SPECIAL FEATURE

RAINMAKING

Should Clouds Have Silver Linings?

BY TOM FRANCISKOVICH

I have always had a thing with the rain. My family likes to say that, since I was born in Portland, Oregon, I actually have webbed feet— that’s not quite true, but one foot, my left, is a full size larger than my right. But, that’s not the point. My point is that I love it when it rains. At the risk of sounding like a granola-munching Portlander, when it rains, I don’t know, I just feel at peace, like Mother Nature is giving us all a fresh start by cleaning up the air and filling up our creeks and lakes. So, as I sit here feeling self-conscious about my gigantic left foot, a few tiny drops of rain tap on my office window and I find myself leaning in with the same posture, the same hopeful mindset I use every time I turn the key on my ancient veggie-oil-powered Mercedes… “Please start, please start.”

It is no secret that the Central Coast is currently experiencing an epic drought and, although our area has long been prone to prolonged arid conditions, the phenomenon seems to have become more frequent and more severe. Of course, weather records only go back so far, and debate over why the weather is changing continues. In September, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), a group of 2,000 scientists from United Nations member countries, made its most definitive statement yet when it said, “It is extremely likely that human influence has been the dominant cause of observed warming since the mid-20th Century.” The report then goes on to explain that by “extremely likely,” they mean the odds are 95% likely. While some may look at those findings and point to the 5% of doubt, the fact remains that the weather is changing; and it is doing so regardless of how anyone believes it is happening. And, the most important component of climate change on our little blue marble floating through outer space is, of course, water.

One of the most fascinating things about water, I think, is that all the water we have on Earth now is all the water we have ever had or ever will have. In other words, in your shower this morning it is possible that you shampooed your hair with some of the same water that General Washington had crossed on the Delaware River 237 Christmases ago. It’s what you call a closed system. No water in; no water out. Although, water, as we all know is just two particles of hydrogen bound to one particle of oxygen, H2O, and it can be synthesized in a laboratory by combining those two elements, it is nowhere near practical, nor cost-effective, to produce it in this way.

Once you understand the closed system nature of water on Earth, droughts start to mean a lot more than inconveniently discolored lawns. With 7 billion people now occupying the planet, finite resources have become, well, a lot more “finiter.” In places like rural SubSaharan Africa water is akin to liquid gold, and having consistent and reliable access is the difference between life and death. And, to a high-end Rocky Mountain ski resort, the difference between water, and therefore snow, is the difference between profit and loss. And to the Chinese, who practically guaranteed that it would not rain during the 2008 Olympics, it became a source of national pride. As losing face is a matter deeply ingrained in the culture, it explains why members of the Bejing Weather Modification Office fired 1,104 silver-laden rockets into ominous looking clouds prior to The Game’s Opening Ceremonies. When the Olympics were underway not a single cloud came anywhere near a sporting event without essentially being shot down by a shoulder-fired weather altering rocket.

Cloud seeding, as it is known, is nothing new and the technology is relatively simple. The idea was originally conceived in the 1830’s by a Colby College professor named James Flemming. His theory was not put to test until 1915 when the City of San Diego, which was then mired in an intractable drought, in desperation hired a fellow who identified himself as a “rainmaker.” Charles Hatfield, who sold sewing machines to make ends meet, scurried up some hastily constructed wooden towers hundreds of feet above the ground and blew his secret chemical concoction into the clouds overhead. As Hatfield carefully climbed back down the structure it began to rain, big, fat, heavy drops. And, it did not stop for 17 days. All told, 28 inches of rain fell, which washed out over one hundred bridges, flooded roads and homes, and displaced thousands of San Diegans. And, the United States military, which aided in the disaster response, stood up and took notice of the sewing machine salesman’s rainmaking antics. The fundamentals of making rain are actually quite easy to understand. Clouds are full of moisture, which comes from water that has evaporated from the ocean, for example, into the sky. But, in order for a drop to be heavy enough to fall to the ground, it requires something for the H2O molecules to bind themselves to, or condense around, which ordinarily would be some sort of dust particle. Depending on the nature of the cloud, those dust particles are often not able to condense drops heavy enough to fall as rain. That explains why not every cloud you see is a rain cloud. Many just float through the sky morphing in shape with the wind from a circus elephant, to your Aunt Mildred, to a wheelbarrow. The one thing that can potentially turn a cloud that resembles your dearly departed aunt into a torrential downpour is a chemical called silver iodide (AgI). That compound is more effective, by far, many claim, than any naturally occurring dust at condensing the moisture in clouds into raindrops. The problem is that you can’t get something for nothing, and the cloud seeded water that comes pouring down out of the sky also brings with it a whole lot of chemical residue.

Starting in 1966, the 54th Weather Reconnaissance Squadron initiated a campaign called Project Intermediary Compatriot with an effort they called “make mud, not war.” The intention was to wreak havoc with their pro-communist adversaries in Vietnam as they continuously seeded the clouds above the strategically important supply line known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail. By the time Operation Popeye—as it was later renamed—ended in 1972, the military completed over 2,600 cloud seeding missions. By 1977, the United Nations having observed the destruction as a result of the constant flooding, formulated a treaty ordering the “prohibition of military or any other hostile use of environmental modification techniques.” With the stroke of his pen in 1979, President

Jimmy Carter ratified the agreement, and it was no longer lawful to weaponize the weather. Still, to this day, cloud seeding is used domestically for much less sinister purposes. Big dollar ski resorts, currently eleven of them in the United States, use the technique routinely to ensure that their slopes remain the winter wonderland that their guests have come to expect. For the resort operators, the cost of paying a small, private plane equipped with silver iodide canisters to sweep overhead is far less than the cost of not having skiers show up to purchase lift tickets. With a ski season that only lasts a few months the math is easy. But, the cost to the environment is less quantifiable, as silver iodide, which has historically been used to develop photographic film, has not been studied extensively—at least not in the quantities that are increasingly being released into the clouds above. The Office of the Environment, Health & Safety at UC Berkeley rates silver iodide as “a Class C, non soluble, inorganic, hazardous chemical that pollutes water and soil and has been found to be highly toxic to fish, animals, and humans.” Studies have shown that, while perhaps not immediately apparent, silver iodide has, in fact, been affecting the ecosystem. After exposure, previously crystal-clear alpine lakes have been found spawning algae blooms. And, in perennially parched Australia, their pygmy possum populations began to disappear when silver iodide was introduced (the practice had been banned there, but after a protracted legal battle it was deemed lawful last year). Currently, cloud seeding is lightly regulated in the United States and, if it is done at all, rules concerning the use of silver iodide have been created at the state or county level. So why don’t we just get it over with and fire some weather altering rockets at those clouds that have been lazily taunting us from above the hills of Paso Robles, or over Cambria, or Nipomo? All of those cities have been particularly hard hit by our current drought. Wouldn’t the tradeoff, sending some silver iodide into the ecosystem, make it all worthwhile? Aside from the environmental concerns, the other issue is that there remains a legitimate question as to whether or not cloud seeding actually creates rain. Moreover, critics in the meteorological science community, of which there are many, charge that most of the cloud seeding success stories come from clouds and conditions which, left on their own, would have produced rain anyway. Additionally there is some evidence right here on the Central Coast that may lead some to question its efficacy. Since 1992, the Water Agency of Santa Barbara County has been dusting the clouds above the Twitchell Reserve Watershed, which supplies much of their drinking water. The body of water sits in Southern San Luis Obispo County near the Huasna Valley area, just south of Highway 166. The reservoir, which was artificially created by damming the Cayuma River, was completed in 1958, and is also designed as a rainwater capture area. When the water accumulates it is then released into the ground where it resupplies local aquifers. While Twitchell continues to play an important role in water management on the Central Coast, it is unclear weather or not the cloud seeding activities there actually work, as no studies have been conducted proving or disproving its effectiveness. Further, no credible research has been completed to measure its environmental impact. One thing is clear, however, and that is the critical importance of water to the health and vitality of everyone here on the Central Coast. Everything from our world-class vineyards to our hotels bustling with tourists use water, and a lot of it. Despite the promise of weather manipulation technology, there are still many questions that require answers. Most importantly: does it really work, and, if so, what is the effect on our environment? Knowing that water is a finite resource within a closed system I begin to realize—as I sit here watching the raindrops pelting my window, now with greater frequency—that wishing for more of it makes about as much sense to me as my Sasquatch-like left foot.

SLO LIFE