California’s water crises have always inspired bold solutions, but few ideas rival the sheer audacity of John Isaacs’ proposal to tow a giant Antarctic iceberg to San Diego. A brilliant and unconventional researcher at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, Isaacs made waves in 1949 with his imaginative, though controversial, plans to quench California’s chronic droughts by harnessing the frozen reservoirs of the polar regions.
Isaacs’ career was defined by his boundary-pushing ideas. A polymath with a keen interest in marine biology, engineering, and climate science, he often operated at the intersections of disciplines, challenging conventional thinking. The iceberg-towing proposal exemplified his knack for blending vision and pragmatism—if one were willing to stretch the definition of “pragmatic.”
Isaacs theorized that large Antarctic icebergs could be wrapped in insulation to slow their melting and then towed by tugboats up the Pacific coast. The journey, spanning thousands of miles, would end with the iceberg positioned off the coast of Southern California, where its meltwater could be harvested to replenish reservoirs. Isaacs estimated that a single large iceberg, some the size of Manhattan, could supply tens of billions of gallons of freshwater—enough to offset drought conditions for millions of people.
John D. Isaacs (Scripps Institution of Oceanography)
The concept wasn’t a fleeting thought. Isaacs expanded on his idea in 1956, suggesting the capture of an eight-billion-ton iceberg—20 miles long, 3,000 feet wide, and 1,000 feet deep—and towing it to San Clemente Island off San Diego in approximately 200 days. He even calculated that a fleet of six ocean-going tugs could accomplish the feat, taking about six months to tow the iceberg from the 65th parallel south to the Californian coast.
In October 1973, the RAND Corporation took Isaacs’ vision further with an extensive report titled “Antarctic Icebergs as a Global Fresh Water Source” for the National Science Foundation. This 96-page document, authored by J.L. Hult and N.C. Ostrander, provided the most detailed scheme to date, transforming the theoretical idea into a more structured and mathematical model. It envisioned the creation of an “iceberg train” and delved into the technicalities and logistics of towing icebergs across the ocean. Hult explained, “Bringing icebergs to where the water is needed was suggested by John Isaacs of Scripps Institute of Oceanography in the 1950s. It is our job to show how practical it is.” However, the plan was not without eccentricities—such as the suggestion of using a floating nuclear power plant to supply the energy needed for the operation. The RAND report exemplified the ambition of its era, though many of its assumptions leaned heavily on theoretical modeling rather than practical viability.
AI rendering of an iceberg being dismantled (Midjourney)
Isaacs wasn’t alone in dreaming big. His proposal came at a time when other researchers and engineers were exploring similarly outlandish ideas, like seeding clouds with silver iodide to induce rain or building massive aqueducts from Alaska. But Isaacs’ iceberg scheme captured imaginations for its sheer romance and its symbolic uniting of Earth’s polar extremes with parched California landscapes.
Isaacs knew his plan faced enormous technical, logistical, and financial hurdles. For one, towing an iceberg would require immense energy and coordination, as well as a fleet of powerful ships. The iceberg’s tendency to melt during transit—especially when entering warmer waters—posed another significant obstacle. To mitigate this, Isaacs suggested covering the iceberg in reflective materials or insulating blankets to slow heat absorption.
Then there was the issue of economics. Calculations revealed that the cost of transporting a single iceberg could run into the billions, far outweighing the price of more conventional water solutions like desalination plants or water recycling programs. Critics also worried about ecological disruption, from changing ocean currents to the impact on marine ecosystems along the iceberg’s route.
While Isaacs’ iceberg idea was never realized, it sparked a wave of creative thinking about unconventional water solutions. Today, some of the principles behind his ideas have resurfaced in modern innovations. Advanced engineering methods, including climate-resilient infrastructure and adaptive water management, owe a debt to the exploratory spirit of Isaacs’ era.
AI rendering of an aqueduct built to carry water from Alaska to California (Midjourney)
The iceberg-towing concept is occasionally revisited, especially as climate change intensifies water scarcity. For example, in recent years, researchers in the United Arab Emirates have considered similar plans to bring freshwater from polar ice to arid regions. Advances in materials science and energy efficiency have made some aspects of Isaacs’ vision more feasible, though the logistics remain daunting.
John Isaacs’ career extended far beyond icebergs. He contributed to deep-sea exploration, studied the effects of nuclear fallout on marine life, and was an early advocate for understanding the ocean’s role in climate systems. His interdisciplinary approach and willingness to embrace unorthodox solutions left a lasting impact on oceanography and environmental science.
Isaacs’ iceberg proposal remains a testament to his fearless creativity and his deep commitment to solving humanity’s greatest challenges. While the world never saw an iceberg floating past Los Angeles, Isaacs’ bold thinking continues to inspire researchers grappling with the complex interplay of science, technology, and the environment.
In the summer of 1942, aboard the USS Jasper, a team of scientists embarked on a mission off the coast of San Diego, California, a hub for U.S. Navy operations and other military activities vital for the Pacific Theater of World War II. Their goal was to test a new technology called “long-range active sonar,” developed to detect enemy submarines—specifically Japanese submarines and German U-boats—during World War II. Long-range active sonar is a technology that sends sound waves through the ocean to map and visualize the seafloor across great distances, revealing details of underwater topography and structures that would otherwise remain hidden beneath the waves.
The expedition was led by Carl F. Eyring, an accomplished acoustic physicist known for his pioneering work in sonar technology. Eyring, along with his colleagues Ralph A. Christensen and Russell W. Raitt, played crucial roles in the mission. Their combined expertise in acoustics, naval operations, and marine science made them the perfect team to explore the deep ocean with sound.
The USS Jasper in 1945—just a few years after scientists discovered the first evidence of the Deep Scattering Layer during a research cruise aboard the ship. (Photo: Naval History and Heritage Command)
As they deployed sonar pulses into the depths, they encountered an unexpected anomaly: a persistent, dense layer approximately 300 yards (about 274 meters) below the surface that scattered their acoustic signals. It was almost as if the ocean floor had risen, looming closer with a strange, unyielding presence that defied all explanations.
This new reading was a complete anomaly, contradicting everything they knew about the seafloor’s topology. It was as though a solid mass had somehow materialized in the depths—a mass dense enough to obscure their sonar and make the familiar landscape unrecognizable. At the same time, their signal strength readings spiked erratically, suggesting significant interference in the water.
Carl F. Eyring (Brigham Young University)
The discovery of this peculiar layer presented an intriguing puzzle to the scientists aboard the Jasper. Yet, with a war raging, they couldn’t afford to lose focus. Instead, they concentrated on measuring its dimensions and mitigating the acoustic interference it created. Determining its true nature would have to wait for another time.
It wasn’t until almost three years later, in 1945, that oceanographer Martin Johnson deployed nets into the Pacific and uncovered the truth: the layer was actually a massive cloud of marine animals, most no larger than a human finger, migrating daily from the deep ocean to the surface and back. This dense biological layer, packed with animals capable of reflecting sonar, had created the illusion of a solid mass, effectively “masking” the true depth of the ocean floor by reflecting sonar waves off the swim bladders of the fish and other marine organisms.
Bristlemouth trawled from the ocean’s twilight zone (Erik Olsen)
This phenomenon, later termed the Deep Scattering Layer (DSL), created a “false bottom” in sonar readings, revealing an unexpectedly dense concentration of biological life in a mid-ocean zone once thought to be relatively sparse. The discovery of the DSL challenged assumptions about life distribution in the ocean, showing that vast numbers of organisms—such as fish, squid, and zooplankton—populate these depths, rising and descending with daily cycles to avoid predators and optimize feeding.
The DSL is situated within the ocean’s mesopelagic zone, commonly referred to as the twilight zone, which extends from about 200 to 1,000 meters below the surface. This region is characterized by minimal sunlight penetration and hosts a diverse array of marine life. Indeed, this huge swath of biomass is exactly what the sonar was picking up. This remarkable behavior observed in this zone is the diurnal vertical migration—the largest daily movement of biomass on Earth, the world’s largest animal migration. Each evening, billions of organisms (some scientists actually believe they number into the quadrillions) including small fish like lanternfish, hatchetfish and bristlemouths, ascend toward the surface to feed under the cover of darkness, retreating to the depths at dawn to evade predators. (Bristlemouths, by the way, are said to be the most numerous vertebrate on the planet.)
Scattering layer seen on sonar (Erik Olsen)
The discovery of the DSL provided significant insights into marine biology and oceanography. The layer’s composition—primarily swarms of marine animals with gas-filled swim bladders—explained the sonar reflections that mimicked the seafloor. This understanding highlighted the abundance and biodiversity of life in the twilight zone and underscored the importance of these organisms in oceanic ecosystems.
The discovery also led over time to an understanding of the role this layer plays in the carbon cycle, the very phenomenon that helps regulate Earth’s climate. The daily migration of marine animals in this layer is not just a remarkable biological spectacle; it is also a key mechanism for transporting carbon from the ocean’s surface to its depths. As these organisms ascend at night to feed and then return to deeper waters during the day, they excrete waste and many of them die, effectively moving carbon downwards, often sequestering it in the deep ocean floor where it can remain for centuries. This process, known as the biological carbon pump, plays a vital role in mitigating the effects of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, thus contributing to climate stability. Without the existence of the Deep Scattering Layer and its role in the carbon cycle, the Earth’s carbon balance would be significantly different, highlighting just how interconnected marine ecosystems are with global climate regulation.
In the decades following its discovery, the DSL has remained a subject of scientific inquiry. Advancements in sonar technology and deep-sea exploration have revealed the layer’s dynamic nature and its role in global carbon cycling.
Current research into the twilight zone, particularly by scientists at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution (WHOI), is uncovering fascinating insights into this enigmatic region of the ocean. The twilight zone remains one of the least explored parts of the ocean, despite being home to an abundance of life and playing a crucial role in global biogeochemical cycles. Woods Hole has been at the forefront of investigating this layer, employing advanced technology like remotely operated vehicles (ROVs), autonomous underwater vehicles (AUVs), submersibles, and cutting-edge acoustic techniques to understand its complex dynamics and ecosystem.
One of the leading researchers at WHOI, Dr. Heidi Sosik, has been focusing on the role that the twilight zone plays in the carbon cycle. Sosik’s work involves the use of automated imaging technologies to analyze the behavior and diversity of the organisms inhabiting this region. By documenting their daily migrations and interactions, Sosik’s team has been able to quantify the extent to which these animals contribute to carbon transport. This research is essential for understanding how much carbon is effectively being sequestered from the atmosphere through these daily migrations.
Bristlemouth fish (Erik Olsen)
Another prominent scientist at WHOI, Dr. Andone Lavery, is working to map the twilight zone’s acoustics in unprecedented detail. Lavery’s expertise in underwater sound technology has helped reveal not only the composition of the Deep Scattering Layer but also the behaviors of its inhabitants. Lavery’s recent findings indicate that the twilight zone’s acoustic properties are far more dynamic than previously thought, and these properties can significantly affect how marine animals detect predators and prey, as well as how researchers measure biomass in this layer.
Dr. Simon Thorrold, also from WHOI, has been studying the food web dynamics within the twilight zone. Thorrold’s research has uncovered surprising insights into predator-prey relationships among mesopelagic species. Using chemical tracers, his team has been able to track the movement of nutrients through the food web, revealing that many animals from the twilight zone are integral to surface ecosystems as well, either through vertical migration or being preyed upon by larger species such as tuna, swordfish, and marine mammals.
Scientists use a Triton submersible to explore the ocean’s twilight zone in the Bahamas. (Erik Olsen)
In addition, WHOI has been collaborating with international partners on the “Twilight Zone Exploration” (TZX) project, which aims to better understand how human activities, such as fishing and climate change, are impacting this critical part of the ocean. The mesopelagic zone is increasingly targeted by commercial fishing due to the sheer biomass it holds. Dr. Sosik and her colleagues are actively studying the potential consequences of harvesting these species, considering their importance in carbon sequestration and as a key link in marine food webs.
Together, these efforts are gradually revealing the twilight zone’s secrets, emphasizing its importance not only in regulating climate but also in maintaining the health of marine ecosystems. As the pressures of climate change and human exploitation continue to grow, understanding this mysterious part of the ocean has never been more critical.
The USS Jasper‘s encounter with the false bottom off California’s coast stands as a pivotal moment in oceanographic history. It not only unveiled the hidden complexities of the ocean’s twilight zone but also bridged the gap between military technology and marine science, leading to a deeper appreciation of the intricate and interconnected nature of Earth’s marine environments.
Marc Reisner’s Cadillac Desert: The American West and Its Disappearing Water remains a towering achievement in environmental journalism, decades after its publication in 1986. Chronicling the history, politics, and ecological consequences of water management in the American West, Cadillac Desert is not just an exposé of the past—it’s a cautionary tale that resonates today. With precision and passion, Reisner unraveled the intricacies of an arid region’s improbable transformation into one of the world’s most agriculturally productive and densely populated areas. His work has had a profound and lasting impact on how we understand water politics and environmental sustainability in California and beyond.
Cadillac Desert stands as a fitting successor to Wallace Stegner’s Beyond the Hundredth Meridian, continuing the exploration of water’s defining role in the American West. While Stegner championed the visionary work of John Wesley Powell and exposed the folly of ignoring the region’s arid realities, Reisner picked up the torch decades later to chronicle how those warnings were systematically ignored. Where Stegner painted a historical narrative of ambition and hubris, Reisner delivered a scathing and urgent critique of water politics, detailing the environmental and economic consequences of massive dam-building projects and unsustainable resource exploitation.
Colorado River
Cadillac Desert is, at its core, a gripping investigation into the manipulation of water resources in the American West. Reisner meticulously details how the construction of massive dams, reservoirs, and aqueducts enabled the transformation of a naturally dry landscape into a gargantuan economic powerhouse. From the Colorado River to the Los Angeles Aqueduct to California’s Central Valley, Cadillac Desert paints a vivid picture of engineering triumphs and environmental sacrifices, revealing the cost of this development to natural ecosystems, Indigenous communities, and future generations.
One of Reisner’s central stories is the tale of the Owens Valley. In the early 20th century, this fertile agricultural region was drained dry when the Los Angeles Aqueduct diverted its water to fuel the growing metropolis of Los Angeles. The story, replete with backroom deals, broken promises, and outraged locals, serves as a symbol of the greed and ambition that defined water politics in the West. Reisner weaves this narrative with the larger saga of William Mulholland, the ambitious engineer whose name is synonymous with both the success and hubris of L.A.’s water empire. This saga of water, power, and betrayal would later inspire the dark and iconic tale of Chinatown, the Roman Polanski film that captured the moral ambiguities and human cost of Los Angeles’ relentless thirst for growth.
Marc Reisner (Water Education Foundation)
Another cornerstone of the book is the story of the Colorado River, a waterway Reisner calls the most controlled and litigated river on Earth. He charts the creation of the Hoover Dam and the vast network of canals and reservoirs that distribute its water across seven states. The book reveals how over-allocation of the river’s resources, coupled with decades of drought, have pushed it to the brink of collapse—an issue that has only grown more urgent since Cadillac Desert was published.
Hoover Dam in 1936 (United States Bureau of Reclamation)
Reisner also dissects the Central Valley Project and the State Water Project, two gargantuan efforts to turn California into an agricultural Eden. By moving water from Northern California to the arid south, these projects enabled California’s emergence as a global agricultural leader. But Reisner doesn’t shy away from exposing the social and environmental consequences: drained wetlands, salt buildup in soils, and a system that prioritizes agribusiness over the needs of small farmers and urban residents.
What makes Cadillac Desert extraordinary is not just its scope but its style. Reisner’s journalistic rigor is matched by his ability to tell a compelling story. He brings characters like Mulholland and Floyd Dominy, the brash commissioner of the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation (part of the U.S. Department of the Interior), to life with vivid detail. At the same time, his writing is infused with moral urgency, challenging readers to question the sustainability of a society built on unsustainable water use.
Owens River in the Eastern Sierra (Erik Olsen)
The book’s legacy is immense. It galvanized environmentalists and policymakers, inspiring debates about water rights, conservation, and the future of development in the West. Documentaries, academic studies, and even contemporary water management policies owe much to the awareness Cadillac Desert raised. In California, where water battles continue to define politics and development, the book remains as relevant as ever.
As we face a future of intensifying droughts and climate change, Reisner’s insights grow more prescient by the day. California is still grappling with the overuse of groundwater, the challenges of aging infrastructure, and the inequities in water distribution. And while new technologies and policies offer hope, the central question Cadillac Desert poses—how do we balance human ambition with the limits of nature?—remains unanswered.
California Aqueduct (Erik Olsen)
Tragically, Reisner passed away in 2000 at the age of 51 from cancer, cutting short the life of a writer who had so much more to contribute to our understanding of environmental challenges. His death was a significant loss to the fields of journalism and environmental advocacy, but his legacy endures through his groundbreaking work. Cadillac Desert continues to inspire new generations to confront the urgent questions surrounding water use, conservation, and the future of the planet.
Marc Reisner’s Cadillac Desert is not just a history of water in the West; it is a call to rethink our relationship with one of the planet’s most precious resources. At once an epic tale and an urgent warning, it stands as a monumental testament to the price we pay for bending nature to our will.
In early 1934, Southern California experienced one of the most tragic and devastating natural disasters in its history as a populated region: the Los Angeles flood of 1934. This flood, largely forgotten today outside of the areas directly affected, struck La Crescenta, Montrose, and other foothill communities with devastating force, reshaping not just the landscape but the way California approached flood management and disaster preparedness. It was one of the deadliest floods in Los Angeles history.
The catastrophe took shape in early January after a period of intense rainfall, likely the product of an atmospheric river, a weather phenomenon that can deliver extreme, concentrated rainfall over a short period. In this case, a series of storms in early 1934 carried moisture from the Pacific Ocean directly into Southern California. The storms brought unusually heavy rain to the region, especially to the steep, fire-scarred San Gabriel Mountains.
Nearly 12 inches of rain poured over the foothills in a span of a few days, saturating the steep slopes of the San Gabriel Mountains. The natural landscape was already vulnerable, scarred by wildfires that had burned through the mountains in recent years, leaving slopes exposed and unable to hold the sudden deluge. At this time, the practice of fire suppression had only just begun, meaning that the region’s dry, chaparral-covered mountainsides were naturally prone to burns, which often created perfect conditions for flash floods in winter. Once the rainfall reached a critical level, water, mud, and debris barreled down the mountains, channeled by steep canyons that funneled the destructive flow toward the communities below.
A worker digs out a car and the remains of a home on Glenada Ave. in Montrose. (LA Times)
La Crescenta and Montrose were hit hardest, with residents astonished by walls of mud and rock rushing down their streets. Homes were swept from their foundations; trees, rocks, and debris clogged roadways, and massive boulders tumbled down, crushing cars, smashing into homes and rolling into the middle of once-busy streets. The disaster destroyed over 400 homes and claimed dozens of lives, and numerous people were injured. The streets were piled with silt and debris, several feet thick, which made rescue efforts nearly impossible at first. Additionally, infrastructure like power lines and bridges was obliterated, leaving the communities isolated and in darkness. The floodwaters, swollen with debris, rushed into homes, sweeping families out into the chaos, while cars and buildings alike were left buried or carried off entirely.
Believing it to be a secure shelter for the night, a dozen people took refuge in the local American Legion Post 288. Tragically, the building lay squarely in the path of a powerful debris flow that swept down from Pickens Canyon. The force of the flood shattered the hall’s walls, filling it with thick mud that buried everyone inside before surging on its destructive path. Today, a modest memorial honors those lost to the 1934 flood, overlooking the site of the former hall, which has since been converted into part of the flood control infrastructure.
American Legion Hall damaged by flood and mudslide, La Crescenta-Montrose, 1934 (LA Times)
In the aftermath of the tragedy, local and state governments were forced to confront the region’s vulnerability to such floods. At that time, Los Angeles was in the throes of rapid expansion, with more people moving to suburban areas near the San Gabriel Mountains. The flood, along with an even more destructive one in 1938, firmly swayed public opinion toward a comprehensive flood control strategy. The concrete channels that cut through Los Angeles today are part of this system, designed to swiftly carry water past the city and out to the ocean. brought a clear message: these communities needed better protection. As a result, California embarked on an ambitious flood control plan that would shape Los Angeles County’s infrastructure for decades. Engineers and city planners constructed a network of dams, basins, and concrete channels, including structures like the Big Tujunga Dam, to control water flow from the mountains. The Los Angeles River was channeled and paved, transforming it from a meandering, unpredictable river into the hard-lined, brutalist urban waterway we see today. The Arroyo Seco and other channels were also developed as part of this system to divert stormwater, preventing future flood damage in surrounding communities.
People survey the damage to their cars and roads in the aftermath of the flood. (LA Times)
Over the years, this engineering effort proved largely effective in preventing a recurrence of the devastation that struck La Crescenta and Montrose. However, modern critics argue that these concrete channels, while functional, have disconnected Los Angeles from its natural water systems, affecting both wildlife habitats and the local ecosystem. In recent years, the focus has shifted toward exploring more sustainable flood management techniques, with an eye toward revitalizing some of the natural waterways. This includes restoring parts of the Los Angeles River with green spaces, enhancing biodiversity, and creating flood basins that can handle overflow while supporting ecosystems. In this way, the 1934 flood has left a long-lasting impact, as it continues to influence flood control policies and urban planning in the region.
Mud, rocks, and wrecked cars littered Montrose Avenue in Montrose after the New Year’s flooding. (LA Times)
Today, with climate change bringing more extreme weather, Los Angeles is once again reflecting on its flood infrastructure. The LA River Restoration Master Plan is an ambitious project aimed at transforming the Los Angeles River from a concrete flood channel back into a vibrant, naturalized waterway that serves as a green space for local communities. The plan envisions revitalizing the river’s ecosystems, improving water quality, and creating public parks, walking trails, and recreation areas along the river’s 51-mile stretch. By reconnecting neighborhoods and restoring wildlife habitats, it seeks to bring nature back into the urban core. However, the plan comes with significant challenges, including an estimated cost of up to $1.5 billion and complex engineering demands to ensure flood safety while restoring the river’s natural flow and ecology.
Rendering of a section of the LA River part of the Los Angeles River Revitalization Master Plan (Wenk Associates)
The 1934 flood serves as a sobering reminder of the dangers posed by sudden, intense rainfall in fire-prone mountainous regions. As California experiences more intense wildfire seasons, the cycle of fire followed by flood continues to be a significant threat. The legacy of the Los Angeles flood of 1934 underscores the delicate balance required in managing natural landscapes and urban expansion and remains a critical part of understanding how communities can—and must—adapt to an unpredictable climate future.
Update (February 2025): The Ivanpah Solar Electric Generating System, once a milestone in renewable energy, now faces possible closure. Pacific Gas & Electric has agreed to terminate its contracts, citing the higher cost of Ivanpah’s solar-thermal technology compared to photovoltaics. If approved, two of the plant’s three units could shut down by 2026. Southern California Edison is also considering a contract buyout, adding to uncertainty. Environmental concerns, including bird and tortoise deaths from intense solar radiation, have further complicated Ivanpah’s legacy, reflecting the challenges of large-scale clean energy projects.
In the heart of the Mojave Desert, a glittering sea of mirrors sprawls across 3,500 acres, harnessing the relentless desert sun to power homes and businesses across California. As you drive to or from Las Vegas to the West, the facility rises from the desert, resembling an alien spaceport in the distance. From the air, passengers on flights over the desert can easily spot the plant, with its three towering structures gleaming nearly as brilliantly as the sun.
This ambitious undertaking, known as the Ivanpah Solar Electric Generating System, stands as one of the largest concentrated solar power (CSP) plants in the world. Since its completion in 2014, Ivanpah has been celebrated as a major milestone in renewable energy innovation, while also facing considerable scrutiny and challenges.
The idea behind Ivanpah was born from the vision of BrightSource Energy, led by Arnold Goldman, who was an early pioneer of solar thermal technology. Goldman had previously been involved with Luz International, a company that attempted similar solar ventures in the 1980s. Those early projects struggled due to high costs and limited efficiency, eventually falling victim to the market forces of low fossil fuel prices and a lack of policy support. But by the mid-2000s, the winds had shifted. California, driven by its Renewable Portfolio Standard (RPS), began pushing aggressively for renewable energy sources, setting ambitious targets that mandated utilities procure a large percentage of their electricity from clean sources. This provided fertile ground for a revived effort in concentrated solar power.
Ivanpah Solar Power Facility, a glittering sea of mirrors sprawls across 3,500 acres, harnessing the relentless desert sun to power homes and businesses across California. (Erik Olsen)
With significant financial backing from NRG Energy, Google—which has a strong interest in promoting renewable energy as part of its sustainability goals—and the U.S. Department of Energy (which provided a $1.6 billion loan guarantee), the Ivanpah project broke ground in 2010 and began operation in 2014. By its completion, it had become a landmark renewable energy installation—a bold attempt to demonstrate the viability of CSP technology at scale, with a capacity of 392 megawatts (MW), enough to power around 140,000 homes at peak production.
Ivanpah’s CSP technology differs significantly from the more common photovoltaic (PV) solar panels that typically sprawl across rooftops and solar farms. Instead of directly converting sunlight into electricity, Ivanpah employs a central tower system that uses concentrated solar power to generate steam. The facility harnesses the reflections of 173,500 heliostats (large mirrors) spread across the desert floor, each of which tracks the sun throughout the day using computer algorithms, reflecting sunlight onto a central receiver at the top of Ivanpah’s three 450-foot towers.
Photovoltaic solar array in the Mojave Desert in California (Erik Olsen)
Inside these towers, the intense, concentrated sunlight heats water to temperatures of over 1,000°F (537°C). This heat turns water into steam, which drives turbines to generate electricity. This process—turning solar energy into heat, then into steam, and finally into electricity—requires multiple stages of energy conversion, introducing inefficiencies along the way. While innovative, these conversions come with inherent energy losses that ultimately affect overall efficiency. Some of these inefficiencies and energy losses were unanticipated, demonstrating the complexities of scaling concentrated solar power to this level.
The theoretical efficiency of CSP systems like Ivanpah is generally around 15-20%. By comparison, modern PV panels convert sunlight directly into electricity, achieving efficiencies of 15-22%, with some high-end models exceeding 25%. The direct conversion of sunlight by PV systems avoids the multiple stages of transformation needed by CSP, making PV generally more efficient and cost-effective. That is not to say the project was not an unworthwhile effort, just that it has not yet met the early expectations for the technology.
Ivanpah Solar Power Facility from an airplane. (Erik Olsen)
While Ivanpah was a leap forward in solar technology, it has faced several challenges, both technical and environmental. One of the first issues arose in the initial years of operation: the plant produced less electricity than anticipated, often falling short of its projected targets. This shortfall was attributed to a combination of technical complications, lower-than-expected solar irradiance, and operational adjustments as engineers sought to optimize the plant’s complex systems.
In addition, Ivanpah relies on natural gas to preheat its boilers in the early morning or during cloudy weather, ensuring the turbines are ready to operate as soon as the sun provides enough energy. This auxiliary use of natural gas has sparked criticism, with some questioning whether Ivanpah can truly be considered a clean, renewable energy source. While the natural gas usage is minimal relative to the plant’s total output, it highlights a practical limitation of CSP systems, which need to overcome the intermittent nature of sunlight.
Environmental impacts have also drawn attention. Ivanpah’s vast array of mirrors produces a phenomenon known as solar flux, a concentrated field of heat that can reach temperatures high enough to injure or kill birds flying through it. Dubbed ‘streamers,’ because of the smoke that comes from their wings when they burn in midair, birds that enter this concentrated beam often die. (Here’s a video about it.) A report from the California Energy Commission refers to what they call a “megatrap,” where birds are drawn to insects that are attracted to the intense light emitted from the towers. This unintended effect on wildlife has been a significant concern for conservation groups, prompting Ivanpah to work on mitigation measures, including testing visual deterrents to keep birds away.
A burned MacGillivray’s Warbler found at the Ivanpah solar plant during a visit by U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service in October 2013. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service/AP Photo
Moreover, the sheer size of Ivanpah, covering a significant area of desert land, has raised concerns about the impact on local ecosystems. The Mojave Desert is a delicate environment, and constructing such a large facility inevitably affected the flora and fauna, prompting debates about whether renewable energy projects should be balanced with efforts to preserve pristine habitats.
Ivanpah is just one of several large-scale CSP projects around the globe. Another notable example is the Noor Ouarzazate Solar Complex in Morocco, which is one of the largest CSP installations in the world. The Noor Complex uses both parabolic trough and solar tower technologies and, crucially, incorporates molten salt to store heat, allowing it to generate electricity even after the sun has set. The use of molten salt offers several advantages over water-based systems like Ivanpah. Molten salt can retain heat for longer periods, enabling the plant to continue generating power during periods of low sunlight or even after sunset, which greatly improves grid reliability and helps balance energy supply with demand.
The Crescent Dunes Solar Energy Project, once a symbol of cutting-edge solar technology with its 640-foot tower and field of over 10,000 mirrors, now stands as a cautionary tale of ambitious renewable energy efforts. Despite its initial promise, the project was plagued by technical issues and ultimately failed to meet its energy production goals, leading to its closure. (U.S. Department of Energy)
Similarly, the Crescent Dunes project in Nevada was another attempt to utilize molten salt for energy storage. It initially showed promise but struggled with technical setbacks and eventually ceased operation in 2019 due to persistent issues with the molten salt storage system and failure to meet performance expectations. The technology, although innovative, struggled with high maintenance costs, particularly with the heliostat mirrors and salt storage tanks. The company behind Crescent Dunes, SolarReserve, went bankrupt after being sued by NV Energy for failing to meet its contractual obligations.
Despite these setbacks, the project has not been fully decommissioned. ACS Cobra, the Spanish firm involved in its construction, now operates the plant at reduced capacity, mainly delivering energy during peak demand at night. Although Crescent Dunes has never reached its full potential, it continues to produce some electricity for Nevada’s grid, albeit far below the originally planned levels.
Crescent Dunes underscored the challenges associated with large-scale CSP projects, particularly the difficulty of balancing complexity, maintenance, and operational costs. However, the use of molten salt in Crescent Dunes demonstrated the significant potential for improving CSP efficiency through effective thermal storage, highlighting a critical advantage over water-based systems like Ivanpah that lack extensive storage capabilities.
While CSP holds the advantage of potential energy storage—something PV cannot inherently achieve without additional batteries—PV technology has seen a steep decline in cost and significant improvements in efficiency over the past decade. This rapid evolution has made PV panels more attractive, leading to widespread adoption across both utility-scale and residential projects. Hybrid projects, like Phase IV of the Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum Solar Park in Dubai, are now combining PV and CSP technologies to maximize efficiency and output, utilizing each technology’s strengths.
Ivanpah remains operational, continuing to contribute renewable energy to California’s grid.
Photovoltaic solar array in the Mojave Desert in California (Erik Olsen)
Governor Gavin Newsom has commented on the importance of renewable projects like Ivanpah in meeting California’s ambitious clean energy goals. Newsom has praised Ivanpah as a vital component of the state’s effort to transition away from fossil fuels, emphasizing the need for innovative projects to meet California’s target of achieving 100% renewable energy by 2045. He has highlighted the symbolic value of Ivanpah, not only as a source of clean energy but as a testament to California’s leadership in renewable technology and environmental stewardship. Its story is one of both ambition and caution, highlighting the promise of concentrated solar power as well as its practical and environmental limitations. In many ways, Ivanpah serves as a testbed for CSP technology, providing valuable insights into the challenges of scaling such systems to utility-level production. It has also sparked discussions on the role of CSP compared to other forms of renewable energy, especially as battery technology advances to address PV’s storage challenges.
While CSP is unlikely to overtake PV in terms of widespread adoption due to its complexity and cost, it still has a role to play, particularly in regions with intense sunlight and a need for energy storage. The lessons learned at Ivanpah—both the successes and the setbacks—will inform the next generation of solar projects, driving innovation and helping policymakers, engineers, and investors make more informed decisions about the future of renewable energy infrastructure.
Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum Solar Park (Government of Dubai)
California’s solar and renewable energy installations have seen remarkable success in recent years, as the state continues to push toward its ambitious goal of 100% clean electricity by 2045. In 2024, California achieved several milestones that highlight the effectiveness of its clean energy initiatives. For example, the state has more than 35,000 MW of renewable energy capacity already serving the grid, with 16,000 MW added just since 2020. A key component of this growth is the rapid expansion of battery storage, which has become essential for balancing the grid, especially during peak demand times when solar power diminishes in the evening. In 2024 alone, battery storage capacity grew by over 3,000 MW, bringing the total to more than 13,000 MW—a 30% increase in just six months
In addition to storage, new solar projects like the Blythe Solar Power Project, which generates 485 MW of photovoltaic power and adds 387 MW of battery storage, are powering over 145,000 homes, further demonstrating California’s leadership in clean energy development. This continued investment not only strengthens the grid but also ensures resilience during extreme weather events, which have become more frequent due to climate change.
Despite these successes, California still has a long way to go. The state will need to bring an additional 148,000 MW of renewable resources online by 2045 to fully meet its goals. However, with the state’s rapid advancements in storage technology, solar capacity, and governmental support, California is well on its way to achieving a cleaner, more sustainable energy future.
Google arranged the mirrors at Ivanpah to create a tribute to Margaret Hamilton, the pioneering computer scientist who led the software engineering efforts for the Apollo space missions. (Google)
Beyond its role in renewable energy, Ivanpah has also found itself at the intersection of technology and art. One notable example is when Google arranged the mirrors at Ivanpah to create a tribute to Margaret Hamilton, the pioneering computer scientist who led the software engineering efforts for the Apollo space missions. This artistic alignment of mirrors highlighted Ivanpah’s versatility—not just as an engineering marvel for energy generation but also as a symbol of human achievement. The intricate choreography of heliostats to form an image visible from above served as a powerful visual homage, merging art, science, and technology in a striking way. Such projects have helped broaden the cultural significance of Ivanpah, presenting it not only as a source of renewable energy but also as an inspirational platform that celebrates human creativity and accomplishment.
The next time you’re driving to Vegas and spot the three massive, sun-like objects glowing in the desert, give a thought to the immense power—and challenges—of harnessing the sun’s energy in such a dramatic way.
Imagine a massive island off the coast of California roughly thrice the size of Maui, a lush and wild place where miniature mammoths once roamed and ancient humans hunted in the shadows of towering trees. This island once existed and it’s called Santarosae, and while it is gone now, it was once a thriving ecosystem, teeming with life. Its story provides a captivating window into the ever-changing natural history of the California coast region.
During the last Ice Age, approximately 20,000 to 25,000 years ago, when sea levels were significantly lower, Santarosae Island was a single, expansive landmass that now comprises most of California’s Channel Islands. As the cooler Pleistocene climate transitioned into the warmer Holocene (the epoch we are in now), the Earth’s oceans heated and expanded. Continental ice sheets and glaciers melted, releasing vast amounts of water and causing sea levels to rise dramatically.
At its peak, Santarosae was massive—four of today’s Channel Islands (San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, and Anacapa) were all connected into a single landmass. It spanned around 1,500 square miles, making it a significant feature of the Pacific coast landscape. Today, only remnants remain in the form of those four separate islands, but evidence of Santarosae’s ancient past continues to reveal itself to scientists.
Map depicting the reconstructed geography of Santarosae.
Anacapa was the first to break away, around 10,300 to 10,900 years ago, as rising waters gradually submerged the narrow isthmus that once connected it to the rest of Santarosae. This slow disintegration of the super island was witnessed by the humans already inhabiting the region. Having arrived between 12,710 and 13,010 years ago, possibly even earlier, these early settlers likely traveled by boat, following the “kelp highway“—a rich, coastal ecosystem of underwater seaweed forests stretching from northern Japan and Kamchatka, along the southern shores of Beringia, down the Pacific Northwest, and into Baja California. For these early explorers, Santarosae would have appeared as a land of abundant resources.
One of the island’s most captivating features was its population of pygmy mammoths, found exclusively on Santarosae. Standing between 4.5 to 7 feet tall at the shoulder and weighing around 2,000 pounds, these miniaturized versions of mainland Columbian mammoths were about the size of a large horse and evolved to suit their isolated island habitat (see our story on the island biogeography of the Channel Islands). The reasons for their dwarfism stem from a phenomenon called island rule, where species on islands often shrink due to limited resources and isolation, as well as a shortage of predators. Despite their smaller size, these island-dwelling mammoths likely shared many characteristics with their larger relatives, including a similar body shape, short fur, and a large head. These mammoths roamed Santarosae until they disappeared around 13,000 years ago, coinciding with both climate changes and the arrival of humans.
Pygmy Mammoth excavation on the Channel Islands (NPS)
The first discovery of “elephant” remains on Santa Rosa Island was reported in 1873. Over time, additional excavations provided insight into the island’s mammoth population, which gradually became smaller over generations, eventually disappearing at the end of the Pleistocene. Notably, paleontological digs conducted on Santa Rosa Island in 1927 and 1928 unearthed the remains of a new species, Mammuthus exilis. In the 1940s and 1950s, Philip Orr of the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History recovered further specimens while conducting archaeological and geological work on the island.
Most pygmy mammoth remains have been discovered on Santa Rosa and San Miguel Islands, with fewer finds from Santa Cruz Island and even fewer from San Nicolas Island, which lies outside the Channel Islands National Park.
Santarosae was not just a wilderness for megafauna—it was home to some of the earliest known human settlers in North America. Archaeological discoveries, such as the remains of a 13,000-year-old woman unearthed on Santa Rosa Island, point to a sophisticated maritime culture. These ancient humans, likely ancestors of the Chumash people, navigated the waters around Santarosae in plank canoes, hunting seals, birds, and fish, while gathering plants and shellfish.
Archaeologists excavate a anthropological site at the Channel Islands (NPS)
The island provided ample resources, but it wasn’t isolated from the rest of the world. The people of Santarosae were part of a complex trade network that stretched across the California coast. Evidence of these connections can be seen in the tools and materials found on the island, some of which came from distant sources. As sea levels rose, however, these early inhabitants had to adapt to the shrinking island, eventually migrating to the mainland.
Santarosae’s landscape during the Ice Age was strikingly different from what we see on today’s Channel Islands. Dense forests of pines, oaks, and other vegetation covered much of the island, supporting a rich diversity of life. The island’s topography included hills, valleys, and freshwater sources, offering an ideal environment for both humans and animals. As the climate warmed and sea levels rose, the island’s ecology shifted. Forests retreated, and the landscape began to resemble the wind-swept, scrubby terrain seen on the modern Channel Islands.
Anacapa Island today (Erik Olsen)
The rise in sea levels didn’t just transform the landscape; it also altered the ecosystems. Many of the animals, like the pygmy mammoths, couldn’t survive the changing conditions (or human hunters), while new species adapted to the shrinking landmass. Birds, insects, and plant species began to dominate, and the island ecosystems became more specialized.
Today, the remnants of Santarosae offer an invaluable window into the past. The Channel Islands National Park protects much of the area, and researchers continue to uncover clues about the island’s history. Ongoing archaeological digs and ecological studies on the islands help piece together the story of Santarosae’s people, animals, and landscape.
Tourists now enjoy the natural beauty of the Channel Islands (Erik Olsen)
For those who visit the Channel Islands today, it’s hard to imagine the ancient world of Santarosae—a much larger island teeming with life. But the remnants of this lost island still hold secrets waiting to be uncovered, offering a fascinating glimpse into California’s distant past and a reminder of how the forces of nature continually reshape our world.
Though Santarosae is now submerged, its influence is still a significant part of California’s natural history.
California’s Monterey Formation is one of the most fascinating geological formations in the United States. Stretching along the California coast from San Francisco to Los Angeles, this formation is notable for its incredible diversity of siliceous rocks—rocks rich in silica, such as shale, chert, diatomite, and porcelanite. While these rocks are interesting to geologists, the Monterey Formation is also significant for its potential to explain the origins of petroleum deposits that have fueled California’s economy for over a century. NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory once called it “California’s primary petroleum source rock.”
Fracture network of joints and cross-joints exposed on bedding surface of siliceous shale. Note linked, larger-aperture fracture in center with oxidation rim. Montaña de Oro State Park. (NASA JPL)
At the heart of the Monterey Formation’s geology is the unique composition of many different types of rock that come together in such a way that they create an ideal environment for trapping oil. The intricate layering of organic-rich shales, siliceous rocks, carbonates, and diatomites forms a complex network of porous and permeable spaces, allowing oil to migrate into these reservoirs. Over time, these rocks act like natural sponges, effectively capturing and holding large quantities of oil within their formations, making the Monterey Formation one of California’s most significant petroleum sources. It is estimated that over 38 billion barrels of oil have been produced to date from fields whose source rock is the Monterey.
Diatomite, a light, porous rock formed from the fossilized remains of diatoms, is a dominant feature. Diatoms, microscopic algae with silica-based cell walls, thrived in nutrient-rich waters, leading to the thick layers of sediments that later became diatomite. Chert, another key rock type in the formation, is formed from the recrystallization of biogenic silica, adding to the complexity of the geological record. Interspersed with these are organic-rich shales, which contain substantial amounts of organic material called kerogen. Over millions of years, kerogen undergoes a biological transformation becoming the oil and gas that now serve as the backbone of California’s petroleum industry (see our story on the history of the Long Beach oil industry).
Diatoms (Wikipedia)
The Monterey Formation displays a fascinating and unusual mixture of geological deposits, from deep ocean basins to shallow continental shelves. During the Miocene, upwelling currents along the California coast brought nutrient-rich waters to the surface, fostering high biological productivity and depositing vast amounts of biogenic silica, a form of silicon dioxide (SiO₂) that is produced by living organisms. Periods of fluctuating sea levels, driven by climate changes and tectonic shifts, further shaped the environment. During low sea levels, parts of the continental shelf were exposed, allowing for erosion from wind and sun. These would shift to periods of high sea levels, which allowed for denser, deep-water sedimentation. In some layers, the presence of evaporites—minerals that form from the evaporation of water—suggests extensive episodes of arid conditions, similar to what we are experiencing now with California’s recurring periods of drought.
Offshore oil platforms along California’s coast drill into the Monterey Formation, either tapping directly into its fractured shale or extracting oil that has migrated into more porous sandstone reservoirs. (Photo: Erik Olsen)
Much of the pioneering research on the geology, formation, and unique composition of the Monterey Formation was conducted by the late Robert Garrison, a distinguished professor of oceanography at the University of California, Santa Cruz. Garrison was considered the foremost expert on the Monterey Foundation, and his work was instrumental in revealing how the Monterey Formation’s diatomaceous and phosphatic deposits were shaped by a combination of oceanographic upwelling, climatic shifts, and tectonic activity during the Miocene epoch.
Petroleum geologists find the Monterey Formation especially intriguing because it serves as both a source and a reservoir for oil and gas, allowing them to better understand the processes of oil and gas generation, migration, and accumulation, as well as to develop more efficient extraction methods to maximize its economic potential. They are also quite beautiful. Walk along the beach near Crystal Cove in Orange County, for example, and examples of Monterey Formation rocks abound.
Monterey Formation rocks near Little Corona in Newport Beach (Erik Olsen)
Oil is formed from the remains of ancient marine organisms, such as plankton and algae, that were buried under layers of sediment and subjected to heat and pressure over millions of years, transforming them into hydrocarbons. Some of these hydrocarbons migrated into more permeable rocks, creating substantial oil fields that have been exploited for decades in Southern California. Certain layers of the Monterey Formation, particularly the fractured chert and dolomitic sections, also serve as excellent reservoirs due to their porosity and permeability, allowing them to store oil and gas for long periods of time.
Beyond its geological and economic importance, the Monterey Formation is a treasure trove for paleontologists. Its layers preserve a variety of marine fossils, including diatoms, radiolarians, foraminifera, and coccolithophores. These microfossils offer a detailed look at past ocean conditions, helping scientists reconstruct the climatic and oceanographic history of the Miocene epoch. Additionally, the formation contains fossils of larger marine vertebrates, such as whales, seals, and fish, providing further insight into the ecosystems of ancient oceans.
Microscope image of microfossils and organic matter in Monterey rocks. (Cal State Long Beach)
However, the Monterey Formation is not just a source of knowledge and resources; it also presents challenges, particularly in terms of potential environmental harm and geohazards like landslides. The soft, diatomaceous earth layers within the formation are prone to landslides, especially when water-saturated or fractured by tectonic action. This makes some coastal areas of California, where the Monterey Formation is exposed, particularly vulnerable to slope instability, posing risks for construction and development. Many recent news stories have documented the increasing rate at which the California coast is tumbling into the sea. An excellent recent book on the subject is Rosanna Xia’s California Against the Sea: Visions for Our Vanishing Coastline.
California’s geology is a remarkable mosaic that tells a story of immense geological diversity and dynamic processes. Among its many treasures, the Monterey Formation stands out as a geological marvel—its intricate layers, rich fossil beds, and significant economic potential continue to captivate scientists and researchers from around the world. This unique formation is more than just rock; it is a time capsule that preserves millions of years of Earth’s history, from ancient marine ecosystems to dramatic shifts in climate and tectonic activity. As geologists, paleontologists, and environmental scientists delve deeper into its mysteries, the Monterey Formation reveals invaluable clues about the past while shaping our understanding of California’s ever-evolving landscape. It serves as a profound reminder of the powerful forces that have sculpted one of the most geologically varied regions on the planet and continues to inspire exploration and discovery in the fields of Earth science.
