It’s midmorning in late February, and Bruce Smith is regaling two ice fishing buddies when a tug on his line interrupts the story.

“There we go!” he shouts as a shimmering 23-inch whitefish appears through a hole in the ice. “That’ll make a nice filet.”

No sooner has Smith tossed it into a cooler than his buddy Terry Gross reels in another one. Five minutes later came another bite, then another, until by 10:30 a.m. the trio had hauled in 15 fish — halfway to their daily limit, even after putting several back. 

Welcome to southern Green Bay. Or as Smith likes to call it, “Whitefish Town, USA.”

Once written off as too polluted to support many whitefish, the shallow, narrow bay in northwest Lake Michigan has produced an unlikely population boom in recent years, even as the iconic species vanishes from most of the lower Great Lakes. The collapse has dealt a blow to Michigan’s environment, culture, economy and dinner plates.

Oddly enough, nutrient pollution from farms and factories may help bolster the bay’s whitefish population, spawning a world-class recreational fishing scene while helping a handful of commercial fisheries in Michigan and Wisconsin stay afloat despite the collapse in the wider lake.

“This is a paradise,” Smith said. “The best fishing I can ever remember, for the species I want to catch.”

As scientists work to understand what makes Green Bay unique, their findings could aid whitefish recovery efforts throughout the Great Lakes. Michigan biologists, for example, have drawn inspiration from Green Bay’s sheltered, nutrient-rich waters as they attempt to transplant the state’s whitefish into areas with similar characteristics.

“Having places they (whitefish) are doing well … gives us context for the places that they aren’t doing well,” said Matt Herbert, a senior conservation scientist with the Nature Conservancy in Michigan. “It helps us to figure out, how can we intervene?”

But lately, sophisticated population models have shown fewer baby fish making their way into the Green Bay population, prompting worries that Lake Michigan’s last whitefish stronghold may be weakening.

A Great Lakes miracle

Not long ago, it seemed impossible that a fishery like this could ever exist in Green Bay.

Before the Clean Water Act of 1972 and subsequent cleanup efforts, paper mills along the lower Fox River — the bay’s largest tributary — dumped toxic polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) into the water without restraint while silty, fertilizer-soaked runoff poured off upstream farms.

Southern Green Bay was no place for “a self-respecting whitefish,” said Scott Hansen, senior fisheries biologist with the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.

Lake Michigan’s much larger main basin, meanwhile, was full of them. 

Commercial fisherman Todd Stuth’s business got 80% of its catch from the open waters of Lake Michigan before the turn of the millenium. Now, 90% comes from Green Bay.

How did things change so dramatically?

First, invasive filter-feeding zebra and quagga mussels arrived in the Great Lakes from Eastern Europe and multiplied over decades, eventually monopolizing the nutrients and plankton that fish need to survive. Whitefish populations in lakes Michigan and Huron have tanked as a result.

Fortunately for Wisconsin and a sliver of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, Hansen said, “Southern Green Bay kept building.”

In the late 1990s, scientists began spotting the fish in Green Bay area rivers where they hadn’t been seen in a century. Soon the species started showing up during surveys of lower Green Bay. By the early 2010s, models show the bay was teeming with tens of millions of them.

It’s not entirely clear what caused the whitefish revival, but most see cleaner water as part of the equation.

A decades-long restoration project has cleared away more than 6 million yards of sediment laced with PCBs and nutrient-laced farm runoff from the Fox River and lower Green Bay. Phosphorus concentrations near the river mouth have declined by a third over 40 years — though they’re still considered too high.

“Pelicans are back, and the bird population seems to be thriving,” said Sarah Bartlett, a water resources specialist with the Green Bay Metropolitan Sewerage District, which monitors the bay’s water quality. “And now we have this world-class fishery.”

Hansen’s theory is that back when whitefish were still abundant in Lake Michigan, some wanderers strayed into the newly hospitable bay and decided to stay. Or maybe they were here all along, waiting for the right conditions to multiply.

Either way, the bay has become a lifeline for whitefish and the humans that eat them.

“I feel very fortunate that the bay is doing as well as it is,” said Stuth, who chairs the state commercial fishing board. 

As commercial harvests in the Wisconsin waters of Lake Michigan plummeted from more than 1.6 million pounds in 2000 to less than 200,000 pounds in 2024, harvests in Green Bay skyrocketed from less than 100,000 pounds to more than 800,000.

The bay has also become more important to fishers in Michigan, which has jurisdiction over a portion of its waters.

While the state’s total commercial harvests from Lake Michigan have plummeted 70% since 2009 to just 1.2 million pounds annually, the decline would be steeper were it not for stable stocks in the bay. Once accounting for just a sliver of the catch, the bay now makes up more than half.

A recreational ice fishing scene has sprung up too, with thousands of anglers taking to the ice each winter, contributing tens of millions to the local economy.

Ironically, the bay’s lingering nutrient pollution may be helping to some extent – a dynamic also seen in Michigan’s Saginaw Bay. 

Nutrients like phosphorus and nitrogen are the building blocks of life, fueling the growth of aquatic plants and algae at the base of the food web. Plankton eat the algae, small fish eat the plankton, and big fish eat the small fish.

Unlike the main basins, where mussels have hogged nutrients and starved out whitefish, polluted runoff leaves the shallow bays with more than enough for the mussels and everything else. 

Some have even suggested Michigan and its neighbors should start fertilizing the big lakes in hopes of giving whitefish a boost, Herbert said, but “there’s the question of feasibility.” 

First, because the lakes are far deeper and wider than the bays, it would take vast quantities to make an impact. And while excess nutrients may help feed fish, they could also cause oxygen-deprived dead zones, harmful algae blooms and other serious problems.

Green Bay is already offering other lessons for Michigan, though. 

Inspired by whitefish’s return to the bay’s rivers, biologists including Herbert are trying to coax Michigan whitefish to spawn in rivers that connect to nutrient-rich river mouths like Lake Charlevoix. 

The hope is that if hatchlings can spend a few months fattening up before migrating into the mussel-infested big lake, they’ll stand a better chance of surviving.

Scientists in Green Bay are also tracking whitefish movements, hoping to figure out where they spawn and what makes those habitats special. That kind of information could prove useful to recovery efforts throughout the Great Lakes, said Dan Isermann, a fish biologist with the U.S. Geological Survey.

Living in ‘the good old days’

“We’re really lucky to have what we have here,” said JJ Malvitz, a commercial fishing guide who owes his career to Green Bay’s whitefish resurgence. 

But he lives with fear that “the good old days are now.”

Stocks have shrunk by half since the mid-2010s, according to population models fed with data from DNR surveys and commercial and recreational harvests. The adult whitefish seem to be fat and healthy. But for reasons unknown, fewer of their offspring have been making it to adulthood.  

It’s possible the bay’s population is just leveling off after a period of strong recruitment, Hansen said, “but we want to be vigilant.”

A recent string of lackluster winters adds to the concern. Whitefish lay their eggs on ice-covered reefs. When that protective layer fails to form or melts off early, the eggs can be battered by waves or enticed to hatch early, out of sync with the spring plankton bloom that serves as their main food source.

While this winter was icier than most, climate change is making low-ice winters more frequent.

“Whitefish are a cold-water species, and we know that’s not where the trends are going,” Hansen said.

Time to cut back?

So far, Wisconsin officials haven’t lowered Green Bay’s annual whitefish quota of 2.28 million pounds, evenly split between the commercial and sport fisheries. Commercial boats are limited to fish bigger than 17 inches, while recreational anglers are limited to 10 fish a day of any size.

But during a recent presentation to the state’s Natural Resources Board, Hansen said it’s time to start keeping closer tabs on the population. 

“If these trends continue,” he said, “we need to have some more serious discussions amongst ourselves about lowering the exploitation rates.”

Malvitz, the guide, believes it’s time for commercial and recreational anglers to collectively agree to harvest fewer fish. He would be satisfied with a five-fish limit for recreational anglers along with smaller quotas for the commercial fishery, which harvests far more fish. 

The bay’s whitefish reappeared quickly and unexpectedly, he said. Who’s to say they couldn’t disappear just as fast?

“I don’t want to be standing on the shore in five years saying ‘remember when,’” he said. 

Stuth, the commercial fishing board chair, isn’t ready to accept tighter quotas in the bay, but said population models should be closely watched. If the declines continue, he said, cuts may be on the table.

“A very conservative approach is going to be necessary,” he said. “Because it’s our last stronghold. If that goes away, what do we have?”

This article first appeared on Bridge Michigan and is republished here under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

A Wisconsin whitefish refuge offers lessons for Michigan. But will it last? is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

As a teenager, Ryan White learned to harvest manoomin from his father and grandfather on the White Earth Reservation.

The Minnesota lakes are surrounded by towering pines, the shallows hidden by tall grass, where the sacred wild rice grows. Every fall, he rows out on one of these pristine lakes, some of which ban motor boats during harvest season to keep the water pollution-free and the wild rice beds undisturbed.

Among the tall grass, White fills his canoe with the grain that’s part of the Ojibwe creation story. 

“Most ricers start out as polers, and you just push them around,” he said. “As you gain experience, you’ll kind of figure out where the riper rice is, where the thicker rice is, and just get to know the bed and know the lake.” 

But White, a citizen of the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe and the director of advancement and public affairs at Leech Lake Tribal College, also knows to avoid harvesting from a certain part of the lake — Pike Bay Channel. 

The channel abuts an active Superfund site that is part of a federal government cleanup program for some of the most polluted areas in the country. The site sits between State Highway 371 and Pike Bay, a 4,700-acre lake just outside the city of Cass Lake. Groundwater pollution stretches east beneath the channel and is migrating to the surface. And recent testing shows that the groundwater pollution is spreading south to Fox Creek, which flows into Pike Bay. 

It’s putting wild rice harvesting — and Ojibwe traditions — in further jeopardy. And if contamination spreads, it could become a problem for communities downstream. Pike Bay and Cass Lake, the 15,000-acre body of water that gives the city its name, are part of a chain of lakes in Minnesota that form the headwaters of the Mississippi River. 

The Environmental Protection Agency has been working to clean up the hazardous waste contamination in Cass Lake for more than 40 years. The primary solution is a water treatment plant that takes groundwater from multiple wells on the site, filters out the toxic pollutants and pumps the treated water into Pike Bay Channel, which connects Pike Bay and Cass Lake. 

The system is meant to clean the contaminated groundwater and prevent its spread.

“It’s failing in both respects,” Eric Krumm, the Leech Lake band’s Superfund coordinator, told Buffalo’s Fire.

From 1957 to 1985, the St. Regis Paper Company operated a wood preserving facility in Cass Lake. During that time, it used the land as a dumping ground for its waste. 

Workers placed wood soaked in hazardous preservatives next to homes, filling them with the smell of tar and mothballs. They burned waste products and discharged about 500 gallons of sludge and wastewater per day into onsite holding ponds, storm drains and the city dump.

The main chemicals of concern are creosote, a tar-like byproduct of burning coal or wood, and pentachlorophenol, a manufactured chemical that the EPA is phasing out and will ban by 2027. Both substances are considered potential carcinogens by the EPA.

When the facility was active, the community was directly exposed to these chemicals at a swimming hole dubbed “Rainbow Pond” because of the iridescent sheen on the water from creosote runoff. In the neighborhood next to the facility, residents breathed in toxic fumes from the burning of the facility’s waste product, and contaminated soil and dust were tracked into homes. 

The EPA designated the 163-acre facility as a Superfund site in 1984 and placed it on the National Priorities List. A year later, the St. Regis Paper Company stopped operations. Residents were bought out of their homes. Businesses closed. And 42,000 cubic yards of contaminated sludge and soil were excavated and buried in a lined containment vault a quarter mile from downtown.

The South Side neighborhood of Cass Lake is now a vacant field called “the great expanse,” surrounded by short, stunted pines. It serves as a reminder of the paper company’s pollution. 

A ‘stable’ situation … or ‘stagnant’

The cleanup plan is now led by International Paper Co., a paper manufacturer headquartered in Tennessee, which acquired St. Regis and assumed cleanup in 2000. The EPA oversees cleanup, with the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe Division of Resource Management and the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency providing feedback.

The groundwater treatment plan has remained unchanged since water extraction wells and the on-site water treatment facility were constructed in 1987, but the federal government and the band differ on its effectiveness

The EPA’s 2025 Five-Year Review showed decreasing contamination at the core of the plume, but it also showed unsafe pentachlorophenol levels east of the plume near Pike Bay Channel and south near Fox Creek. Of 89 monitoring locations on the site, 58 had pentachlorophenol levels that exceeded the band’s standards, greater than 0.02 parts per billion (ppb), and 36 exceeded EPA standards, greater than 1 ppb. 

The EPA calls these levels “stable.” Krumm calls them “stagnant.” 

The treatment plant was supposed to reduce the groundwater plume and render it effectively contained by 2011. Yet, the treatment plant is still required today — 40 years later — to keep the plume in check. And according to the EPA’s 2025 report, the groundwater “cleanup timelines could extend well beyond 2051 if the system were to remain operating as-is.” 

Groundwater testing by the Leech Lake Band shows that the plume has spread beyond the extraction boundaries and beneath Pike Bay Channel. 

The EPA said this doesn’t necessarily mean that the plume is growing. Rather, as the agency does more testing, “the shape of the plume is changed to reflect that new data.”

There are also fears other chemicals may be present. 

While the plant removes most contaminants, Krumm said, treated water “regularly exceeds” healthy limits of dioxins. This group of highly toxic chemical compounds is believed to have been introduced to the soil and waters of Cass Lake by workers burning waste and wood at the St. Regis facility in the ’80s.

Limits placed on traditional foods

Brenda Eskenazi, a University of California Berkeley public health professor who studies dioxin exposure, told Buffalo’s Fire that dioxin is a potent carcinogen that interferes with hormones and can cause fertility and developmental problems. 

“It has a very, very, very long half-life,” she said, which “means it hangs out in the body and in the environment for very long periods of time.” 

In 2001, the EPA conducted testing on white fish in Cass Lake, which showed dioxin levels in some was 10 times higher than those in nearby lakes. That has fed concerns that community members may be taking in chemicals indirectly through their food sources, including white fish and wild rice, which are staples of the Ojibwe diet. 

The Leech Lake Band advises tribal members to remove as much fat, where dioxin accumulates, from Pike Bay and Cass Lake fish, while recommending that pregnant women and children avoid eating them altogether. But as stated in the band’s 2024 report, “consumption advisories for Treaty fish are like telling average Americans to limit meat or bread consumption.”

Limits are also placed on wild rice. Though the band has not issued a consumption guide for the grain, out of the thousands of pounds of wild rice it buys from tribal members each year for processing, Krumm said none are from Pike Bay Channel. 

Brandy Toft, environmental director for the band’s Division of Resource Management, told Buffalo’s Fire that there aren’t enough extraction wells to capture the contaminated groundwater and prevent its spread. 

Standing among the tall grass at Fox Creek next to EPA monitoring wells, she said the groundwater is like a wave pool, and the contamination is like dye dropped into it. The extraction wells are like straws trying to suck all the dye out of the pool, but there just aren’t enough straws, she said. 

“Especially in a subsistence Indigenous community that has every right, literally every right, to hunt, fish, gather in these areas or surrounding areas without fear or without exclusion from those zones because of contamination,” she said. 

International Paper has not included plans to update the water treatment plant, beyond replacing filters, in its most recent remediation report. The company did not respond to requests for comment.

Disrupting a way of life

Back at the Leech Lake Reservation, White harvests wild rice every year with his sons, 16-year-old Debwe and 14-year-old Arrow — a tradition he is passing down. 

Eight years ago, he took his sons ricing for the first time. White said they were just “moseying along,” collecting rice here and there, when Arrow saw another little boy with more rice in his boat than him. Competitive, Arrow looked at his dad with excitement, urging him to hurry up. 

Arrow’s love of ricing came “naturally,” said White. “He had just seen it in our people and how much we care about that rice. Even at a very young age, you know that it’s important.”

Minnesota Ojibwe tribes, including Leech Lake, harvest wild rice in beds along the St. Louis River and in shallow lakes that make up the headwaters of the Mississippi River — and have been for centuries. Ojibwe ancestors were sent to the region by a prophecy that told them to travel west from the East Coast until they found the “food that grows on water.” 

“It’s called the sacred berry, or the good berry,” said White. “It’s food, but also, it’s medicine. It’s who we are.”

He said wild rice has also provided for the Ojibwe. Today, many tribal members rely on a steady wild rice harvest to supplement their income in the fall.

“There’s times where I had to use my income from wild rice to pretty much pay the bills, keep a roof over my head and keep the lights on,” said White. 

But they have been limiting where they harvest since Pike Bay Channel is off-limits to tribal members.

“That’s what may happen in the future for the entire Pike Bay and the surrounding waterways,” said White, “and all that connects to the Mississippi River. And we’re pumping that directly into the lake.” 

Community impact

So, why can’t Leech Lake tribal members just fish and harvest wild rice at a different lake? 

Harvest practices are deeply tied to place and identity for Native communities, Anton Treuer, a Leech Lake citizen and a professor of Ojibwe at Bemidji State University, told Buffalo’s Fire. 

“Being a Leech Lake Ojibwe person is connected to harvesting fish at Leech Lake,” he said. “The argument that someone should just pack up their bags and drive to Lake of the Woods and harvest a walleye that doesn’t hurt them is silly for a variety of reasons.”

The St. Regis Paper Co. hasn’t used Cass Lake as its dumping ground for more than 40 years, but Treuer said it’s still in the consciousness of tribal members today. He explains it as “an icky feeling.” Is it safe to drink tap water? Is it safe to go swimming in Cass Lake? 

“It never feels as safe as it should be, and people intentionally avoid that space to the degree that they reasonably can,” he said, which has an “immediate impact on people’s ability and willingness to participate in certain cultural practices.”

On top of limiting where tribal members can practice subsistence fishing and harvesting, the Superfund site also impacts ceremonies, said Treuer, who lives on the reservation near Cass Lake. Cedar, commonly burned in ceremonies, must be harvested out of town, he said, and the Superfund site occupies the area where first-kill ceremonies, a rite of passage for young Native hunters, were traditionally held. 

Toft, from the band’s Division of Resource Management, called the Superfund a “black cloud over Cass Lake.”  

“It just keeps hanging there,” she said. 

The fight to preserve Ojibwe culture

But community members are making efforts to promote Ojibwe culture and language on the reservation.  

Bug-O-Nay-Ge-Shig, a K-12 school, serves more than 200 students of various tribal backgrounds. Operated by the band, the school is located 15 miles from the town of Cass Lake, teaches kids the Ojibwe language and encourages cultural engagement. The school holds a Culture Camp each year where students take language classes, learn traditional crafts like drum making and beading, and take part in traditional Ojibwe pastimes. 

The Leech Lake Tribal College also offers a course on nationhood and manoomin, taught by Leech Lake elder Elaine Fleming with help from White.

“When we’re on the water, I’ll be the one out there showing them how to rice — how to use the pole, how to knock, how to knock in a good way,” he said.

Treuer said other tribal initiatives are helping the band reclaim their land, language and culture. Around Cass Lake, signage is printed in both Ojibwe and English. And in June 2024, more than 11,000 acres of ancestral land, previously managed by the Chippewa National Forest, was returned to the band. 

“The Ojibwe at Leech Lake, and really everywhere, we’re in for the fight of our lives,” said Treuer, “to keep our language alive and to keep our cultural practices vibrant.” 

Even if part of the reservation hadn’t been turned into a Superfund site, he said, the Ojibwe community would still be building back their culture from other impacts of colonization, including residential boarding schools and the mass slaughter of buffalo. 

While 40 years of Superfund cleanup has accelerated those impacts, Toft said, in the centuries of Ojibwe history, a few decades aren’t deterring the community from fighting for their land and culture. 

“We think differently,” she said, “and we’re in for the long haul.”

This story is a product of the Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water Desk, an independent reporting network based at the University of Missouri in partnership with Report for America, with major funding from the Walton Family Foundation. 

Wisconsin Watch is a member of the Ag & Water Desk network. Sign up for our newsletters to get our news straight to your inbox.

A Superfund site in Minnesota is spreading, disrupting a tribe’s way of life is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Members of an ad hoc Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources committee are urging wildlife regulators to work with a national expert as they finalize recommendations to guide state beaver management policy for the next decade.

Researchers and conservationists serving on the advisory body — which is largely composed of DNR staff and government and tribal representatives — hope that including additional scientific expertise, and even a potential computer-guided aerial beaver dam mapping survey, could assist regulators at a time when climate change is beginning to significantly alter Wisconsin weather patterns and pose widespread ecological risks.

“We’re taking our species out faster than they can recover, and when we are overexploiting our trout, when we’re overexploiting animals, plants, habitats, that’s going to make us lose these species faster,” said University of Minnesota ecohydrology professor Emily Fairfax, who has helped review and fact-check several beaver management plans and recently spoke to the committee. “I don’t think we have time to wait — full stop.”

A shift would transform long-standing beaver policy that frames the critters as a nuisance species.

The U.S. Department of Agriculture’s wildlife services program has removed beavers and their dams in Wisconsin since 1988 under contract with the state, along with local governments, railroad companies and Indigenous tribes.

At least five states across the Mississippi River basin and Great Lakes region contract with the federal wildlife services program for beaver removal, but Wisconsin stands out among states for the quantity of beavers and dams USDA employees clear, the millions of dollars Wisconsin has invested to do so and the state’s justification.

Current trout policy includes killing beavers 

USDA killed roughly 23,500 beavers across 42 states in 2024, about 2,700 of which were in Wisconsin, ranking the state among the top five in the nation.

In Wisconsin, the agency focuses on abating transportation hazards, such as flooded roadways. But, perhaps most controversially, about a third of sites where USDA traps beavers are coldwater streams.

Wisconsin currently prioritizes maintaining free-flowing conditions on the state’s prized coldwater streams, partly to appeal to its “customers” and their fishing preferences.

But the strategy has faced increasing scrutiny, even among anglers, who are divided over the issue. Some beaver advocates say the state agency charged with protecting and enhancing natural resources shouldn’t let commercial interests unduly guide its decisions. 

In 2025, the agency trapped and cleared dams in more than 1,550 miles of coldwater streams — roughly the driving distance from Milwaukee to Salt Lake City, Utah. The DNR uses proceeds from annual trout fishing stamp sales to finance the annual undertaking.

At least two other states, Minnesota and Michigan, have employed the USDA for trout stream clearing, but at a significantly reduced scale.

The DNR doesn’t know the impacts of these policies on Wisconsin’s beaver population, as it ceased conducting aerial surveys in 2014. Agency staff, instead, estimate beaver numbers and harvest impacts using trapper surveys and voluntary reporting of annual take. Staff believe the population remains stable statewide or is even growing.

Conservationists are calling on the DNR to systematically survey the state’s beaver population. Without obtaining a reliable count, they say, it’s impossible to devise a science-based management plan. Even if beaver removal continued on trout streams, critics say the state could better estimate the population by having trappers register their beaver take, as the DNR requires for turkey, deer, bobcat and bear harvests. 

Meanwhile, an expanding body of research is showcasing beavers’ ecosystem and economic benefits and the drawbacks of removal.

Beaver dams help limit flooding

When beavers remain on the landscape, they create wetlands, which mitigate climate change impacts like drought, wildfires and flooding. Problems thought to be endemic to the American West are now creeping eastward.

Thunderstorms wreaked havoc in southeastern Wisconsin last summer, bringing more than 14 inches of rain to some parts of Milwaukee within 24 hours on Aug. 9-10. Roughly 2,000 homes sustained major damage or were destroyed in the ensuing floods, and the county now faces more than $22 million in public infrastructure repairs after being twice denied federal disaster assistance.

Beaver dams can dissipate torrents of water when the sky opens — even to the city’s benefit.

Using computer models, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee researchers estimated that the Milwaukee River watershed could accommodate enough beaver colonies to reduce flood water volumes by 14% to 48%.

Wisconsin beaver policy understudied

But scientists face decades of institutional consensus in Wisconsin that beavers degrade stream habitat and threaten wild coldwater fisheries.

DNR fish biologists say that beavers warm water temperatures and plug coldwater streams with silt. When unobstructed, the water bodies, which tend to contain few fish species, flow fast and hard.

“Past studies have identified some positive but mostly negative effects of beavers on trout, and my research builds upon this,” DNR fisheries scientist Matthew Mitro told the beaver management committee. “The option for lethal removal (of) beavers is an important tool that should remain available for resource managers.”

Yet critics charge DNR biologists with managing streams for the primary benefit of one species by trapping out another, justifying the practice using research that hasn’t undergone scientific peer review.

A 2011 academic review of beaver-related research conducted in the Great Lakes region, which predated Mitro’s recent research, found that 72% of claims concerning beavers’ negative impacts are speculative and not backed by data, while the same held true for 49% of positive claims. The negative claims included the idea that beaver dams warm stream temperatures and block trout passage.

DNR biologists often note that academic literature largely has been conducted in the western United States and can’t be directly transplanted to Wisconsin’s comparatively flat landscape.  

That is all the more reason to get off our haunches and wade into beaver ponds, Fairfax said.

“We have to follow that up by collecting our own data sets,” she said. “We have to publish them in peer-reviewed journals and get that scientific stamp of approval.”

Beaver trapping and natural predation are distinct from targeted eradication, Fairfax noted. The former can be sustainable, while stream-wide depopulation and dam removal can damage entire ecosystems. 

It’s also possible that stream clearing prevents beavers from moving to parts of Wisconsin where they are wanted or where they could thrive with fewer conflicts.

Federal government assesses Wisconsin’s beaver dealings 

The DNR beaver management plan’s update coincides with a new USDA environmental assessment of the potential impacts of its beaver and dam removal in Wisconsin.

A conservation organization founded by beaver management committee member Bob Boucher announced its intent to sue the federal agency to compel it to update its previous assessment, published more than a decade ago. Then Boucher threatened to sue the DNR after it wouldn’t release a draft of the new one, currently under review.

The 2013 assessment determined that USDA’s involvement in clearing streams and conflict areas did not significantly impact the beaver population. It estimated wildlife managers would only trap about 2,000 beavers annually, but the agency exceeded that figure within a few years.

The USDA recommends staying the course, using lethal and nonlethal methods. When analyzing alternatives, the agency concluded that other wildlife managers would continue trapping with or without federal involvement.

The USDA allocates some funding for the installation of flow control devices that can reduce the footprint of beaver ponds by lowering water levels. But nearly all beaver conflict sites the USDA handles in Wisconsin are managed through trapping. Levelers do have limited effectiveness in settings like high-flow streams or infrastructure-heavy floodplains. 

Wildlife managers say that they need flexibility because no two beaver sites are identical. 

“We’re not against beaver complexes,” DNR fisheries biologist Bradd Sims told committee members. “We’re not against ecosystem diversity, and I don’t know why people try to paint us that way. We’re an open-minded bureau that’s open to different management styles.”

Trout and beaver proponents do agree that climate change poses an existential threat to biodiversity. While the former group might view beavers as harmful to coldwater streams, the latter see their potential as a partner in creating resilient landscapes that accommodate not only fish, but also frogs, turtles, bugs, bats, birds and humans.

The committee’s next meeting is March 18 in Rothschild, Wisconsin. Ultimately, DNR staff will rewrite the current plan, release a draft for public comment and discussion at open houses, and present a revised document to the state’s natural resources board for ratification.

This story was produced in partnership with the Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water Desk, an editorially independent reporting network, of which Wisconsin Watch is a member. Sign up for Wisconsin Watch’s newsletters to get our news straight to your inbox.

Pest or climate ally? DNR weighs new beaver management plan under mounting scrutiny is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

This story was originally published on Investigate Midwest.

Lisa Lawler wasn’t surprised when diagnosed with breast cancer in 2025. Her mother had breast cancer and died in 2016. It seemed like cancer had become a common diagnosis for many of her neighbors and friends. 

“With how many people seem to get cancer in our community, you just assume you will get it,” said Lawler, who lives in rural Hardin County, Iowa. “But no one really talks about what’s causing it.”

After 10 rounds of radiation and a surgery to remove the tumor, Lawler’s cancer was in remission. Last year, she took a test to determine if her cancer was likely genetic, meaning a high chance of recurrence, which could lead her to have her entire breast removed. 

She was surprised by the results. 

“The genetic test they ran for me was one that covered 81 genes that are typically related to breast cancer,” Lawler said. “After the test, they told me my cancer is likely not genetic, but likely environmental, based on these 81 genes.

“Your next thought is, then what’s in the environment that caused my cancer?” 

Increasingly, pesticides are being blamed for rising cancer rates across America’s agricultural communities. 

Hardin County, home to around 800 farms, has a pesticide use rate more than four times the national average and a cancer rate among the highest in the state. 

Most of the 500 counties with the highest pesticide use per square mile are located in the Midwest. Sixty percent of those counties also had cancer rates higher than the national average of 460 cases per 100,000 people, according to an analysis of data from both the U.S. Geological Survey and the National Cancer Institute.

Last year, Investigate Midwest, in partnership with the University of Missouri, investigated the link between agrichemicals and cancer in Missouri, finding that many were rural communities that already lacked access to health care. 

Investigate Midwest expanded on that coverage by analyzing data across the country, along with interviewing more than 100 farmers, environmentalists, lawmakers and scientists as part of a partnership with the Pulitzer Center’s StoryReach U.S. Fellowship. The result was the picture of a nation at a crossroads in dealing with this public health crisis that has not just been ignored by state and federal health officials, but aided.

This story was also supported by the Fund for Investigative Journalism.

“Cancer is everywhere and it’s an experience that is unfortunately all too common,” said Kerri Johannsen, senior director of policy and programs at the Iowa Environmental Council, a Des Moines-based nonprofit that has been studying the state’s growing cancer rate. 

Agrichemicals have helped America become a crop-producing power, increasing yields of commodity crops — such as corn and soybeans — used for food, fuel and animal feed.

Sprayed from airplanes, drones, tractors and handheld devices, these chemicals can drift through the air or run off into nearby rivers and streams.

And for decades, some farmers and pesticide users have developed neurological and respiratory issues. Thousands of lawsuits have alleged that pesticides and the companies that make them were to blame. 

Pesticide manufacturers often rejected those claims while sometimes concealing research by their own employees that raised similar concerns. These companies — such as Bayer, Syngenta, Corteva and BASF — have also spent millions to lobby federal and state lawmakers for laws that would limit their legal liability and continue to allow them to sell agrichemicals. 

“This is one of the most transparently reviewed products ever,” said Jessica Christiansen, the head of crop science communications for Bayer, speaking about her company’s production of Roundup, a glyphosate-based pesticide. “This product is so well studied … been on the market for over 50 years with thousands and thousands of studies. There is no linkage to cancer, there just isn’t.”  

Under the Trump administration, the Environmental Protection Agency and U.S. Department of Agriculture have also hired dozens of former pesticide executives and lobbyists, some of whom have already pushed for deregulation of their industry. The Department of Health and Human Services has also altered its own reports to downplay the harm of pesticides. 

Two states — North Dakota and Georgia — recently passed laws limiting their residents’ ability to sue pesticide companies, and at least a dozen other states will consider similar laws in the coming months. 

“We’ve gotten to a point in the U.S. … where we’ve stopped treating pesticides as if they are dangerous tools,” said Rob Faux, who manages a small Iowa farm and has advocated against pesticide liability shield laws. “Instead, these companies tell these stories that these pesticides are completely safe and we are encouraged to use them anytime. We’ve been convinced that we must use them or we are not going to have enough food to eat.”

In Iowa, a state with heavy pesticide use — 53 million pounds last year — and the nation’s second-highest cancer rate, doctors and health officials have been sounding an alarm for years. 

The state has become ground zero in the fight to limit the impact of pesticides on health and the environment. Farmers have gathered at the state Capitol to advocate for increased laws and funding to address the rising cancer rate. That advocacy likely helped defeat a bill last year that would have protected pesticide makers from some lawsuits.

I call myself a Republican, but this is not about politics; this is about money, about the almighty dollar.”

— Bill Billings, a resident of Red Oak, Iowa, who was diagnosed with cancer in 2024

“I believe the groups wanting this (bill) to go through didn’t expect any substantial resistance, but there was enough resistance,” said Faux, who also works for the Pesticide Action and Agroecology Network, a nonprofit advocating for less agrichemical use.  

The Iowa bill was strongly opposed by environmental and health organizations, which have traditionally been left-leaning. But there was also strong opposition from many conservative residents and farmers. 

“I call myself a Republican, but this is not about politics; this is about money, about the almighty dollar,” said Bill Billings, a resident of Red Oak, Iowa, who was diagnosed with cancer in 2024. 

Initially, doctors told Billings, then 61, he would likely be dead in a matter of months after discovering lymphoma in his lungs. A health enthusiast and hospital administrator, Billings had been a regular user of Roundup, the popular Bayer pesticide used on farms and residential properties. 

“The cancer specialist said, very directly, (my) cancer is a result of being exposed to chemicals,” Billings said. “In my records, it literally says that I have cancer as a result of exposure to Roundup and agrochemicals.” 

Billings was prescribed a five-drug regimen, along with chemotherapy. In September, he was declared cancer-free. 

Last year, he hired a lawyer to file a lawsuit against Bayer. 

“The irony is … Bayer Pharmaceuticals makes one of the drugs that treated my cancer,” Billings said. “It’s disturbing to find out you are in this financial circle — not only as a consumer, but as a patient.” 

Research increasingly links pesticides to growing cancer risk 

Cancer is a complex disease and can be caused by numerous environmental and genetic factors. Some links have been clear — such as smoking and lung cancer — while other forms can be impossible to trace back to an original cause. 

But scientific research linking pesticides with certain types of cancers has been growing. 

“Our findings show that the impact of pesticide use on cancer incidence may rival that of smoking,” scientists wrote in a 2024 study, which was published in Frontiers in Cancer Control and Society.

The study linked pesticides to prostate, lung, pancreas and colon cancers. Pesticides have also been associated with lymphoma and Parkinson’s disease, the study claimed. 

Many doctors in agricultural communities say the link with pesticides is hard to deny. 

“Iowa has a super high rate (of cancer) and when you look at all of our modifiable risk factors … tobacco, obesity, too many calories, highly processed foods, lack of physical activity, alcohol consumption, getting vaccinated for HPV, sun exposure, and so on, Iowa doesn’t really stand out dramatically at any of those,” said Dr. Richard Deming, medical director at MercyOne Cancer Center in Des Moines. “But one thing that distinguishes Iowa from other states is our environmental exposure to agricultural chemicals.”

Deming and other health experts also point to Iowa’s high radon levels, a naturally occurring radioactive gas produced by uranium and radium.

The state also has high levels of fertilizer-derived nitrate in its water, which has been associated with increased cancer risk. 

“But we use tons of ag chemicals that make it quite likely that the volume of these chemicals is contributing to what we’re seeing in Iowa in terms of the increased incidence of cancer,” Deming said.

A direct correlation can be difficult to determine, as cancer development times can range from months to decades. Overlaying cancer rates onto a map, however, highlights the nation’s top crop and vegetable growing regions, where pesticide use is highest. 

The Midwestern states of Iowa, Illinois, Nebraska and Missouri — leading corn-growing states — had the highest rates, while rates were also high in California and Florida, high fruit-growing states. 

Lawler, who developed breast cancer in Hardin County, grew up on her family’s 400-acre farm, where her father grew corn and used 2,4-D, a pesticide made by Dow Chemicals. She and her siblings moved out of state after high school, but Lawler returned in 2010. 

Pesticides have become indispensable in farming, Lawler acknowledged, but she wishes more people would ask questions about the risks. 

“We change products all the time when we learn about the health impacts,” Lawler said. 

As lawsuits mount, Bayer pushes state laws to limit liability

In early 2022, Rodrigo Santos had just been promoted to the head of Bayer’s crop sciences division, a prestigious position within the German-based chemical company. But a global pandemic, climate change and a pending war in Ukraine were disrupting the global production and sale of crops — a direct hit to the company’s pesticide sales.

“The global food system is in crisis,” Santos wrote in a column for the World Economic Forum, going on to say that the world needed to grow more food without a significant increase in the amount of land devoted to crops. 

But beyond the pandemic and war, another crisis presented an existential threat to one of the company’s top-selling products. Roundup, the glyphosate-based weed killer produced by Monsanto, which Bayer bought in 2018, had been blamed for causing cancer in thousands of lawsuits. 

In 2019, a California jury ordered Bayer to pay $2 billion in one lawsuit (the amount was later reduced). Since then, more than 65,000 lawsuits have been filed against the company, according to Bayer, and the company has agreed to pay more than $12 billion in settlements. 

Since purchasing Missouri-based Monsanto, Bayer’s stock price has dropped more than 90% over five years. 

In recent years, Bayer executives, including Santos, openly discussed discontinuing glyphosate production. We are “evaluating all the alternatives that we have for the business,” Santos told investors last year when asked about a possible sale of its Roundup division. 

But while Bayer publicly said it was reconsidering its glyphosate business, a review of lobbying disclosure statements, campaign finance records, state legislative records and other documents reveals the world’s largest pesticide company remains committed to expanding its sales. 

Under the Federal Insecticide, Fungicide, and Rodenticide Act, the EPA regulates the warning labels on pesticide products. While state-level lawsuits have claimed that federal labeling is insufficient, pesticide companies, including Bayer, have argued that federal regulations should trump state laws. 

Bayer, along with other corporate agriculture groups, has pushed for bills in more than a dozen states that would codify the view that federal labeling regulations are sufficient warning, effectively voiding state-level lawsuits. 

Christiansen, the head of crop science communications for Bayer, disputed that these laws will stop lawsuits and said courts have yet to begin interpreting those that have passed. 

“Folks can still sue a company, and they should if there’s a problem,” Christiansen said. “But the litigation industry has a lot to lose with these (bills) that are out there.” 

Founded by Bayer, the Modern Ag Alliance has lobbied for these bills and promoted opinion articles downplaying the health impacts of pesticides. 

“If farmers lose access to crop protection products because of misguided ideological agendas, U.S. agriculture would be upended, potentially forcing many family farms to shut down and driving up food costs for every American,” said Elizabeth Burns-Thompson, executive director of the Modern Ag Alliance.

The Modern Ag Alliance has spent more than a quarter of a million dollars on state lobbying since 2024.

In Idaho, the organization spent one in four lobbyist dollars last year. In Iowa, Bayer has spent $209,750 on lobbying since 2023, double what the company spent in the previous decade. 

Most of the bills came up short in 2025, but Georgia and North Dakota passed liability shields that will complicate local lawsuits. 

Georgia’s Senate Bill 144, which took effect Jan. 1, received some bipartisan support but was mostly approved by the Republican majority and opposed by Democrats. 

Similar bills have been filed in at least 10 states for this year’s legislative sessions. 

In 2024, the Iowa bill was passed by the state Senate with a 30-to-19 vote. Ahead of a vote in the House last year, farmer and environmental groups lobbied against the bill. 

The session ended without the House taking up a vote. The bill could return in 2026, but Faux, the Iowa farmer, said he also worries about it being “snuck into” another bill or budget agreement. 

“I don’t think we can just assume this fight is over,” Faux said. 

In other states, backlash seemed to stop liability shield bills before they got started.

In Oklahoma, Rep. Dell Kerbs, a Shawnee Republican, authored a pesticide liability shield bill he said was meant to end “frivolous” lawsuits against pesticide makers. 

“What’s happened in our country is we have … judges that have decided they need to be in the labeling business,” Kerbs said when introducing his bill at a Feb. 11, 2025, hearing of the House agriculture committee. 

State Rep. Ty Burns, another Republican, asked Kerbs why he chose to author the bill. 

“I was first approached by Bayer,” Kerbs responded. 

“But this is a labeling bill; it is not an immunity bill. It is just clarifying on EPA labeling regulations,” Kerbs added. “There is nothing that prevents a lawsuit from any single person. This is not giving a free pass to kill people. This simply is saying that a frivolous lawsuit to potentially pad the pocket of somebody who was not reading the label is not a justification to add that to a label through a state district court.” 

But when Burns asked Kerbs about opposition to the bill, especially from many farmers, Kerbs denied receiving any complaints. 

“That is hard to believe,” Burns told Kerbs, “because I have been bombarded.” 

The bill was never presented to the House for a vote. 

After early promises, MAHA walks back pesticide oversight

While liability shield laws have been largely advanced by Republican lawmakers, the push to further regulate pesticides has transcended partisan lines. 

Both left-leaning environmental groups and conservative health movements, which have targeted agrichemicals and some vaccines, have called for reducing or eliminating the use of pesticides. 

Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. has been a longtime critic of pesticides. In a May 2025 report, his Make America Healthy Again commission linked pesticide overuse to children’s health issues, which drew praise from both political camps. 

George Kimbrell, co-executive director of the Center for Food Safety, which has advocated for stronger pesticide regulations, called the initial report a “baby step” forward and said he was encouraged after decades of inaction by the federal government. 

“Going back my entire career, 20-plus years now of doing this work, it doesn’t matter if it’s a Democratic administration or a Republican administration, they have been beholden to and done the wishes of the pesticide industry,” Kimbrell told Investigate Midwest last year. “So, this is a unique moment where … there’s a chance that there could be some positive change in terms of responsible oversight for these toxins.”

Corporate agriculture groups heavily criticized the report, including the American Farm Bureau Federation and CropLife America, a national organization representing many large agrichemical companies, including Bayer, Corteva Agriscience and Syngenta. 

Many of those groups and companies had been large financial backers of Trump. But Kennedy downplayed any concerns that the president would avoid taking a hard position against pesticide companies because of that support. 

“I’ve met every president since my uncle was president, and I’ve never seen a president (like Trump), Democrat or Republican, that is willing to stand up to industry when it’s the right thing to do,” Kennedy said at a May 22, 2025, MAHA commission meeting as the president sat smiling to his right. 

Three months later, Kennedy’s MAHA commission published its final report, which contained no calls to further regulate pesticides. In fact, it called for the federal government to work with large agrichemical companies to ensure public “awareness and confidence” in the EPA’s current pesticide regulations. 

The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services did not respond to a request for comment from Kennedy.

Many of the groups that expressed optimism over the initial report were outraged over the change. 

“This report is … a clear sign that Big Ag, Bayer, and the pesticide industry are firmly embedded in the White House,” said David Murphy, the founder of United We Eat and a former finance director for Kennedy’s presidential campaign. 

The Trump administration has employed several pesticide executives, researchers and lobbyists at the EPA and the U.S. Department of Agriculture. 

Kyle Kunker, who was a registered lobbyist for the American Soybean Association, an organization that has advocated for the legal liability shield laws at the state level, was hired last year to oversee pesticide policy at the EPA. 

Three weeks later, the EPA recommended expanded use of dicamba-based herbicides, which federal courts had previously restricted. The EPA proposal was closely aligned with the position of the American Soybean Association. 

In 2025, the EPA also hired Nancy Beck and Lynn Ann Dekleva, both of whom worked with the American Chemistry Council.

Last month, a coalition of MAHA supporters called for the removal of Lee Zeldin, administrator of the EPA. 

Recent EPA decisions around pesticides “will inevitably lead to higher rates of chronic disease, greater medical costs, and tremendous strain on our healthcare system,” the group stated in a petition circulating online. 

Several prominent MAHA influencers have joined the petition, posting anti-pesticide messages on social media under handles such as The Glyphosate Girl and the Food Babe. “The EPA is acting like the Everyone Poisoned Agency,” wrote Kelly Ryerson, on her Glyphosate Girl Instagram feed. 

As the EPA advances pesticide use, the Trump administration has also asked the U.S. Supreme Court to rule that federal labeling laws invalidate state-level lawsuits. 

“After careful scientific review and an assessment of hundreds of thousands of public comments, EPA has repeatedly determined that glyphosate is not likely to be carcinogenic in humans, and the agency has repeatedly approved Roundup labels that did not contain cancer warnings,” Trump’s solicitor general wrote in an amicus brief with the Supreme Court. 

However, one of the studies the EPA has often cited in claiming pesticides are safe was recently retracted due to concerns about its authorship and potential conflicts of interest. 

The report, published in 2000 by the scientific journal Regulatory Toxicology and Pharmacology, claimed Roundup “does not pose a health risk to humans.” The report has been the foundation for numerous other studies, court cases and policy decisions. 

The journal retracted the study last year, noting that court cases had revealed that Monsanto employees had contributed to the study. “This lack of transparency raises serious ethical concerns regarding the independence and accountability of the authors of this article and the academic integrity of the carcinogenicity studies presented,” the retraction stated. 

“This is just one example of how the current process of certifying these chemicals is broken in the U.S.,” said Colleen Fowle, water program director at the Iowa Environmental Council. “At the very least, we’re hoping that this (retraction) eliminates this specific research article from being cited in the future and concentrates more on independent peer-reviewed research as our basis to determine the safety of glyphosate.”

This article first appeared on Investigate Midwest and is republished here under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Investigate Midwest is an independent, nonprofit newsroom whose mission is to serve the public interest by exposing dangerous and costly practices of influential agricultural corporations and institutions through in-depth and data-driven investigative journalism. Visit online at www.investigatemidwest.org

Pesticide use and cancer risk rise together across America’s heartland is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

This story was originally published by Circle of Blue.

Since its creation in 1979, the Federal Emergency Management Agency has been charged with protecting communities from natural disasters. Central to that mission is curtailing serious flooding, the most prevalent and severe weather threat to people and property across all 50 states.

That objective, though, is impeded by an old and obscure federal regulation — overseen and enforced by FEMA itself — that is actually making flooding worse.

That result was felt in December, when a powerful storm hit the Pacific Northwest. Flooding along Washington’s Nooksack and Skokomish rivers destroyed homes and inundated roads, prompting evacuations and the declaration of a state of emergency. Some losses may have been alleviated, experts assert, had planned flood mitigation work along these same rivers’ banks not experienced significant delays and cancellations as a direct result of the rule’s powerful reach, which extends nationwide.

Here in Wisconsin in the past year, watershed conservationists in Walworth and Ashland counties — located in the state’s south-central and northern regions — were forced to abandon two water quality and flood mitigation projects in local streams after discovering they would be subject to the regulation.

Known within FEMA as the “no-rise” rule, the directive prohibits any earth-moving activity in low-lying, flood-prone areas if water levels during a storm would rise above what was present before the construction started. In other words, any project — defined as “development” by the agency — must not increase the volume of water in flood-prone areas by any amount.

The rule, written in 1976 as a feature of the National Flood Insurance Program (NFIP), and described in detail for the first time by Circle of Blue, was enacted with good intentions to restrict development in floodplains. Its initial focus was population centers: Even an incremental increase in the volume of water that might overflow into a street or neighborhood can have perilous effects on basements, utilities, infrastructure, and human lives.

At the time it was enacted, restoring floodplains and watersheds was a novel pursuit. A half century later, these efforts are recognized for their environmental and human benefits. But as the no-rise rule is currently written and interpreted, “development” is an all-encompassing term that pertains equally to the paving of a new downtown road, as it does to the restoration of wetlands in a remote field. In the eyes of FEMA, a project to address pollution or flooding in a stream is held to the same “no-rise” standards as the construction of a new building.

FEMA’s enforcement of the rule is producing unintended effects. Meeting the “no-rise” standards, project managers say, adds tens of thousands of dollars to project costs and causes years of delay. As a result, land planners — from small nonprofits to federal agencies — routinely abandon efforts to improve water quality and restore watersheds before they even hit the ground.

By barring “development” in floodplains, the no-rise rule allows for the degradation of habitat, lowering of water quality and flooding to persist and worsen.

Viewed broadly, the rule’s compounding outcomes could not be felt at a more consequential time for the nation’s waters. The Trump administration is eliminating environmental safeguards, scaling back protections for the majority of the country’s wetlands and proposing limits on states’ power to issue water quality reviews.

Bipartisan lawmakers have developed legislation in both the U.S. House and Senate to amend FEMA’s no-rise rule in order to remove barriers to restore floodplains and watersheds. The agency has worked with legislators in writing these proposed policies, but did not respond to Circle of Blue when asked for a comment.

“It was never an NFIP goal to see rivers and floodplains restored, which might be why these policies are so antiquated,” says Jennifer Western Hauser, a policy liaison at Wisconsin Wetlands Association. “We understand now that restoring floodplains can reduce flood risks and damage, so it’s long overdue to restore common sense.”

A case in point in Wisconsin’s Driftless Area

Addressing risks and recovery in flood-prone areas is an exhaustive undertaking. FEMA invests tens of millions of dollars each year in projects to reduce threats where storms are likely to hit.

But the agency spends significantly more in their aftermath. Since its launch in 1968, the agency’s National Flood Insurance Program has fulfilled north of $88 billion in property damage claims.

The economic realities and the extreme human cost of floods mean that flood control remains a heavily regulated effort codified within dozens of federal statutes, mandates and supplemental acts. Among this tangle of federal regulation is the no-rise rule that is producing unwelcome effects in rural regions, where efforts to reduce flood risks and improve the quality of long-polluted waters are routinely stymied. The dairy farms and modest homesteads that mark the snowy fields of Barre Mills, Wisconsin, offer a case in point.

The small unincorporated community recalls a typical Midwestern landscape, save for the towering bluffs and rocky cliffs that wreathe around it, rising hundreds of feet. This unique stretch of southwestern Wisconsin, part of a wider region known as the Driftless Area, was left untouched by heavy ice sheets and retreating glaciers during the most recent Ice Age. Cold-water streams, waterfalls and deeply carved river valleys abound as a result. Both the Mississippi and Wisconsin rivers flow through La Crosse County.

But when managed unsustainably, this steep terrain can accelerate watershed degradation. In rural Barre Mills, a legacy of tilling, deforestation and livestock grazing atop tall bluffs has left the town’s low-lying areas with floodwaters polluted with fast-moving farm runoff.

Bostwick Creek, which stretches for 13 miles through 30,000 acres of woods and farms, is one prime example.

The creek’s final four miles are severely impaired. Destructive storms and flooding, fueled by a changing climate, have exacerbated the erosion of its vulnerable banks. Non-point pollution from local farms has poured into the channel. Since 2014, the waterway has held unsafe concentrations of phosphorus, fecal matter and suspended solids.

These unwanted pollutants are not contained to just the creek. The Wisconsin DNR has issued fish consumption advisories after detecting high concentrations of forever chemicals in the La Crosse River, into which Bostwick flows. Duckweed and green algae, a side effect of nutrient spillage, has inundated downriver marshlands.

The county has identified the creek’s water quality woes as a high-priority issue. From a conservation approach, its restoration portends to follow a straightforward plan of soil stabilization and the addition of new vegetation, which will make its floodplain more durable. Local farmers have even pledged crucial support for the effort, agreeing to give up precious land and private fishing access and commit to no-tilling practices near its banks.

But FEMA’s “no-rise” rule is throwing a wrench in the entire operation. Creek restoration requires navigating a mountain of costly and time-consuming engineering, modeling, mapping, and permitting requirements that “seems to end up in a drawer, if anyone even looks at them at all,” says Jacob Schweitzer, La Crosse County’s lead watershed planner.

The rule has delayed the creek’s restoration by months and added roughly $8,000 in expenses so far.

Floodzones AE, floodways and maps

FEMA reaches its conclusions about development projects in rural valleys, like the one drained by Bostwick Creek, after three stages of formal consideration.

First, the agency defines the valley as a floodplain, which is broadly defined as an area that is susceptible to being inundated by water during a storm. Second, FEMA designates land directly adjacent to Bostwick Creek with the more specific distinction of being a “Floodzone AE,” which is identified as a “high-risk” area within a floodplain. And third, within Floodzones AE are other pockets of land called regulatory floodways — the highest-risk area within a floodplain to flooding.

Herein lies the culprit and its burdensome penalty.

All “development” done inside regulatory floodways, whether related to construction or conservation, is subject to the “no-rise” rule. Failure to comply with the regulation, Schweitzer says, would result in the entire county’s population losing access to federal flood insurance.

Adding to the frustration is the agency’s lethargy in upkeeping current records. Most flood zones were set decades ago when FEMA drew its inaugural set of flood maps for the NFIP. But these landscapes have changed vastly over the past half-century, and most of these maps and designations no longer reflect today’s terrain. Despite this, the agency does not systematically work to ensure its digital records match the risks or non-risks present on the ground.

“It’s a long, complicated and political process,” says Brandon Parsons, director of river restoration at American Rivers. “Landowners and farmers living on thousand-acre ranches, with nobody in sight, might have to pay $50,000 to go through this conditional process with FEMA to restore banks on their own land.”

The responsibility of updating maps thus falls on project planners, who must demonstrate that their work will follow the “no-rise” requirements. At Bostwick Creek, original flood maps have not been touched since 1982. Months of work to bring these maps up to date, Schweitzer says, has cost thousands of dollars, all to prove that the water level will remain unchanged.

“Restoration work in zone AEs is frequently avoided,” Western Hauser adds. “That can only lead us to untenable conclusions. If zone AEs are degraded, they’ll remain degraded, or get worse because no one will work on them.”

The Floodplain Enhancement and Recovery Act

On a blustery December afternoon, Jacob Schweitzer navigates shin-deep snow near a chicken farm along the Bostwick, where more than 50 feet of sediment has fallen into the creek in just the past few years. Further downstream, fallen trees zig-zag and soils slump into the channel.

Hardly a dozen farmhouses fill the view, and yet the project is held to the same standards as the construction of a new office building along the Milwaukee River in downtown Milwaukee.

Policy experts agree that a significant amount of restoration work can be unlocked if FEMA regulations are updated with more nuance. This winter, a pair of bipartisan bills have been introduced on Capitol Hill to remedy this sticking point.

Senate Bill 1564 — the Floodplain Enhancement and Recovery Act, authored by Sens. Patty Murray, D-Washington, and Steve Daines, R-Montana — and a companion House bill, co-authored by Wisconsin Rep. Bryan Steil, a Republican, would add a definition of “ecosystem restoration” to the NFIP, differentiating it from other forms of development. States and communities would have the flexibility to allow up to a one-foot rise in a regulatory floodway’s water level, so long as no nearby insurable infrastructure is affected.

“In other words, we’re talking about less-developed areas,” Western Hauser says. “We’re talking about areas upstream of development, where you might want to get your river working in tandem with your floodway.”

Barre Mills is the exact kind of community where this legal nuance could make a big difference for water quality. If the act becomes a law, FEMA would have 180 days to develop guidance for how communities can work in compliance with this new rule. The agency would also be obligated to collaborate with natural resources agencies when drafting these directions.

Floodplain managers, conservation groups, insurers, and tribes across the country continue to voice their support for the legislation. Supporters say its passage is most likely if it is attached to a larger congressional package.

“Bureaucratic red tape should not stall common sense restoration projects,” Rep. Steil said in a statement. “The Floodplain Enhancement and Recovery Act eases administrative burdens and empowers Wisconsin communities to make our waterways healthier, strengthen our resilience to floods, and enhance ecosystems across the nation.”

This article first appeared on Circle of Blue and is republished here under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

This little-known FEMA rule may be making flooding worse in rural Wisconsin is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

How much should data centers pay for the massive amounts of new power infrastructure they require? Wisconsin’s largest utility, We Energies, has offered its answer to that question in what is the first major proposal before state regulators on the issue.

Under the proposal, currently open for public comment, data centers would pay most or all of the price to construct new power plants or renewables needed to serve them, and the utility says the benefits that other customers receive would outweigh any costs they shoulder for building and running this new generation.

But environmental and consumer advocates fear the utility’s plan will actually saddle customers with payments for generation, including polluting natural gas plants, that wouldn’t otherwise be needed.

States nationwide face similar dilemmas around data centers’ energy use. But who pays for the new power plants and transmission is an especially controversial question in Wisconsin and other ​“vertically integrated” energy markets, where utilities charge their customers for the investments they make in such infrastructure — with a profit, called ​“rate of return,” baked in. In states with competitive energy markets, like Illinois, by contrast, utilities buy power on the open market and don’t make a rate of return on building generation.

Although six big data center projects are underway in Wisconsin, the state has no laws governing how the computing facilities get their power.

Lawmakers in the Republican-controlled state Legislature are debating two bills this session. The Assembly passed the GOP-backed proposal on Jan. 20, which, even if it makes it through the Senate, is unlikely to get Democratic Gov. Tony Evers’ signature. According to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, a spokesperson for Evers said on Jan. 14 that ​“the one thing environmentalists, labor, utilities, and data center companies can all agree on right now is how bad Republican lawmakers’ data center bill is.” Until a measure is passed, individual decisions by the state Public Service Commission will determine how utilities supply energy to data centers.

The We Energies case is high stakes because two data centers proposed in the utility’s southeast Wisconsin territory promise to double its total demand. One of those facilities is a Microsoft complex that the tech giant says will be ​“the world’s most powerful AI datacenter.”

The utility’s proposal could also be precedent-setting as other Wisconsin utilities plan for data centers, said Bryan Rogers, environmental justice director for the Milwaukee community organization Walnut Way Conservation Corp.

“As goes We Energies,” Rogers said, ​“so goes the rest of the state.”

Building new power

We Energies’ proposal — first filed last spring — would let data centers choose between two options for paying for new generation infrastructure to ensure the utility has enough capacity to meet grid operator requirements that the added electricity demand doesn’t interfere with reliability.

In both cases, the utility will acquire that capacity through ​“bespoke resources” built specifically for the data center. The computing facilities technically would not get their energy directly from these power plants or renewables but rather from We Energies at market prices.

Under the first option, called ​“full benefits,” data centers would pay the full price of constructing, maintaining and operating the new generation and would cover the profit guaranteed to We Energies. The data centers would also get revenue from the sale of the electricity on the market as well as from renewable energy credits for solar and wind arrays; renewable energy credits are basically certificates that can be sold to other entities looking to meet sustainability goals.

The second option, called ​“capacity only,” would have data centers paying 75% of the cost of building the generation. Other customers would pick up the tab for the remaining 25% of the construction and pay for fuel and other costs. In this case, both data centers and other customers would pay for the profit guaranteed to We Energies as part of the project, though the data centers would pay a different — and possibly lower — rate than other customers.

Developers of both data centers being built in We Energies’ territory support the utility’s proposal, saying in testimony that it will help them get online faster and sufficiently protect other customers from unfair costs.

Consumer and environmental advocacy groups, however, are pushing back on the capacity-only option, arguing that it is unfair to make regular customers pay a quarter of the price for building new generation that might not have been necessary without data centers in the picture.

“Nobody asked for this,” said Rogers of Walnut Way. The Sierra Club told regulators to scrap the capacity-only option. The advocacy group Clean Wisconsin similarly opposes that option, as noted in testimony to regulators.

But We Energies says everyone will benefit from building more power sources.

“These capacity-only plants will serve all of our customers, especially on the hottest and coldest days of the year,” We Energies spokesperson Brendan Conway wrote in an email. ​“We expect that customers will receive benefits from these plants that exceed the costs that are proposed to be allocated to them.”

We Energies has offered no proof of this promise, according to testimony filed by the Wisconsin Industrial Energy Group, which represents factories and other large operations. The trade association’s energy adviser, Jeffry Pollock, told regulators that the utility’s own modeling of the capacity-only approach showed scenarios in which the costs borne by customers outweigh the benefits to them.

Clean energy is another sticking point. Clean Wisconsin and the Environmental Law and Policy Center want the utility’s plan to more explicitly encourage data centers to meet capacity requirements in part through their own on-site renewables and to participate in demand-response programs. Customers enrolled in such programs agree to dial down energy use during moments of peak demand, reducing the need for as many new power plants.

“It’s really important to make sure that this tariff contemplates as much clean energy and avoids using as much energy as possible, so we can avoid that incremental fossil fuel build-out that would otherwise potentially be needed to meet this demand,” said Clean Wisconsin staff attorney Brett Korte.

And advocates want the utility to include smaller data centers in its proposal, which in its current form would apply only to data centers requiring 500 megawatts of power or more.

We Energies’ response to stakeholder testimony was due on Jan. 28, and the utility and regulators will also consider public comments that are being submitted. After that, the regulatory commission may hold hearings, and advocates can file additional briefs. Eventually, the utility will reach an agreement with commissioners on how to charge data centers.

Risky business

Looming large over this debate is the mounting concern that the artificial intelligence boom is a bubble. If that bubble pops, it could mean far less power demand from data centers than utilities currently expect.

In November, We Energies announced plans to build almost 3 gigawatts of natural gas plants, renewables and battery storage. Conway said much of this new construction will be paid for by data centers as their bespoke resources.

But some worry that utility customers could be left paying too much for these investments if data centers don’t materialize or don’t use as much energy as predicted. Wisconsin consumers are already on the hook for almost $1 billion for ​“stranded assets,” mostly expensive coal plants that closed earlier than originally planned, as Wisconsin Watch recently tabulated.

“The reason we bring up the worst-case scenario is it’s not just theoretical,” said Tom Content, executive director of the Citizens Utility Board of Wisconsin, the state’s primary consumer advocacy organization. ​“There’s been so many headlines about the AI bubble. Will business plans change? Will new AI chips require data centers to use a lot less energy?”

We Energies’ proposal has data centers paying promised costs even if they go out of business or otherwise prematurely curtail their demand. But developers do not have to put up collateral for this purpose if they have a positive credit rating. That means if such data center companies went bankrupt or otherwise couldn’t meet their financial obligations, utility customers may end up paying the bill.

Steven Kihm, the Citizens Utility Board’s regulatory strategist and chief economist, gave examples of companies that had stellar credit until they didn’t, in testimony to regulators. The company that made BlackBerry handheld devices saw its stock skyrocket in the mid-2000s, only to lose most of its value with the rise of smartphones, he noted. Energy company Enron, meanwhile, had a top credit rating until a month before its 2001 collapse, Kihm warned. He advised regulators that data center developers should have to put up adequate collateral regardless of their credit rating.

The Wisconsin Industrial Energy Group echoed concerns about risk if data centers struggle financially.

“The unprecedented growth in capital spending will subject (We Energies) to elevated financial and credit risks,” Pollock told regulators. ​“Customers will ultimately provide the financial backstop if (the utility) is unable to fully enforce the terms” of its tariff.

Jeremy Fisher, Sierra Club’s principal adviser on climate and energy, equated the risk to co-signing ​“a loan on a mansion next door, with just the vague assurance that the neighbors will almost certainly be able to cover their loan.”

A version of this article was first published by Canary Media.

Wisconsin debates how to pay for the power-hungry AI boom is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

A Shorewood judge ruled Wednesday that a man who deliberately tested the boundaries of public access along Lake Michigan’s shoreline in late July trespassed on private property.

University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee professor Paul Florsheim grew up just a few houses away from where a Shorewood resident who lives in a prominent lakeside home recorded him walking on the beach adjacent to his house multiple times and called police. Florsheim was eventually fined $313 for trespassing after walking past signs marking private property north of the public beach and cordially ignoring warnings from the police.

He previously told Wisconsin Watch that, despite Wisconsin law, the stretch of beach along Lake Michigan just north of Milwaukee had long been treated by locals like a public right of way.

Municipal Court Judge Margo Kirchner found Florsheim guilty and ordered him to pay a $313 trespassing fine, citing Wisconsin precedent that limits public access along privately controlled Lake Michigan shorelines.

Unlike other states bordering Lake Michigan like Michigan and Indiana, Wisconsin law does not guarantee public access to the beach up to the point where sand typically meets vegetation.

Under a 1923 Wisconsin Supreme Court ruling, private property owners adjacent to the shoreline are granted “exclusive” use of the beach, even though the land is publicly owned. The court held that Wisconsinites may walk along the shoreline only if they remain in the water.

Florsheim previously told Wisconsin Watch he hopes to appeal the case to the Wisconsin Supreme Court, where a favorable ruling could reshape public access along Wisconsin’s Lake Michigan shoreline.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

Municipal judge rules against man challenging private beach access is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

A debate playing out in Wisconsin underscores just how challenging it is for U.S. states to set policies governing data centers, even as tech giants speed ahead with plans to build the energy-gobbling computing facilities.

Wisconsin’s state legislators are eager to pass a law that prevents the data center boom from spiking households’ energy bills. The problem is, Democrats and Republicans have starkly different visions for what that measure should look like — especially when it comes to rules around hyperscalers’ renewable energy use.

Republican state legislators this month introduced a bill that orders utility regulators to ensure that regular customers do not pay any costs of constructing the electric infrastructure needed to serve data centers. It also requires data centers to recycle the water used to cool servers and to restore the site if construction isn’t completed.

Those are key protections sought by decision-makers across the political spectrum as opposition to data centers in Wisconsin and beyond reaches a fever pitch.

But the bill will likely be doomed by a ​“poison pill,” as consumer advocates and manufacturing industry sources describe it, that says all renewable energy used to power data centers must be built on-site.

Republican lawmakers argue this provision is necessary to prevent new solar farms and transmission lines from sprawling across the state.

“Sometimes these data centers attempt to say that they are environmentally friendly by saying we’re going to have all renewable electricity, but that requires lots of transmission from other places, either around the state or around the region,” said state Assembly Speaker Robin Vos, a Republican, at a press conference. ​“So this bill actually says that if you are going to do renewable energy, and we would encourage them to do that, it has to be done on-site.”

This effectively means that data centers would have to rely largely on fossil fuels, given the limited size of their sites and the relative paucity of renewable energy in the state thus far.

Gov. Tony Evers and his fellow Democrats in the state Legislature are unlikely to agree to this scenario, Wisconsin consumer and clean energy advocates say.

Democrats introduced their own data center bill late last year, some of which aligns closely with the Republican measure: The Democratic bill would similarly block utilities from shifting data center costs onto residents, by creating a separate billing class for very large energy customers. It would require that data centers pay an annual fee to fund public benefits such as energy upgrades for low-income households and to support the state’s green bank.

But that proposal may also prove impossible to pass, advocates say, because of its mandate that data centers get 70% of their energy from renewables in order to qualify for state tax breaks and a requirement that workers constructing and overhauling data centers be paid a prevailing wage for the area. This labor provision is deeply polarizing in Wisconsin. Former Republican Gov. Scott Walker and lawmakers in his party famously repealed the state’s prevailing wage law for public construction projects in 2017, and multiple Democratic efforts to reinstate it have failed.

The result of the political division around renewables and other issues is that Wisconsin may accomplish little around data center regulation in the near term.

“If we could combine the two and make it a better bill, that would be ideal,” said Beata Wierzba, government affairs director for the nonprofit clean energy advocacy group Renew Wisconsin. ​“It’s hard to see where this will go ultimately. I don’t foresee the Democratic bill passing, and I also don’t know how the governor can sign the Republican bill.”

Urgent need

Wisconsin’s consumer and clean energy advocates are frustrated about the absence of promising legislation at a time when they say regulation of data centers is badly needed. The environmental advocacy group Clean Wisconsin has received thousands of signatures on a petition calling for a moratorium on data center approvals until a comprehensive state plan is in place.

At least five new major data centers are planned in the state, which is considered attractive for the industry because of its ample fresh water and open land, skilled workers, robust electric grid, and generous tax breaks. The Wisconsin Policy Forum estimated that data centers will drive the state’s peak electricity demand to 17.1 gigawatts by 2030, up from 14.6 gigawatts in 2024.

Absent special treatment for data centers, utilities will pass the costs on to customers for the new power needed to meet the rising demand.

Two Wisconsin utilities — We Energies and Alliant Energy — are proposing special tariffs that would determine the rates they charge data centers. Allowing utilities in the same state to have different policies for serving data centers could lead to these projects being located wherever utilities offer them the cheapest rates and result in a patchwork of regulations and protections, consumer advocates argue. They say legislation should be passed soon, to standardize the process and enshrine protections statewide before utilities move forward on their own.

Some of Wisconsin’s neighbors have already taken that step, said Tom Content, executive director of Wisconsin’s Citizens Utility Board, a consumer advocacy group.

He pointed to Minnesota, where a law passed in June mandates that data centers and other customers be placed in separate categories for utility billing, eliminating the risk of data center costs being passed on to residents. The Minnesota law also protects customers from paying for ​“stranded costs” if a data center doesn’t end up needing the infrastructure that was built to serve it.

Ohio, by contrast, provides a cautionary tale, Content said. After state regulators enshrined provisions that protected customers of the utility AEP Ohio from data center costs, developers simply looked elsewhere in the state.

“Much of the data center demand in Ohio shifted to a different utility where no such protections were in place,” Content said. ​“We’re in a race to the bottom. Wisconsin needs a statewide framework to help guide data center development and ensure customers who aren’t tech companies don’t pick up the tab for these massive projects.”

Clean energy quandary

Limiting clean energy construction to data center sites could be especially problematic as data center developers often demand renewable energy to meet their own sustainability goals.

For example, the Lighthouse data center — being developed by OpenAI, Oracle and Vantage near Milwaukee — will subsidize 179 megawatts of new wind generation, 1,266 megawatts of new solar generation and 505 megawatts of new battery storage capacity, according to testimony from one of the developers in the We Energies tariff proceeding.

But Lighthouse covers 672 acres. It takes about 5 to 7 acres of land to generate 1 megawatt of solar energy, meaning the whole campus would have room for only about a tenth of the solar the developers promise.

We Energies is already developing the renewable generation intended to serve that data center, a utility spokesperson said, but the numbers show how future clean energy could be stymied by the on-site requirement.

“It’s unclear why lawmakers would want to discriminate against the two cheapest ways to produce energy in our state at a time when energy bills are already on the rise,” said Chelsea Chandler, the climate, energy and air program director at Clean Wisconsin.

Renew Wisconsin’s Wierzba said the Democrats’ 70% renewable energy mandate for receiving tax breaks could likewise be problematic for tech firms.

“We want data centers to use renewable energy, and companies I’m aware of prefer that,” she said. ​“The way the Republican bill addresses that is negative and would deter that possibility. But the Democratic bill almost goes too far — 70%. That’s a prescribed amount, too much of a hook and not enough carrot.”

Alex Beld, Renew Wisconsin’s communications director, said the Republican bill might have a hope of passing if the poison pill about on-site renewable energy were removed.

“I don’t know if there’s a will on the Republican side to remove that piece,” he said. ​“One thing is obvious: No matter what side of the political aisle you’re on, there are concerns about the rapid development of these data centers. Some kind of legislation should be put forward that will pass.”

Bryan Rogers, environmental director of the Milwaukee community organization Walnut Way Conservation Corp, said elected officials shouldn’t be afraid to demand more of data centers, including more public benefit payments.

“We know what the data centers want and how fast they want it,” he said. ​“We can extract more concessions from data centers. They should be paying not just their full way — bringing their own energy, covering transmission, generation. We also know there are going to be social impacts, public health, environmental impacts. Someone has to be responsible for that.”

Utility representatives expressed less urgency around legislation.

William Skewes, executive director of the Wisconsin Utilities Association, said the trade group ​“appreciates and agrees with the desire by policymakers and customers to make sure they’re not paying for costs that they did not cause.”

But, he said, the state’s utility regulators already do ​“a very thorough job reviewing cases and making sure that doesn’t happen. Wisconsin utilities are aligned in the view that data centers must pay their full share of costs.”

If Wisconsin legislators do manage to pass data center legislation this session, it will head to the desk of Evers. The governor is a longtime advocate for renewables, creating the state’s first clean energy plan in 2022, and he has expressed support for attracting more data centers to Wisconsin.

“I personally believe that we need to make sure that we’re creating jobs for the future in the state of Wisconsin,” Evers said at a press conference, according to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. ​“But we have to balance that with my belief that we have to keep climate change in check. I think that can happen.”

A version of this article was first published by Canary Media.

Disputes over clean energy may doom Wisconsin data center bills is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Rick Bieber reached into the soil, pulled out a handful and took a sniff.

Around him stretched fields of green — an unusual sight for late October in Wisconsin, when harvest is ending and farmers are preparing for winter. Oat and barley grasses, sunflowers, purple top turnip and radish plants blew under a gentle breeze. In the soil in his palm, an earthworm wriggled.

Bieber is the soil adviser for Fields of Sinsinawa, a project intended to help farmers understand what’s happening below the surface and why it matters for the health of people and the planet. The fields are owned by the Dominican Sisters of Sinsinawa, a congregation of Catholic sisters who have lived for more than 175 years in southwestern Wisconsin at Sinsinawa Mound, overlooking the Mississippi River.

Written into the sisters’ guiding principles is a commitment to share their land for ecological and educational programs to help preserve it for future generations.

As Bieber puts it, “We plant with a purpose.”

Their vision of caring for the Earth as they believe God instructs them is in step with a larger movement happening across the state — and the world — in which faith drives people’s concern for the environment.

Religion can be a powerful motivator for people to pursue environmental stewardship: In a Pew Research Center study from 2022, four in five religiously affiliated Americans completely or mostly agreed that God gave humans a duty to protect and care for the Earth.

The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, a partner of the Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water Desk, is profiling five people or groups in Wisconsin whose environmental actions are driven by their faith. They’re connected by a desire to do good for the Earth, following the writings in their religious texts or the teachings of their spiritual leaders. Importantly, the people drawn into this effort come from different sides of the political spectrum and from many different faiths. That suggests it could be an approach to environmental stewardship that bridges a complicated divide, something especially important as the U.S. government seeks to aggressively roll back environmental protections.

Take the soil, for instance, that Dominican Sister Julie Schwab and the others at Sinsinawa hold so precious.

“Soil is literally the common ground,” Schwab said.

Fields of Sinsinawa

Agriculture is a calling card of the Dominican Sisters of Sinsinawa. They once farmed the land themselves and are now hosting an organic farming collective and two father-son teams of dairy farmers who produce milk for Organic Valley.

The idea for Fields of Sinsinawa arose from an Ohio farmer named David Brandt, an influential figure in the regenerative farming movement, who was exploring the idea of creating a farmer-led learning center at Sinsinawa Mound. After his death in 2023, a group of like-minded people made it a reality.

The principles of soil health are simple to understand but can be challenging to achieve because our economic system places emphasis on big crop yields. Those at Fields of Sinsinawa believe that soil should be filled with diverse, living roots year-round, which prevents runoff that pollutes waterways and feeds microscopic organisms that can make the soil better suited to support plant life. They want to minimize practices like tilling, which disturb the soil, and encourage grazing livestock on pastures that have time to rest and regrow.

Demonstration fields at the mound are meant to be a “living classroom” that farmers can visit to learn how such regenerative practices work, and more important, why. They host visitors from the next town over and from across the globe, including at their annualSoul of the Soil conference. The on-site dairy farmers work closely with Bieber to try practices out at minimal risk to their business.

“What impresses me most is the deep, deep spirituality of these farmers. They know they’re working with something sacred,” said Sister Sheila Fitzgerald, part of Fields of Sinsinawa’s administrative support team. “It’s a gift, and it’s up to us to keep this gift for the next generation. We do that by learning about this whole sacred environment — the whole blessing of the life that’s in the soil.”

The sisters are also following teachings they see carefully laid out by the late Pope Francis in his 2015 encyclical letter, “Laudato Si’: On Care for Our Common Home.” Earth “cries out to us because of the harm we have inflicted on her by our irresponsible use,” Francis wrote. “We have forgotten that we ourselves are dust of the earth.”

Bieber puts it another way.

“We were formed from the soil, and we’ll go back to the soil,” he said. “Why would you beat it up if it’s going to be your resting place?”

Wisconsin Green Muslims

The same year Francis released his letter, Muslim leaders from around the world published the Islamic Declaration on Global Climate Change, which calls for a rapid phase-out of fossil fuels and directs Muslims worldwide to tackle climate change and environmental degradation.

Huda Alkaff was already hard at work. Alkaff founded Wisconsin Green Muslims in 2005 to educate people about Islamic teachings of environmental justice and apply those teachings in real life.

The Earth is mentioned more than 450 times in the Quran, Alkaff said, instructing Muslims to maintain its balance and not upset the order of creation.

“The true practice of Islam really means living simply, treading lightly on Earth, caring for our neighbors and all creatures, standing up for justice, and collaborating with others to care for our shared home,” she said.

Now in its 20th year, Wisconsin Green Muslims has pushed for action on a wide range of environmental issues, including clean drinking water and air, renewable energy, waste reduction and healthy food, with a focus on helping marginalized communities that are disproportionately impacted by environmental problems. The group rotates through these issues monthly, Alkaff said, bringing new people into the fold based on their interests.

Since its beginning, the group has promoted Green Ramadan during the Islamic holy month, encouraging small daily actions to care for the environment such as switching to e-billing or biking to the mosque. Green Ramadan has spread to at least 20 states, Alkaff said.

Alkaff also leads two interfaith organizations: Wisconsin Faith and Solar, which aims to help faith congregations across the state to implement solar energy, and Faithful Rainwater Harvesting for sustainable water collection.

“We see sunlight and water as the commons — everyone should have access to them,” she said. “We need to appreciate them and welcome them responsibly into our homes, congregations and lives.”

Calvin DeWitt

Calvin DeWitt is a household name at the cross section of Christianity and the environment. He lists as friends Al Gore and environmentalist and author Bill McKibben, tells of having given a speech at the ranch of the late Robert Redford, a stalwart environmental advocate, and has been a leading voice for  “greening up” the Christian right.

DeWitt’s story started in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where he cared for a pet turtle. For 25 years, he led the Au Sable Institute in Michigan, which offers environmental science courses to students from dozens of Christian colleges. He also taught environmental studies classes at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Now 90, he lives in the Waubesa Wetlands outside Madison, which he helped establish as a nature preserve.

He’s still publishing papers, running field trips and otherwise speaking loudly about caring for the Earth because, as he puts it, “I can’t think of anything more pleasurable to do.”

DeWitt has become a master at tailoring his message to make the most impact. Some of his most storied work is with evangelical Christians, fewer of whom believe climate change is a serious problem compared with other major religions, according to the2022 Pew study. He was a founding member of the Evangelical Environmental Network, which promotes evangelicals “rediscovering and reclaiming the biblical mandate to care for creation.”

“Someone’s twiddling with the thermostat” is a phrase he might say to enter into a conversation about the world heating up with someone who’d get turned off by the term global warming. In other scenarios, “if you come up with a religious point of view, you’re actually asking for trouble,” he said.

Most often, though, DeWitt tries to boil it down to the development of community, which he said is central to overcoming differences.

Several years ago, a neighbor turned to him while leaving a town hall and said, “Cal, this is just like going to church,” DeWitt recalled. A real community is about love, he said, which extends to love for the land.

“It’s contagious,” he said.

Dekila Chungyalpa and the Loka Initiative

Dekila Chungyalpa once felt like she was living two different lives. By day, she worked as an environmental scientist in the U.S. By night, she was a practicing Tibetan Buddhist. She didn’t know how to bring the two together, and it hurt.

Chungyalpa decided to return to the Himalayas, where she was born, to work with the 17th karmapa, head of the Karma Kagyu School of Tibetan Buddhism. In 2007, she watched him speak to thousands of Buddhists, citing a Buddhist prayer to alleviate the suffering of all beings in his call for those watching to become vegetarians. Livestock production makes up about 14.5% of human-driven greenhouse gas emissions, which contribute to climate change.

“That was my moment of awakening. My hand was rising along with all these people,” Chungyalpa said. “People were not doing it because of science or policy, but because a faith leader told them to live up to their faith value.”

The idea that religious leaders could shepherd people toward environmental stewardship sparked something in her. The spark was there when she helped found Khoryug, an association of Tibetan Buddhist monasteries and nunneries working on environmental protection and resilience to climate change. It also was there when she began the Loka Initiative inside UW-Madison’s Center for Healthy Minds.

Today, the Loka Initiative has two goals. One is working with faith and Indigenous leaders to bring home environmental solutions that feel authentic to them. The other is developing courses that teach contemplative practices, like meditation, somatic healing and even singing, to combat grief and anxiety over the effects of environmental degradation. One recent course, “Psychology of Deep Resilience,” was taken by more than 1,550 students in 70-plus countries, she said.

Chungyalpa sees the immense power in religiously affiliated people to take action for the good of the Earth.More than 75% of people around the world identify with a religion. And religious groups, as major owners of land and buildings, can do so much, from adopting soil health practices to adding solar panels.

“They reach parts of the population scientists never can,” she said.

North Shore Interfaith Green Team

The group of people who gathered at Congregation Emanu-El B’ne Jeshurun in River Hills Nov. 3 had many differences: different cities, different political persuasions and different faiths.

What unites the North Shore Interfaith Green Team is a belief that religious people have a duty to care for creation and a desire to make that happen. Reenie Kavalar, of Congregation Emanu-El B’ne Jeshurun, began the meeting with a reading from the Talmud, a foundational Jewish text.

“‘See My creations, how beautiful and exemplary they are. Everything I created, I created for you. Make certain that you do not ruin and destroy My world, as if you destroy it, there will be no one to mend it after you,'” Kavalar read. 

She paused and reflected, “I’m thinking – if it’s not up to us, who’s it going to be up to?”

The Green Team’s members are from Conservative and Reform Jewish synagogues, Catholic parishes, and Episcopal, Methodist, Lutheran and Presbyterian churches.

Although the group is new, it is ambitious: In April they hosted an electronics recycling drive, which they said saved 20,000 pounds of electronics from the landfill, and they split the money they made among congregations to pursue other environmental projects. For example, Fox Point Lutheran is working on expanding its pollinator garden, said member Anne Noyes. It also spawned conversations about other types of potential efforts, such as clothes recycling and composting.

In 2026, the group will hold two more electronics recycling drives in April and will begin a partnership with Schlitz Audubon Nature Center involving volunteer conservation days. Members hope that by working together, they can come up with new ideas and tackle projects that might be impossible alone.

Susan Toman, of Christ Church Episcopal in Whitefish Bay, said she joined the Green Team in part because she sees it as a way to overcome polarization.

In many respects, her sentiment reflects the movement connecting faith and the environment, whether it’s on Milwaukee’s busy North Shore or across the state on the rural farm fields at Sinsinawa Mound.

“This is a model for how people who could be drawing a line in the sand about our differences instead are saying, ‘Let’s talk about the things that we all agree upon,'” Toman said, “something that comes from the depths of our hearts.”

This story is a product of the Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water Desk, an independent reporting network based at the University of Missouri in partnership with Report for America, with major funding from the Walton Family Foundation.

Wisconsin Watch is a member of the Ag & Water Desk network. Sign up for our newsletters to get our news straight to your inbox.

For these faithful, nurturing the Earth is rooted in spiritual beliefs is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Anticipated spikes in demand for energy to supply Wisconsin’s data center building boom come on the heels of decades of declining power and water use, according to a new report.

A Wisconsin Policy Forum analysis shows there are more than 40 data centers operating in Wisconsin with another four planned. The sprawling facilities host computer servers, which store data and support a global surge in the use of artificial intelligence.

The data center building boom has been met by local opposition groups concerned about the facilities’ resource needs. But the Policy Forum report shows it’s all happening after years of declines in demand for electricity and water.

Using projections submitted to the Wisconsin Public Service Commission by utility companies, the Policy Forum estimates the state’s peak electrical demand is expected to increase to around 17 gigawatts by 2030, driven largely by data centers. In 2024, Wisconsin’s peak demand was rated at 14.6 gigawatts. Over the past 20 years, total electricity sales have fallen by 9% over the past 20 years.

Wisconsin Policy Forum Senior Research Associate Tyler Byrnes told WPR a big part of the decline since 2005 is due to fewer commercial customers paired with more energy efficiency measures. He said during that span, utilities have pulled aging, coal-fired power plants offline and shifted toward more renewable energy. 

“Into that landscape, now we’re seeing these really big data centers come online,” said Byrnes.

Some utilities in Wisconsin are expected to seek state permission to build new power plants or expand existing ones to meet the data center demand. Byrnes said that will bring a need for more transmission lines, though local impacts will vary depending on where the data centers are located.

The Policy Forum’s analysis shows most existing facilities are in south central and southeastern Wisconsin. With other large-scale data centers planned for more rural areas like Beaver Dam and DeForest, he said utility companies may need to build out more infrastructure.

Wisconsin water demand has fallen for decades. Will data centers impact rates? 

Another major concern raised during the data center debate is the facilities’ hefty water demands.

Opponents have complained that developers haven’t been transparent about how much water they’ll need to cool computer servers. In September, environmental advocates sued the city of Racine to force the release of projected water needs of a $3.3 billion data center campus located at the former Foxconn site in Mount Pleasant. The city released figures showing the project will need more than 8 million gallons of water per year. 

To put that into context, the Policy Forum looked at historical water sales reported by the Racine Water Works, which will supply the Mount Pleasant data center project. Between 1997 and 2022, the utility saw water sales decline by 2.1 billion gallons annually. Byrnes said that taken as a whole, the demand for water from data centers is “a drop in the bucket” in a lot of cases.

As with electrical demand, Byrnes said water demand has decreased due to fewer industrial customers and increased efficiency efforts. Because cities like Racine still need to maintain the same level of infrastructure, which is more expensive due to inflation, the revenue from each gallon of water sold has to be spread further. That means potential rate increases.

Byrnes said data centers have been turning to closed-loop cooling systems, which use less water, but cities like Racine would still be selling more water, which would help cover fixed infrastructure costs. 

“Potentially, it could maybe blunt some of the (water rate) increases,” Byrnes said. 

DeForest, other local governments grapple with data center proposals

With the rise in data center developments in Wisconsin, local governments and state lawmakers are working to figure out how to regulate them.

The DeForest Village Board recently took no action on a citizen petition calling for referendum votes before any data center project could be approved.

In Menomonie, the city council voted to restrict where and how data centers can be built months after the mayor halted a $1.6 billion proposal. A similar zoning ordinance is being considered in the city of Jefferson.
 
At the same time, Republican and Democratic state lawmakers have proposed different ways to regulate data centers. One GOP bill is aimed at ensuring data centers and not other customers would pay for any required improvements to the state’s power grid. The Democratic bill is aimed at requiring data centers to get the bulk of their power from renewable sources.

This story was originally published by WPR.

Data center boom follows decades of declining electricity and water use in Wisconsin is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

Reports have surfaced in recent months of a not-so-jolly buccaneer working Lake Michigan’s Caribbean-clear waters just north of Milwaukee. He has gained an almost mythical status among southeastern Wisconsin’s swimmers, boaters and internet surfers. 

He is not shaking down sailors for sugar, silk or gold. He is after something arguably more precious – the sole right to use the Lake Michigan beach behind his home and yard on the 4000 block of North Lake Drive, the second property north of Atwater’s swimming beach in the village of Shorewood.

“I dont want to be the dick but I stopped swimming there because a dude would always come out in a little black zodiac (raft) and yell. Stuff like ‘this is a historical site you cant be here,” grumbled one Redditor in an early December post. “…Watched the dude chase off all approaching boats too.”

Added another: “dude who lives just north of atwater is a menace. Hes yelled at me for swimming 100+feet off shore and came out in his little zodiac. Yall know the house lol.”

The house he is talking about is indeed an eye-catcher.

Distinct among other waterfront properties in Shorewood, this residence has a cluster of huts and an expansive deck at the bottom of a private cable car built to shuttle the owners from the main house on Lake Drive to the beach some eight stories below.

To call the beachfront development a patio, deck or even cabana doesn’t do it justice. It looks more like someone bought the set from the 1960s sitcom “Gilligan’s Island” — walled cabins, thatched roofs, boat ramp, surfboards, the works — and plopped it on a sandy Wisconsin beach that’s frozen half the year.

“Someone needs to introduce them to some Jimmy Buffet,” another Redditor posted in the December conversation. “You build a tiki porch… you share drinks and make new friends. Isn’t that a requirement to get the building permit approved?”

And that raises a question: How did regulators from the village of Shorewood and the state Department of Natural Resources allow this homemade Margaritaville to be built so close to the public’s lake?

Wisconsin’s curious shoreline law

Paul Florsheim is a 66-year-old clinical psychologist and a University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee professor who grew up on Lake Drive several houses north of Atwater Park. That was an era when he says the beach behind all the private homes perched atop the bluff was commonly treated as a public right of way, like a sidewalk. People were free to walk up and down it and enjoy it — within reason. Walking a kid and maybe a dog, yes. Tapping a keg or having a luau smack in front of someone’s house, of course not.

That’s why it bugged Florsheim when he moved back to Milwaukee after a tenure on the faculty at the University of Utah and saw signs posted at the edge of Atwater Park that read “Private Property Beyond this Sign – Trespassers may be subject to citation.”

Florsheim didn’t see things that way and, legally, they aren’t.

Those signs should actually read: “Public property beyond this point: No trespassing.”

And if that doesn’t make sense to you, it didn’t to Florsheim either.

Two of Wisconsin’s neighboring states on Lake Michigan – Indiana and Michigan – have laws that ensure public access to the lake’s shoreline, as long as beach walkers leave their limbo sticks at home, keep moving and stay below the “Ordinary High Water Mark” (OHWM), commonly understood as where the sand stops and terrestrial vegetation starts.

Wisconsin is different. It acknowledges public ownership of the beach up to that line, but it gives “exclusive” use of that public beach to the private property owner adjacent to it. The law is based on a 1923 Wisconsin Supreme Court ruling that beachcombers are free to walk the shoreline, so long as they stay in the water, even if it’s only enough to keep their feet wet.

This means, if you want to abide by the letter of the Wisconsin law while walking the beach, you have to skitter along the beach like a sandpiper, only in reverse – ever chasing the lapping waves back toward the water instead of running away from them.

And, while the Ordinary High Water Mark remains relatively fixed, the water level does not.

The level of Lake Michigan can, in fact, fluctuate by 6 feet over a period of several years. This means in low-water years, such as 2025, what was just recently a submerged public lakebed becomes vast expanses of exposed sand that becomes, in essence, private beach.

A Shorewood beach showdown 

Florsheim wants that to change, so in late July he walked down the 100-some steps to the beach at Atwater Park. Then he crossed the park boundary by scrambling over a dock-like concrete structure (called a revetment) jutting into the water separating Atwater Park from the neighbors to the north.

On the other side of the revetment that morning was tiki compound owner Daniel Domagala, who was preparing to take his kids out on their kayaks on an 80-degree, flat-as-glass water morning, conditions he described in courtroom testimony last month as “perfect.” Then he saw Florsheim, whom he did not know, making his way over the revetment with a couple of dogs.

“You’re in my backyard,” Domagala said he told the stranger after he cleared the concrete structure. “Why don’t you turn around and go back to Atwater?”

“No, I’m not,” he said Florsheim replied before ambling north.

Domagala said he was baffled by what he saw as a brazen attitude toward his property rights.

“Just imagine somebody is in your house telling you: This is not your house,” he testified.

Domagala said he remained calm and courteous during the exchange. He called police, but Florsheim was gone by the time they arrived.

A surveillance camera Domagala has placed at his beach compound revealed Florsheim returned to walk the dry sand above the water line in the following days. Florsheim even cordially ignored face-to-face warnings from Shorewood police who, cordially, told him to stop.

Police finally wrote him a trespassing citation that packs a $313 fine. Florsheim was happy to get what he saw as a ticket to where he really wanted to go — Shorewood Municipal Court.

On Dec. 2 Florsheim appeared at trial without a lawyer to make his argument that Wisconsin’s Lake Michigan shoreline should be open to the public up to the Ordinary High Water Mark.

At the conclusion of the folksy four-hour trial (Florsheim called his 95-year-old dad to testify that he and his shorefront neighbors always viewed the beach abutting their homes as public property), Shorewood municipal judge Margo Kirchner said she would render a decision in the coming weeks.

Florsheim said he hopes to lose so he can appeal his case all the way to the Wisconsin Supreme Court, which he hopes will see things his way.

The ramifications of Florsheim’s summer hike are potentially staggering. In low-water years, such as 2025, vast expanses of dry sandy beach can appear in places where, just a few years earlier, that lakebed was completely submerged. If Florsheim were to take his case all the way to the state Supreme Court and get a favorable ruling, the result could open untold thousands of shorefront acres on Wisconsin’s roughly 800 miles of Great Lakes shoreline to the public for beach walking, at least in low-water years.

Records show past shoreline violations

Meanwhile, it appears the compound owner has his own history of violations on the same stretch of beach Florsheim was ticketed on.

Shorewood Planning & Development Department records show in August 2015 Domagala, who did not respond to emailed questions from Wisconsin Watch, applied to build a fence and a covered patio on the beach adjacent to his property, in front of an aged concrete breakwater at the base of the bluff.

Domagala didn’t stop with the covered deck and the fence that separates the public beach from his property. He ultimately built a larger deck that, in high-water years, stretches almost to the water along with two enclosed cabins. Most of that work received permits, but not all of it.

In 2018 the village notified Domagala that one of those cabins was out of compliance with village regulations because Domagala, who identifies himself as the contractor in documents submitted to the village, equipped it with a bathroom that had no connection to the village sewer system.

A letter from the village instructed Domagala to “Remove all plumbing fixtures including the Separett toilet, shower stall and sinks from the boat storage house as it is in violation of State Plumbing Codes and Village of Shorewood Municipal Codes.”

Separett toilets are composting devices that are designed to aerobically decompose waste but require regular disposal.

Domagala told the village he installed the plumbing so his family and guests wouldn’t have to shuttle up and down the towering bluff just to relieve themselves.

“This issue is important to me because I cannot imagine hanging around the beach all day without a toilet or running water,” Domagala wrote to the Shorewood planning department in October 2018.

The village stood firm and ordered the removal of all plumbing fixtures – toilet included.

Two years later, on April 6, 2020, an anonymous person complained to the village that a boat ramp attached to Domagala’s compound appeared to have been built inside the Ordinary High Water Mark, where development is prohibited.

Domagala was not happy.

“I’m really bothered by the complaint,” Domagala wrote to Shorewood building inspector Justin Burris. “These people have nothing to do but be in my business. I think we have some good track record of working together and following the rules. I once lived in the country full of communists who thought they can tell you how to live…. This is deeper than a complaint for me. It’s the idea, and if it continues I will move out of the area.”

Domagala went back to the village later in summer 2020 after his wife reported a drone flying over their property during an unsettling time due to the pandemic and public demonstrations against the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis.

“Can you confirm that it was not (a) village of shorewood drone?” he wrote to building inspector Burris, who informed him he did not believe it was.

“… This situation is becoming more and more annoying. Between People from out of town who want to use my front lawn as their own,  My driveway being constantly blocked by cars on a day like yesterday,,Atwater being occupied by A crowd that does not live in shorewood where I can’t go to the playground with my own kids and perhaps meet a neighbor, the trespassers, the riots and finally the village chasing me whenever there is some communist with the idea that they want a piece of my beach, I’m trying to find reasons to stay in shorewood and Justify 25K spent on taxes every year.”

Burris, who described Domagala as cordial and cooperative in all his dealings with the village, nevertheless ordered the ramp shortened so it did not trespass on the public’s lakebed.

“I ask that you obtain a permit for the deck/boat launch structure that was constructed without a permit,” Burris wrote on June 19, 2020. “The structure will have to be modified so it does not project beyond the OHWM.”

Domagala did that work but he also drew attention from the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources that summer for installing piles of rocks directly in front of his compound to protect it from encroaching water after Lake Michigan water levels had climbed dramatically. State regulators found that the fortification was in an area they considered clearly below the Ordinary High Water Mark, where structures are not allowed without meeting rigid permit requirements.

“This would require a DNR permit for a structure on the bed of a waterway,” the DNR’s Michelle Hase wrote to the Shorewood Planning & Development Department on June 4, 2020. She said the DNR wasn’t about to grant such a permit. “Even if this area was exempt from permitting for rip rap/revetment, this project would not meet the exemption standards and would require a permit. It is also very unlikely we would permit this amount of fill/type of structure.”

Several days later, the DNR backed off.

“We received some guidance on Lake Michigan erosion control projects and unless there is a major resource impact, the DNR is not pursuing active enforcement,” Hase wrote to Shorewood’s planning department.

After hearing that news from the village, Domagala asked Burris if he should ask the DNR whether it would require any other modifications.

“You could contact the DNR, but how I read it was that they’re not going to be following up or asking you to remove or modify anything,” Burris wrote to Domagala. “That isn’t to say that they may not in the future, but the old adage says, let sleeping dogs lie.”

The DNR did not answer Wisconsin Watch’s question about why it took no enforcement action. A spokesperson wrote: “A member of DNR’s compliance team did reach out to the property owner regarding unpermitted shoreline erosion control, but the matter did not result in elevated enforcement.”

Questions about shoreline enforcement

Since then it seems most of the barking has been coming from Domagala; he testified at the Dec. 2, 2025, beach-walking trial that he had called police to report people trespassing on the beach last summer “at least” 50 times.

Todd Ambs, a former head of the DNR’s water division, says the agency does not routinely police Wisconsin beaches for development violations. It instead relies on public complaints to point out potential problems that, in turn, prompt the DNR to investigate.

The standing-room-only trial last month has indeed riled an avid lake-advocating community eager to point out potential problems with Domagala’s property. It includes Cheryl Nenn of the conservation group Milwaukee RiverKeeper. She has spent more than two decades working to protect the region’s waterways, and when she looks at the compound that has sprouted from the Shorewood sands in the past decade she is left with one word to describe it.

“Crazy.”

She is not alleging the compound as currently configured is out of compliance but says, from her experience with waterside developments, it appears that the compound may at least partially sit in the no-build zone below the Ordinary High Water Mark, especially when she compares it to the high-water line the DNR drew for nearby Atwater Park. That line goes right up to the greenery at the base of the bluff.

“It would be a good idea to have someone from the DNR get down there and delineate the Ordinary High Water Mark,” she said of the beach in front of Domagala’s compound, adding she isn’t looking to cause trouble for the homeowner. Quite the opposite. The no-build rule below the high-water mark, she says, “protects the lake and public rights, but it also protects the landowners …because the lake can be a mean, mean bitch.”

Dan Egan is the author of the New York Times bestseller “The Death and Life of the Great Lakes” and the Brico Fund Journalist in Residence at the Center for Water Policy in the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee’s School of Freshwater Sciences.

Public property. No trespassing? Man hopes his $313 ticket will reshape Lake Michigan shoreline access is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

This story was produced in partnership with the University of Wisconsin-Madison’s Investigative Journalism class taught in the School of Journalism and Mass Communication.

When Alec Hembree fell through the ice on Lake Wingra last winter, he remembered, “it was instantaneous.”

It was just after dark on Jan. 20. The temperature was around 2 degrees. Hembree was riding his bike across the frozen lake from his work on Madison’s east side to his home on the west side, a commute he had tried successfully for the first time the previous week. When he fell in, his feet couldn’t touch the bottom. He barely had time to be scared.

“I think there were a couple people on the lake,” Hembree said. “They wouldn’t have been able to get to me before I got out.”

The air was so cold, Hembree’s leather gloves immediately froze to the icy surface of the lake when he tried to pull himself out. After about 30 seconds in the water, he was able to pull himself and his bike out. It all happened so fast, he wasn’t sure how he did it. He thinks his training from being an Eagle Scout helped. 

“Everything was in an ice shell at that point,” he said. He biked 10 minutes to a co-worker’s house, where he used a hair dryer to thaw his jacket zipper and get out of his frozen clothes before his co-worker gave him a ride home.

Hembree’s experience is becoming more common on Wisconsin’s lakes. For some, falls prove deadly. The Department of Natural Resources last winter recorded five people statewide who died falling through the ice on off-highway vehicles across the state. Between 2020 and 2024, similar accidents accounted for a total of seven deaths.

According to the Madison Fire Department, the Lake Rescue Team was dispatched four times to rescue people who fell through the ice in 2025 and six times in 2024, though only once in 2023. Through the end of 2025, the department had responded to 39 incidents of people falling through the ice since 2016. On Dec. 27 (as this story was being finalized for publication) the department rescued another individual who had fallen through the ice on Lake Mendota.

But those are only the incidents where the Lake Rescue Team was dispatched, so the stories of Hembree and others who fell through the ice and managed to escape aren’t included.

“This (past) year has probably been one of the more dangerous years on ice that I can remember,” said Lt. Jacob Holsclaw, the Wisconsin DNR’s off-highway vehicle administrator.

Treading on Wisconsin’s frozen lakes has gotten more dangerous, creating cost for taxpayers and business owners and calling into question the future of an important state pastime.

A growing trend

Trekking on Dane County’s frozen lakes is a common winter activity for southern Wisconsin residents.

“Walking on frozen lakes” was the most common activity on the lakes among respondents to a 2010 Dane County Land & Water Resources Department survey. At 28%, that was more common than swimming, kayaking, boating, or fishing from a boat or pier. Other ice-related activities such as skating and fishing were more popular than water skiing, jet skiing and sailing. The study authors estimated that close to 110,000 Dane County residents — more than a fifth of the population — walked on the county’s frozen water bodies at least once in 2010.

The heavy usage of the frozen lakes provides a revenue stream for numerous Dane County businesses and nonprofits. For example, the Clean Lakes Alliance hosts the annual Frozen Assets Festival, in which hundreds of participants take part in a fundraising 5K on frozen Lake Mendota and others enjoy scientific demonstrations, ice skating, kiting, boating and other ice-related activities.

But the future of frozen recreation in Dane County is in peril. Madison winters are getting shorter and less predictable. And falls through the ice are becoming more common.

Ron Blumer, a Madison Fire Department division chief who heads the department’s Lake Rescue Team and has been with the city since 1995, said in recent years his team has conducted “a lot more responses” to calls to rescue people who fell through the ice.

Part of the uptick can be attributed to climate change and the shrinking number of days of 100% ice cover on the Yahara lakes. Since 1855, when the Wisconsin State Climatology Office began consistently tracking Lake Mendota’s freezing and thawing dates, the lake has stayed frozen for an average of 102 days every winter. But only in four of the last 25 years has Mendota been frozen that long. During the 2023-24 winter, the lake was frozen for 44 days — a more than 20-year low. Last winter it froze for 69 days.

There’s no ‘safe’ ice

While information about how thick ice should be for walking or driving varies between sources, there is some consensus: No ice is ever completely safe.

“We really shy away from saying that there’s ever any ice that’s 100% safe,” Holsclaw said. The DNR’s website offers no hard and fast rules for what’s considered a “safe” thickness.

“You cannot judge the strength of ice by one factor like its appearance, age, thickness, temperature or whether the ice is covered with snow,” the website reads. “Ice strength is based on a combination of several factors.”

Air temperature is just one of those factors. But others include wind, sunlight, whether the ice is near a spring or other moving water, and whether the ice is frozen water (black ice) or mixed with snow (white ice).

“Black ice can withstand a lot more force (than white ice),” said Adrianna Gorsky, a freshwater and marine sciences Ph.D. candidate at UW-Madison. “Even if you have really thick white ice, it might not be as strong as if you had black ice only.”

Fluctuations in temperature during winter can also have a marked effect on ice thickness and quality. In January and February of 2025, it wasn’t uncommon for temperatures to fluctuate by tens of degrees within a single week in Dane County. On Jan. 21, the day after Hembree fell through the ice, Madison temperatures were in the single digits. A week later, on Jan. 28, the high temperature was 49 degrees. This frequent melting and thawing back and forth, Gorsky said, could result in mixed layers of black and white ice that would compromise the ice’s structural integrity.

Variations in temperature can also make lake ice expand or contract, causing pressure heaves or large cracks to form in the surface of the ice.

“And there will be a gap in there where there’s thin ice or no ice at all,” said Jon Mast, a lieutenant on MFD’s Lake Rescue team. These areas can be especially dangerous to walk near.

For as much that is known about factors affecting ice thickness and qualities, “there is a lot of unknown,” said Gorsky. That’s because winter limnology is relatively understudied compared to other areas of marine science.

“There’s a lot of things we still don’t know and a lot of theory that we’ve based off summer open water season that doesn’t really hold true for winter,” Gorsky said.

Increasingly visible effects of climate change on lake ice have precipitated “a cry for more research” in winter limnology, Gorsky added. And it can’t come soon enough. Because falls through the ice are costing local businesses, nonprofits and taxpayers money.

The cost of thin ice

In Madison, there are no fines associated with being rescued from falling through the ice. Because, Blumer said, “we want people to enjoy the lakes and to have fun.” But that fun still comes at a cost.

Businesses and organizations that rely on the ice for income are feeling the strain of weakening lake ice too.

In 2024 the Clean Lakes Alliance canceled all on-ice events for its Frozen Assets Festival, including the annual 5K. According to Sarah Skwirut, the Clean Lakes Alliance’s marketing coordinator, only around 200 participants participated in the on-land “winter workout” the organization hosted in lieu of the 5K, down from 800 who ran the 5K the previous winter, which generated around $30,000 for the nonprofit.

“If the lack of ice becomes more common in the future,” Skwirut said in an email, “we will need to adapt and find new ways to engage the community and promote our work.”

Small businesses are equally if not more affected by the phenomenon. In 2022, Pat Hasburgh purchased D&S Bait and Tackle in Madison, “very aware of what I was getting myself into as far as climate change and running a business that kind of depends on ice,” Hasburgh said. He admitted the recent, mercurial winters have made it difficult to plan for the ice fishing season.

“I mean, I had a pile of augers waist high in 2022,” Hasburgh said, citing that people are less likely to need such a high-powered tool to break through the ice in warmer winters. And 2024 was even worse.

“We had four weeks of ice, as opposed to three months,” he said. “That was a rough one to try to make it through as a business.” Hasburgh is used to around a third of D&S’s business coming from ice fishing, but guessed that it was probably less than a quarter in 2024.

Beyond Madison

The increase in falls through the ice is easier to see in a populous part of the state like Dane County. But the trend is apparent across Wisconsin. And in many cases, the cost is more than just lost business or an icy bike ride.

The five deaths this past winter happened in Pewaukee, Kenosha, Fond du Lac, Superior and Westfield, an hour north of Madison, where a man died on Jan. 6 after falling through the ice on Lawrence Lake while riding a UTV.

In a Facebook post, the Marquette County Sheriff’s Office urged the public “to avoid venturing onto frozen lakes or rivers unless they have confirmed the ice is thick enough for safe activities.”

The temperature in Westfield on Jan. 6 was below freezing and had been every day the previous week.

An October 2024 study published in Nature Reviews Earth & Environment warned that lakes between 40 and 45 degrees north latitude — a range that includes all of Wisconsin south of Wausau — could lose all safe ice for the winter sometime this century.

A solution may lie in more research. Gorsky said predicting the future of what winter is going to look like for lakes “is a really big research topic.”

For Hembree’s part, he considers himself lucky to be alive. But he has “no concerns” about going back on the ice. He’s enjoying it while he still can.

“If I do go out commuting on the lake again I will be, certainly, more cautious,” he said.

Wisconsin Watch is a nonprofit, nonpartisan newsroom. Subscribe to our newsletters for original stories and our Friday news roundup.

On thin ice: Falls through the ice on Wisconsin lakes are becoming more common. There’s more than just warm weather to blame. is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.