NPR7096669444

Carvana makes car selling easy. Michael Frank, a tribal elder with the Miccosukee tribe, reminisces about the Everglades where he grew up. The Everglades has been greatly impacted by development, with only a fifth of the wilderness remaining. The podcast explores the decades-long fight to save the Everglades and the comprehensive restoration plan, SERP, approved by Congress in 2000. The plan aims to reconnect the fragmented Everglades but has faced challenges and delays. The Everglades is divided by levees, canals, and infrastructure, leading to water storage issues and environmental degradation. Florida Bay in the Upper Keys is experiencing water scarcity, impacting fishing and the ecosystem. Climate change exacerbates these issues. Restoration efforts have been costly and time-consuming, but the Everglades is still in trouble. The podcast will delve into the reasons behind the challenges faced in restoring the Everglades, including competing interests and a lack of land, freshwater, This message comes from Carvana. Carvana makes car selling easy. Enter your license plate or VIN, answer some questions, and Carvana will give you a real offer in seconds. Whether you're looking to sell your car right now or whenever feels right, go to Carvana.com to sell your car the convenient way. As a boy, Michael Frank lived on a tree island surrounded by miles of sawgrass and the Everglades. Islands like his once dotted the vast shallow river of grass that spilled over the banks of Lake Okeechobee and flowed south towards the place where we're walking, across the sawgrass marshes and south to the tip of Florida. The marshes formed a bowl between the coastal ridge along South Florida's East Coast and the cypress and mangrove swamps to the west before dumping into the Gulf of Mexico and Florida Bay. If you see a rough spot, there's a hole. In the long rock. Frank is showing me how to find water in the dry season by digging a hole. It's kind of like a well. What you do, you go ahead and make your hole. Put the mud on the side just so you know where it is. It is different. And during the dry season, the only way you can get water is through that hole. And not only you, the rest of the animals, we can't go through that hole. So you want to go further or are you? Yeah, yeah. My knees are gone. That's why I got to walk steadily. Frank's an old man now. He's a tribal elder with the Miccosukee tribe. And the world he grew up in is mostly gone. The sprawling river was dammed up to make way for farms and a booming real estate market. This part of the Everglades is just a sliver of the tribe's ancestral homelands, making up the 75,000 acre Alligator Alley reservation here in the center of the Everglades. The tribe has a special name for it. Go ahead and let me. Go ahead and let me. I'll brighten your face. It's like shining up. Look at that. Look at it. It's shining the water from the sun. Hey, admit me. Say, hey, admit me. It's like it's lit up. You're listening to Bright Lit Place, a podcast from WLRN News distributed by the NPR Network with support from the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting. Over the next six episodes, we'll retrace the decades long fight over land, water and the willpower to save what's left of this watery wilderness. We need to change and keep doing the same thing year after year after year. Historically, the Everglades covered nearly 4000 square miles, a river of grass 100 miles long and 40 miles across. Now only a fifth of that wilderness is left. The rest has been carved into pieces to provide a massive system for water supply and flood control. That infrastructure paves the way for modern South Florida. It's also what's now killing the Everglades. Too much water gets stored in some places. Other parts are dying of thirst. We have water where they turn, where the animals and the birds. But. Development. For what more land people are more anxious for years to come. They're thirst first. With climate change making natural events like hurricanes and wildfires worse, we now know that getting our natural systems like the Everglades to work again is more important than ever. But reversing the damage in the Everglades has been an absolute We're going to focus on the biggest effort yet, a sprawling comprehensive Everglades restoration plan approved by Congress in 2000. It's often called SERP. The plan is like a giant puzzle, trying to reconnect the pieces of the Everglades now that they've been destroyed. It's not a simple task. It's not a simple task. It's not a simple task. It's not a simple task. It's not a simple task. It's not a simple task. The Everglades, now divided by levees and canals and farms and cities. Originally, it was expected to cost just under $8 billion, split between the U.S. government and Florida. At the end of 20 years, more than 60 projects were supposed to save the wilderness. It could have also given Florida a head start on fighting climate change. But that's not what happened. Growing up, Frank's family lived on a tree island called Highland. And when one of my grandfather's friends told him, hey, there's an island over here where nobody ever lived. It's a lot of trees and it's high, and when the water's high, it never goes underwater. So that's when we moved from Custodopal all the way to that island. And that's where I was born, and most of our brothers and sisters The Everglades was where the tribe lived and sought refuge during multiple wars. There were more of the tree islands then, and they were bigger. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins all lived in airy chickies and farmed corn or raised pigs. But these days, the islands that are left are smaller. That's because the bright lit place now sits in an area that's regularly flooded and hemmed in by levees. It's used to hold the water that replenishes South Florida's drinking water aquifer and to keep the coast from flooding. Instead of a wide river of grass flowing across ridges and sloughs like corrugated cardboard, the water gets squeezed into canals and compartments where it can remain unnaturally high. My island's always about a foot underwater every year. But during the heavy hurricane season, it's about two feet underwater every year. All the big trees, the reason why we went to the island, because those big trees, they don't exist no more. They're all dead. All dead. Frank's literally watching his homeland wash away. My way of life, living in the Everglades, it's gone. It's beautiful, but it's just a skeleton compared to what it used to be. Everglades, Florida Oh, wow, nice route. Don't cast yet. Oh, fish on! Put it back out. Just cast it back out. About 60 miles away, the opposite is happening in Florida Bay and the Upper Keys. Instead of too much water, the southern tip of the Everglades is getting too little. The Everglades Put it back out. Just cast it back out. We're in Florida Bay with fishing guide Tim Klein. So it's just an ugly cycle, you know, and we desperately need more consistent water. This is where Tim Klein grew up, on a necklace of islands hanging off South Florida, surrounded by some of the best fishing flats in the world. Acres of seagrass meadows carved up by channels are inhabited by bonefish, tarpon, and permit, the holy trinity of saltwater fly fishing. Here's on the flats made Klein one of the best guides in the Keys or anywhere. But here, too little freshwater is reaching the bay. It now gets about half of what it received a century ago. That means in the dry season, the ocean can get too salty. That damages seagrass and drives away fish. And that is killing Klein's way of life. You know, like the most famous bonefish spots in our backyards is what we call downtown, Shell Key, Ligden Bitey. The grass on those flats are, you know, like 70% of the grass is gone. And that's where, you know, the bonefish fed and stuff. The thing that we've lost, you know, starting, you know, 10, 12 years ago is our big bonefish. These days, the champion flats guide spends more of his time leading eco-tours. You take a short ride, and then you enter into Everglades National Park. You just go into this heaven in my eyes. I've got all new clientele now. I've been doing this for, what, 38 years now. And the people I've fished in the past are just not here anymore, you know. Restoration promised to deliver enough fresh water to help revive the seagrass meadows where bonefish use their tough snouts to hunt for shrimp and crab. It still might, but all the while, Florida keeps growing with more housing sprouting up along the Everglades' borders. Climate change driving up sea levels and creating hotter conditions just compounds the stress. The quandary here isn't so different from other parts of the country where we're trying to undo the damage from turning nature into infrastructure without considering the consequences. The Colorado River is drying up as demand explodes in fast-growing western states. Building neighborhoods in fire country while trying to put out every single fire has left forests too dense and vulnerable to blowing up in hotter conditions. And channeling the Mississippi River for flood control has robbed the Louisiana coastline of the sediment that once kept it intact against waves. Instead, sea-level rise is eating it away. For Clarence and those of us who grew up in South Florida, restoration has always been kind of a white noise in the background. It promises to restore America's Everglades and Florida Bay and reduce the algae-causing disturbance. We've already spent $8 billion on Everglades restoration, but three decades after that plan was first conceived, it's now expected to cost three times more and take up to 50 years to finish, not 20. And the Everglades is still in trouble. In this podcast, we're going to try to figure out why. Wrangling competing interests to fix the Everglades The Everglades has taken a scrum of government agencies, generations of politicians, and piles of plans. Things have changed a lot since the comprehensive plan was passed, but the Everglades has never gotten enough of the three things it needs most. Land, freshwater, and willpower. My name is Thomas Van Lent, and I'm a retired hydrologist. Van Lent has been working on restoration both for the government and environmental groups since the 1980s, modeling how water should flow to restore parts of the ecosystem. The formula for restoration isn't hard from the ecological perspective. It's putting it back. It's only hard if you have to maintain all these other things, and you can't affect anybody, and you can't have any other consequence. That's hard. When he first started working for the South Florida Water Management District, Van Lent used to take these long solo paddling trips around the 10,000 islands. That's the maze of small islands where the Everglades meets the Gulf of Mexico. They were once a magnet for plume hunters and then pot smugglers in the 70s. He'd paddle sometimes up to nine days. It was a way to connect with what he was trying to model on his computer. There are things you, if you go out there a lot for year after year, you do start to notice, and it is things like bonefish. That whole sweep of North Cape was black mangroves, and now it's eroded. The dunes have moved way in. Yeah, it's both beautiful and alarming at the same time. And fixes are now harder because of climate change. Hurricanes have risen a half foot in Biscayne Bay since Florida first started trying to reconnect the Everglades, so canals have to be kept higher to stop saltwater seeping further inland and threatening to contaminate freshwater aquifers. Hurricanes are worse. Over the last three decades, nine major hurricanes have hit Florida. Only four had crossed the state in the same period before that. Nutrient pollution in Lake Okeechobee from farms and neighborhoods is also as high as ever. During the rainy season, the lake often drains that pollution to the St. Lucie and Caloosahatchee estuaries, adding to dirty water already piling up on the crowded coast. Every spring, those communities now brace for toxic algae blooms. Below the lake, stormwater treatment marshes were built after a court ordered the state to clean water. But they're maxed out cleaning pollution from sugar fields, so very little lake water gets cleaned and sent to the Everglades and Florida Bay during the dry season when climate needs it. There's a well-known saying about Everglades restoration, that it's a test, and if we pass, we get to save the planet. You know, there are kind of a million different ways that we are failing this test. Michael Grunwald wrote the book The Swamp, The Everglades, Florida, and The Politics of Paradise, a few years after the comprehensive Everglades plan was created. But as I kind of got deeper into the swamp and deeper into my obsession, I really started to see this as a moral test, as sort of a test of our ability to step back, to not always put human greed first, to do things that are uncomfortable for future generations. That's not to say there hasn't been progress, especially lately. Funding is at a record high. Republican Governor Ron DeSantis made restoration a centerpiece of his administration. Democratic President Joe Biden has spent more than any other president. But the compromises that planners say were necessary to make the plan possible, making sure farmers and utilities get their water, and growing cities and neighborhoods have flood control, have also left it crippled. You had to have something that the sugar industry and the rock mining industry and the development industry and every municipality in Florida and the states and the Republicans and the Democrats and also some of the environmentalists at least, could sign on to. And that's how they did it. Grunwald said the consensus helped clear the way for getting money approved in Congress and in Florida, but not getting restoration done. There hasn't been the kind of hammer that you've had on water quality where there's been a judge saying, no, the water is not clean, you have to make it clean. There's nobody and no way for somebody to say, no, the Everglades is not restored, you have to make it restored. You're listening to Bright Lit Plays, a podcast from WLRN News distributed by the NPR Network. I'm Jenny Stiletovich. Coming up, how the Army Corps' water management forced the Miccosukee out of their island homes. The tribe said, you're trying to give us land, which is less than the land you took away from us the last time you tried to give us land, and this isn't even land we want. That's next. This message comes from NPR Sponsor Comcast. Every day, thousands of Comcast engineers and technologists put people at the heart of everything they create, like Kunle, a Comcast engineer. With two teenage boys at home, Kunle thinks about the generation that he is building technology for. He says, if we don't do something about it, we're not going to do anything about it. He says, if we don't do something about it, Kunle thinks about the generation that he is building technology for. This continues to inspire him and his team to build a fast and reliable in-home Wi-Fi solution for millions of families like his, so everyone can work, learn, and play together under one roof. Learn more at ComcastCorporation.com. J.D. Vance and Tim Walz had their first and only debate on Tuesday. What happened? The NPR Politics Podcast has you covered with all the news and analysis from the vice presidential debate. The NPR Politics Podcast, wherever you get your podcasts. What's happening on NPR Podcasts? More neighborhoods and more perspectives. The more of the world that you hear, the more you hear the world as it really is. NPR Podcasts. More voices. All ears. Find NPR wherever you get your podcasts. The idea of filling a canal is just as strong as filling a canal. Amy Castaneda is the Water Resources Director for the Miccosukee Tribe. She's driving her four-wheel drive truck to a levee on the reservation that runs alongside that canal where we were walking earlier. It's now dumping pollution on tribal land. Head west into L28 Interceptor now. Drive down the triangle and come back up. You'll hear it. Welcome back. You're listening to Bright Lit Place, a podcast from WLR News distributed by the NPR Network. I'm Jenny Stiletovich. The Corps started dredging pieces of their big flood system in the 40s. The L28 and the Interceptor were carved into the Everglades 20 years later. The tribe's tree islands still go by names like Stinking Hammock, Gumtree, and Pigjaw, but now they're surrounded by canals, gates, and pumps with numbers and letters for names. All the canals and levees were meant to drain and control the Everglades. It's been a disaster for the Miccosukee, once essentially an island nation inhabiting the tree islands. They moved to islands that had big trees. Don't use that. That's a shelter. Put it on. Michael Frank, the tribal elder, sits in the truck's passenger seat. Since the 40s, high water has wiped out nearly half the Everglades tree islands. The biggest island of all, called Newtown, served as kind of a town square. This was one of the places Frank's family fled to 200 years ago to hide from the U.S. Army. Then the Army Corps sent their dredges to split Newtown in two. When he was little, Frank said everything the family needed could be found on the tree islands. Washed, cleaned. It was crystal clear. You could see all the way to the bottom. And you would see, sometimes even taupins, even fish that's in the bay, they would swim all the way. Yeah, we used a spear to get our fish, right? You see a big old taupin. Oh man, I'm going to have a big dinner. Boom. Your spear was gone. Anything that could migrate their way into the canals, they made it out into the Everglades because it was crystal clear. As South Florida grew, the Army Corps needed to keep the swampy Everglades from flooding neighborhoods along the Atlantic coast. My uncle said that they even, when they came here, went hunting, visited each other, there was no levee. The government's levees and canals gradually converted the Miccosukee Reservation into storage space. Frank says already many families had abandoned homes in the area. So everybody moved out. That's why when they came, they just cut about a third of it off from the original island. And there are islands out there in the Water Conservation Area 3 that the island is called Yadmuta'ale. Yadmuta'ale. Yadmuta'ale means this is the camp where the natives came and hid. Yadmuta'ale, the people who ran. With the water consistently flooding the islands, the family was forced to move to higher ground along the Tamami Trail, the cross-state highway completed in 1928 that created both a dam across the River of Grass and a new border for the tribe. Overnight, there's water here because the levees, the gates were closed and the water can't flow naturally. So that's how we got out of there because we're not a fisherman in dry ground. You walk around, but you have to put plank from chicken to chicken. Frank told me the government trucked in fill and built houses along the highway a few years later. Big houses, and they bought 50 feet, about what, maybe 70, 80 feet long houses, chickies, and homes. And my dad, my mom, and everybody, we couldn't move in because they had walls. Generations had perfected inhabiting the swamps. Learning to live with the mosquitoes and sweat was hard-earned. The chickies are a testament to that. So we just used the house as a storage room. You know what we did? We put chickies all surrounding that house, that beautiful new house, wooden house. We used maybe the bathroom every now and then, but mostly it was used for a storage room because they live in a house that's got walls. He says eventually, people put palmetto fawn thatch on the roofs to make them look like chickies and moved in. But when Frank talks about his home, he means the tree islands. Without the tree islands, Frank says there would be no Miccosukee. Back in 1949 or 48, when my grandfather and grandmother moved in, that's when they started working on the levees, 28th coming north. And when they were working on that, they told my grandfather and grandmother, if that day ever comes, if your island goes under water, we'll come and build up your camp. So they did. What, three or four feet under water? Yes. But they never came and built the camps up. Got it. That's Amy Castaneda, the Water Resources Director for the tribe. We're driving alongside a canal dredged to help drain farm fields north of the reservation. The Army Corps finished dredging the canals and levees across the water conservation areas in 1962, the same year the U.S. government formally recognized the Miccosukees as a sovereign nation. So should I turn around? Yes. Are you ready? Turn around. You've seen this side. You haven't seen the other side. You can't drive straight, but if you need a smaller road, you can go straight. You like them ditches. You like to go in. Now the canals carry runoff from sugarcane fields, pastures, and neighborhoods farther north, dumping pollution on the reservation. Before water can enter the conservation areas, it has to be nearly scrubbed clean of phosphorus. The limit is just 10 parts per billion, about 10 drops for every 500 barrels of water. The reason it has to be so low is because hardly any phosphorus exists naturally in the Everglades. It all comes from fertilizer. When you add it to the Everglades, phosphorus starts destroying the periphyton. Those are the brown, spongy mats floating all over the Everglades that hold algae and microbes and plant debris. They're the foundation of the Everglades food chain. After a while, the phosphorus also supercharges the growth of other plants that can clog and crowd out the sawgrass like cattails. For decades, the canals have acted like a toxic drip, fueling vegetation while choking and filling in parts of the reservation. It's more than a drip. It's like a faucet running 24-7. Frank asked how high the phosphorus levels are at the end of the canal, where Castaneda tests water flowing from the farm fields in the Everglades agricultural area. The levee is usually 80 to 100, but we have spikes where it's over 100. That's 8 to 10 times what it should be. Thinking hammock, another island where Frank's family once lived, is getting harder and harder to reach. And so in order for us to get there, we have to clear what James calls the trail every year. Without clearing that trail every year and using it, you wouldn't even know that there's a trail there. So that's why I was saying, this is a painting of the tribe. There's no access there unless you're physically going out there and mechanically removing the vegetation. There's now a plume fueling vegetation that covers nearly 5,000 acres. The tribe wants the Corps to fill in the canals to help deal with the pollution and rebuild some tree islands. It's better for the environment, but they want to control it all because of men. Men have more rights to the water and to the trees and everything than the animals, which is contrary. We have no rights. We have to live with nature and with the animals and the birds. But development. For what? More land, people want more access from here to there. That comes first. When Michael Frank said there would be no Miccosukee without the Everglades, it's because of the way the Swamp literally saved the tribe when the U.S. government was trying to wipe it out. In the 1700s, as European settlers tried to stake out territory, the Miccosukee were living in the Apalachicola River Valley in Georgia and Alabama and North Florida. The Miccosukee were kind of right smack in the spot that no Europeans controlled. Edward Ornstein is the tribe's attorney and a member of the Muscogee tribe in Alabama. As fighting ramped up between the British, the Spanish, and the French, the tribe moved further south and set up towns along the shores of Lake Miccosukee in Leon County. That's where Florida's state capitol is now located. They also had camps as far south as the Everglades. The folks who were living up at the Miccosukee travel time, which was on the banks of Lake Miccosukee in what is today Leon County, became a hot point for resistance to the newly formed United States. This would become a theme. Despite the U.S.'s repeated efforts to sign treaties and move them, the Miccosukee repeatedly fought to remain in that homeland. There was a great deal of coercion and a great deal of ambiguity about the use of force that was involved in those treaty negotiations leading to a great deal of duress. Even if the Miccosukee had signed, it wouldn't have mattered. The treaties were repeatedly broken. When the U.S. took control of Florida from Spain, it created a four million acre reservation in north and central Florida. But then it broke that treaty after it passed the brutal Indian Removal Act to send tribes west. In Florida, troops started rounding up people from the Miccosukee and Seminole tribes and putting them in concentration camps. While there were 13 or 14 vans that were going to be moved to Oklahoma, there were still three vans which were not. Despite being hugely outnumbered, they hid in the swamp and fought back. The fighting lasted for seven years before the U.S. gave up and agreed to give the Seminole and Miccosukees nearly all of southwest Florida. But that promise also wouldn't last. Congress refused to ratify the deal. Fighting broke out again and the Miccosukee and Seminole fled further into the swamp to tree islands protected by a sea of impenetrable sawgrass. As plans to drain the swamp got underway to make way for settlers and farms, Florida carved out another reservation in 1917 on 99,000 acres in what's now Everglades National Park. But that also wouldn't last. The tribe was again forced to move when planning started to create the park, this time to Broward County where the Seminole tribe now has its headquarters. If you're counting, this was the third time the U.S. government broke its promise and took the tribe's land. But again, one small group refused to leave, the Miccosukee. The tribe said, you're trying to give us land which is less than the land you took away from us the last time you tried to give us land. And this isn't even land we want. That included Michael Frank's family. They kept living on the tree islands and along the trail. Today, their islands look radically different. I'm with Curtis Asciola, an attorney and the chief of staff for the Miccosukee tribe. We're in a small airboat racing across the marshes over clumps of jagged sawgrass and around stands of cypress. You can see why the Miccosukee call it the Bright Place. We call it the Bright Place because of how open and clear the water is of how open and clear the water used to be, right? So there was no vegetation. The land around this island is very open. You don't see a lot of the high grass. There's a lot of low grass. The sun, when it comes up, you can see it in the east and then you can see it set in the west, right? And that was the point. The grass boats can travel in just a few inches of water and the marsh glitters as the boats send waves across the sawgrass. A crew from the tribal government was trying to reach one of the tree islands where Michael Frank grew up, Highland. First, I just want to show you some of the stuff we're seeing, right? Not only are the islands smaller, but many are getting overgrown with invasive species. Something like this. This shoot here. Kevin. Yeah, it's like a, I call it elephant grass. Kevin Donaldson oversees the tribe's land resources. And here, that's a pepper, yeah? On the right there. The William Pepper and elephant grass now grow like a wall around Pig Jaw and the next stop, Highland. That's Frank's family's island. Over the years, the tribe has repeatedly soothed over damaging water management practices in 1995, 2005, and 2008. The reason why Western Everglades restoration is so complex there because of all of those moving parts, all of those interests. The state agencies are managing the water. The Army Corps is trying to make a plan that's viable based on the geology. The private landholders want us to get off their lawn. The tribes, you know, just want their land to be used for their purposes, not for the purposes of storing and cleaning water. So, you know, all of these interests are colliding and it makes the planning process virtually impossible. The project to address problems on tribal lands and in the Western Everglades has been repeatedly delayed over the years. Planning restarted this year, so Osceola is trying to walk a careful line. It's like, okay, we have a problem. We're dealing with an environmental crisis. Who's got, like, come with solutions, you know? So we start finger pointing, we're just going to go all the way back to the colonization of America, all right? And that's not going to get us anywhere. Fewer and smaller tree islands also mean there's less space for the deer, hogs, raccoons, and other animals out here. During winter months when water is lower, that also means they're on the move more, like the day we were out there. Huh? You're a little cautious. I didn't put eyes on it. I'm 90 percent sure there's a bear in the wood line over here. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. 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