked with the Berkeley Lab Watershed Function research group to tell the story of the Colorado River tributaries near Crested Butte. I started out in Glenwood Canyon, where the 2020 Grizzly Creek Fire scorched the banks of the Colorado and its tributaries, leading to a series of landslides that have imperiled infrastructure and water sources for nearby towns. Similar stories have played out throughout the Rockies, including in Grand Lake, where Colorado River water is pumped over to Denver. I think this link between fire and water quality forms a good model of how river systems tie together seemingly disparate systems.
In the Rockies I was also interested in Beaver Dam Analogs: man-made beaver dams designed to mimic the crucial functions that beavers once played in mountain watersheds, and coax real beavers back. I connected with Ashley Hom of the US Forest Service who showed me around an area of the Taylor River where BDAs have been installed, and the difference was incredible to see. Compared to beaver-less meadows, where the streams have incised into narrow channels and the water table has dropped with them, the BDAs quickly turn valleys into lush complexes, with water spilling into dozens of channels and pools and forming countless varied niches for fish, birds, and plants. I'm excited to see how beavers and BDAs play out in the future of mountain watershed management. Check out the StoryMap I made about BDAs here.
From Colorado I followed the river downstream to Moab, and spent several days exploring the landscapes and industry that support this recreation mecca in the desert, from the sandstone fins of Arches to the sculpted Canyonlands to potash mines and uranium mill sites.
My first stops followed in the footprints of my internship from 2020, where I worked with the Berkeley Lab Watershed Function research group to tell the story of the Colorado River tributaries near Crested Butte. I started out in Glenwood Canyon, where the 2020 Grizzly Creek Fire scorched the banks of the Colorado and its tributaries, leading to a series of landslides that have imperiled infrastructure and water sources for nearby towns. Similar stories have played out throughout the Rockies, including in Grand Lake, where Colorado River water is pumped over to Denver. I think this link between fire and water quality forms a good model of how river systems tie together seemingly disparate systems.
In the Rockies I was also interested in Beaver Dam Analogs: man-made beaver dams designed to mimic the crucial functions that beavers once played in mountain watersheds, and coax real beavers back. I connected with Ashley Hom of the US Forest Service who showed me around an area of the Taylor River where BDAs have been installed, and the difference was incredible to see. Compared to beaver-less meadows, where the streams have incised into narrow channels and the water table has dropped with them, the BDAs quickly turn valleys into lush complexes, with water spilling into dozens of channels and pools and forming countless varied niches for fish, birds, and plants. I'm excited to see how beavers and BDAs play out in the future of mountain watershed management. Check out the StoryMap I made about BDAs here.
From Colorado I followed the river downstream to Moab, and spent several days exploring the landscapes and industry that support this recreation mecca in the desert, from the sandstone fins of Arches to the sculpted Canyonlands to potash mines and uranium mill sites.
More from the Colorado
Arizona & Nevada
Page, North Rim, Las Vegas, Lake Havasu City
After Moab, the rest of the river was calling my name. I continued on to Lake Powell, the biggest reservoir on the river and the collection point for the water that upper basin states owe to those downstream. I settled in Page, Arizona, a town formed as the work camp for the Glen Canyon Dam which now serves as the central hub for the ~1 million visitors that ply the lake by houseboat, jet ski, and kayak each year. This year, however, these tourists have been scraping by on a much-depleted lake. In October 2021, lake Powell hit its lowest recorded level since it first started to fill in the 1960s. I wanted to see some of the landscape that had been uncovered as the lake receded — ground that hadn't been exposed for a half century since the dam was built.
What I found (and repeatedly sunk up to my thighs into) were massive mudflats formed by the silt and clay that muddy desert rivers had deposited in the lake, now desiccating in the sun. I walked up once-submerged slot canyons and saw how the recent rains had already begun to carve away the lake sediments that had been deposited within them. Everywhere around the lake I saw remnants of how things used to be— the 150 foot-tall bathtub ring that stained the rocks at the high water mark, the boat ramps whose ends dangled uselessly 50 feet above the water, the pavilions and picnic tables that now sat desolate more than a mile from the water's edge. Once-sprawling marinas had been crowded into thin channels above underwater canyons where the boats could still pass without running aground.
It was also here that I started toying with casual science explainer videos on my iInstagram stories, and was delighted to find that they were immediately a hit. I decided this would be my main project for the rest of my trip, and set about documenting and explaining all of the interesting science stories around the lake.
From lake Powell I followed the river into the Grand Canyon, where I hiked from the north rim more than a vertical mile above it down through 500 million years of geologic time, then rendezvoused with the river again outside of Las Vegas, on the shores of Lake Mead. After some hard-core geology nerding in the Valley of Fire, I drove out to the middle of nowhere to find the Central Arizona Project, a massive and improbable aqueduct that uses 4% of Arizona's total power budget to carry Colorado River water across 330 miles of desert and 2900 feet of elevation to population centers like Tucson.
What I found (and repeatedly sunk up to my thighs into) were massive mudflats formed by the silt and clay that muddy desert rivers had deposited in the lake, now desiccating in the sun. I walked up once-submerged slot canyons and saw how the recent rains had already begun to carve away the lake sediments that had been deposited within them. Everywhere around the lake I saw remnants of how things used to be— the 150 foot-tall bathtub ring that stained the rocks at the high water mark, the boat ramps whose ends dangled uselessly 50 feet above the water, the pavilions and picnic tables that now sat desolate more than a mile from the water's edge. Once-sprawling marinas had been crowded into thin channels above underwater canyons where the boats could still pass without running aground.
It was also here that I started toying with casual science explainer videos on my iInstagram stories, and was delighted to find that they were immediately a hit. I decided this would be my main project for the rest of my trip, and set about documenting and explaining all of the interesting science stories around the lake.
From lake Powell I followed the river into the Grand Canyon, where I hiked from the north rim more than a vertical mile above it down through 500 million years of geologic time, then rendezvoused with the river again outside of Las Vegas, on the shores of Lake Mead. After some hard-core geology nerding in the Valley of Fire, I drove out to the middle of nowhere to find the Central Arizona Project, a massive and improbable aqueduct that uses 4% of Arizona's total power budget to carry Colorado River water across 330 miles of desert and 2900 feet of elevation to population centers like Tucson.
More from Arizona and Nevada
California
Imperial Valley, Salton Sea, Owens Valley
Near the Mexican border I crossed into California and headed west to the Imperial Valley. Although this area is no longer in the river's course, it owes its entire existence to the water and sediments of the Colorado. Virtually every American is impacted by the Imperial Valley whether they know it or not; some 80% of the country's winter produce and vegetables come from its perpetually sunny farms. I wanted to see this epitome of irrigated desert agriculture in action, and check out one of the its most interesting and dramatic casualties: the Salton Sea.
The Salton Sea is one of the most unusual and improbable bodies of water in the country. It was formed via catastrophic accident in 1905, when an irrigation ditch allowed the Colorado river to jump its banks and flow uncontrolled into the nearby "Salton Sink"— a tectonic rift valley more than 250 feet below sea level. When the flood waters were finally quelled, California had gained a new lake, larger than Lake Tahoe and improbably placed in one of the hottest places in the country. With no natural inflows, the lake was fed only by agricultural runoff from the Imperial Valley, so the lake began to accumulate agricultural chemicals and grow increasingly salty as its water evaporated faster than it was added. Paradoxically, efforts to conserve water and switch to efficient irrigation methods in the Imperial Valley have only hastened its ecological collapse by further reducing inflows. These days, the lake has a reputation for putrid smells, massive fish and bird die-offs, and thousands or acres of exposed lake bed that coat surrounding communities in toxic dust when the wind blows.
I wanted to visit the Salton Sea to see all these problems for myself, but also to check out some of the hope and solutions that are cropping up in the face of the Sea's seemingly unsolvable problem. Conservationists and state officials have implemented creative measures ranging from plowed furrows to reduce wind speed to dams and levees that divert inflows into artificial wetlands before they are contaminated by the sea. Meanwhile, the geothermal plants that line the southern shore have begun extracting lithium from the brine they pump up from thousands of feet underground, proving that this area may hold the key to a domestic source of lithium for America's booming battery needs. Although both of these are potential paths forward, they are already butting heads; lithium extraction operations may displace what fragile wetlands still exist along the shores, and an influx of money, people, and industry could either stimulate or displace local communities. All in all, the area is fascinating to me as an interesting example of how humanity might adapt to the locked-in years of climate crisis ahead, with innovations, competing interests, and unexpected developments playing out around the edges of an environmental disaster.
The Salton Sea is one of the most unusual and improbable bodies of water in the country. It was formed via catastrophic accident in 1905, when an irrigation ditch allowed the Colorado river to jump its banks and flow uncontrolled into the nearby "Salton Sink"— a tectonic rift valley more than 250 feet below sea level. When the flood waters were finally quelled, California had gained a new lake, larger than Lake Tahoe and improbably placed in one of the hottest places in the country. With no natural inflows, the lake was fed only by agricultural runoff from the Imperial Valley, so the lake began to accumulate agricultural chemicals and grow increasingly salty as its water evaporated faster than it was added. Paradoxically, efforts to conserve water and switch to efficient irrigation methods in the Imperial Valley have only hastened its ecological collapse by further reducing inflows. These days, the lake has a reputation for putrid smells, massive fish and bird die-offs, and thousands or acres of exposed lake bed that coat surrounding communities in toxic dust when the wind blows.
I wanted to visit the Salton Sea to see all these problems for myself, but also to check out some of the hope and solutions that are cropping up in the face of the Sea's seemingly unsolvable problem. Conservationists and state officials have implemented creative measures ranging from plowed furrows to reduce wind speed to dams and levees that divert inflows into artificial wetlands before they are contaminated by the sea. Meanwhile, the geothermal plants that line the southern shore have begun extracting lithium from the brine they pump up from thousands of feet underground, proving that this area may hold the key to a domestic source of lithium for America's booming battery needs. Although both of these are potential paths forward, they are already butting heads; lithium extraction operations may displace what fragile wetlands still exist along the shores, and an influx of money, people, and industry could either stimulate or displace local communities. All in all, the area is fascinating to me as an interesting example of how humanity might adapt to the locked-in years of climate crisis ahead, with innovations, competing interests, and unexpected developments playing out around the edges of an environmental disaster.
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What I'm up to now
After almost a month on the road, I returned home to San Francisco in November 2021 and resumed my work at Berkeley Lab. Somewhere down the line, I'm still hoping to go back out for a third leg of my Watson around some of the international rivers that I'm still eager to explore. In the meantime, don't hesitate to reach out if you have any questions, ideas, or proposals! You can keep up with my work on instagram, my blog, or my newsletter.