Most of the mining companies that drilled, dug and blasted for uranium
on the Navajo reservation during the Cold War did nothing to repair the
environmental damage they left behind. For a time, tribal leaders staked
their hopes for a cleanup on Superfund, the landmark legislation that
forces polluters to pay for remediation of toxic sites.
More than 1,000 abandoned mines are scattered across the Navajo
homeland, which covers 27,000 square miles in Arizona, Utah and New
Mexico.
Such a comprehensive cleanup is "exactly what Superfund was designed
for," said Paul Connor, a lawyer who once directed Superfund enforcement
policy for the Environmental Protection Agency.
It hasn t happened. Bureaucratic delays and misunderstandings between
the tribe and the EPA have prevented the Navajos from tapping
Superfund's deep pockets and broad legal authority.
Instead, the tribe reluctantly settled for a partial cleanup under a
separate program. That effort left many hazards untouched.
One of them is in Church Rock Mine, a Navajo community named for an
abandoned uranium site. A 30-foot-high heap of grit and dynamited stone
from the mine looms over a cluster of 15 homes. The wind roars for hours
at a time, scattering radioactive dust throughout the settlement.
For years, residents appealed to tribal leaders and the U.S. government
for help. In 2003, tired of waiting, they joined forces with Navajo
activists who were using a foundation grant to conduct radiation testing.
In a dry wash where generations of children had played catch and tag,
they discovered elevated radiation levels.
As word spread of the citizen effort, authorities stirred at last. Under
pressure from the tribe, the EPA opened negotiations with the mine's
operator, United Nuclear Corp., and its parent, General Electric Co., to
clean up the mess.
If the companies eventually foot the bill, it would mark the first time
a polluter has been held to account under Superfund for contaminating
the reservation.
But like the Church Rock families, members of other Navajo communities
are done waiting for the government to act. They have reached out to
environmental groups or university scientists, hoping to fashion their
own solutions.
"The Navajos need a champion," said Glynn R. Alsup, a retired Army Corps
of Engineers official who served as a liaison to the Navajos. "The EPA
and the tribe should be knocking on doors in Congress every year if they
need money. I don t see that happening."
Thwarted efforts
The Navajos allowed intensive uranium mining by private companies
starting in the 1940s. The lone buyer of the uranium was the federal
government. The nuclear arms race with the Soviet Union was just
beginning, and U.S. officials were desperate for material to make atomic
bombs.
In contracts typed on onion-skin paper, the companies promised to leave
the land "in as good condition as received." The federal Bureau of
Indian Affairs approved all leases and was supposed to enforce their
terms.
When demand for uranium eased in the late 1950s, mines and processing
mills began to close. The operators often left behind open tunnels and
shafts and piles of radioactive tailings. Rarely did they fence off the
sites or post warning signs. Federal inspectors knew of the hazards but
seldom intervened.
Decades passed. As former miners were dying of lung cancer and
respiratory disease in the 1970s, their widows started to wonder whether
they and their children were endangered by the detritus of the uranium boom.
In 1982, the tribal government demanded $6.7 million from a federal
claims court to seal and clean about 300 mines. The tribe argued that
federal inspectors had failed to enforce safety standards in order to
keep down the price of bomb material.
A judge rejected the claim in 1985, calling the allegations "entirely
speculative."
Next, tribal officials considered suing the mining companies. But a
legal consultant advised that victory was unlikely because the firms had
operated and departed with government approval.
The only other parties possibly liable were tribal members who had
staked mineral claims and leased them to outside companies. But few of
those Navajos made much money. Running short of options, the tribe
pinned its hopes on Superfund.
Superfund criteria
The 1980 law gave the EPA power to identify the worst toxic-waste sites
and force polluters to pay for cleanup, health studies, clinics,
maintenance and monitoring. If no polluters could be found, EPA could
pay for the cleanup from its $1.6-billion trust.
To get a site on Superfund s priority list, the tribe had to document
the pollution. So staff members of the Navajo environmental commission,
established in 1972, went from mine to mine, assessing contamination
levels.
As they drove near New Mexico s Haystack Butte in 1990, their radiation
detector began beeping. They determined that the radiation was coming
from two mining complexes just outside the reservation. More than 50
Navajos lived within half a mile. Inspectors from the federal Centers
for Disease Control and Prevention declared a health emergency.
Determining who was responsible for the contamination proved arduous.
Most of the mine operators had vanished. The Department of Energy paid
to clean a part of the site once leased by the Atomic Energy Commission.
Another portion was owned by the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway. A
subsidiary had mined there, and the railroad agreed to pay for
cleanup.
The EPA did not pursue any other companies and ultimately paid for the
balance of the cleanup — $500,000. The work was finished in 1992.
Sadie Hoskie, then the Navajo environmental administrator, figured there
had to be another way. Restoring the reservation one mine at a time
would take too long.
"We were concerned about the health impacts on the people," recalled
Hoskie, who was working for the Navajos while on leave from a position
at the EPA. "Their daily lives were not as safe as they believed."
In 1993, Hoskie went to Washington to complain. She told members of two
House subcommittees that the Navajos wanted "speedy, thorough and
permanent remediation of all sites."
Of 42 abandoned mines investigated by her staff, 28 were hazardous under
Superfund criteria. But none had made it onto the national priority list
— a sought-after status that all but assured the EPA would put its money
and muscle behind a cleanup.
The reservation's low population density worked against the Navajos in
the Superfund ranking system. The process "has proven a failure and must
be changed," Hoskie said.
Rep. George Miller (D-Martinez) criticized the "piecemeal and
uncoordinated approach" that "fails to eliminate the radiation health
hazard."
Bill Richardson, then a Democratic congressman from New Mexico and now
the state s governor, said the work at Haystack Butte was "all well and
good, but "there must be a final and complete way to address the
problems of cleanup."
Disagreements
To Hoskie, King Tutt Mesa illustrated the need for a comprehensive approach.
The rock tabletop in the reservation's northeast section was once the
domain of a Navajo couple named King and Despah Tutt.
From 1953 to 1958, the Tutts leased a parcel known as King Tutt No. 1
to a succession of operators, the largest of which was Vanadium Corp. of
America.
In 1989, Navajo inspectors visited the abandoned site and found huge
mounds of dust and ore rich in uranium and other heavy metals —
vanadium, selenium and arsenic. They also found products of uranium s
decay — radium, radon gas, thorium and lead.
About 200 mines had been bored into the mesa. Hoskie suggested lumping
them into one Superfund application. She believed that "the sheer number
of sites" would make the application hard to reject.
After hearing her House testimony, EPA officials said they would
consider the proposal.
In January 1994, tribal and federal officials gathered in Albuquerque to
devise a plan for the mesa. But they quickly got bogged down. They
couldn't even agree on the minutes of the meeting.
The Navajos thought the government had committed to pursuing
"responsible parties" early in the process and listed this as an "action
item" in their summary of the discussion.
After getting a copy, the EPA wrote back: "Please delete as an action
item…. USEPA did not agree."
In 1996, federal officials finally concluded that King Tutt Mesa did
meet criteria for a Superfund cleanup.
But because there were only 19 homes within three miles, its chances of
making the national priority list were uncertain, said Andrew Bain, a
regional EPA manager.
There was one sure way to make the cut. The Navajo president, like any
state governor, could designate a single site for the national list. If
the president wrote a letter, King Tutt Mesa could be the one.
But by then, the EPA was urging the tribe to consider a different path.
Another approach
Long before the uranium boom, miners had been digging for coal in Navajo
country. Hundreds of spent coal mines dotted the reservation, and by the
1990s the tribe was filling and sealing them.
The work was paid for with fees collected from coal mining companies
across the country and distributed by the Interior Department. The EPA
began pushing the Navajos to use this coal money to seal the uranium
mines, too.
Hoskie much preferred Superfund. The coal program wasn t designed to
deal with the complicated issues surrounding the uranium sites.
Superfund gave the EPA the power to clean polluted groundwater that had
spread beyond a mining site. The coal program couldn t pay for that.
Superfund could remove and replace homes built with radioactive waste, a
pervasive problem on the reservation. The coal program couldn t pay for
that, either.
Superfund could go after mining companies to pay for cleanups. The coal
program couldn t.
The rock tabletop in the reservation's northeast section was once the
domain of a Navajo couple named King and Despah Tutt.
From 1953 to 1958, the Tutts leased a parcel known as King Tutt No. 1
to a succession of operators, the largest of which was Vanadium Corp. of
America.
In 1989, Navajo inspectors visited the abandoned site and found huge
mounds of dust and ore rich in uranium and other heavy metals —
vanadium, selenium and arsenic. They also found products of uranium s
decay — radium, radon gas, thorium and lead.
About 200 mines had been bored into the mesa. Hoskie suggested lumping
them into one Superfund application. She believed that "the sheer number
of sites" would make the application hard to reject.
After hearing her House testimony, EPA officials said they would
consider the proposal.
In January 1994, tribal and federal officials gathered in Albuquerque to
devise a plan for the mesa. But they quickly got bogged down. They
couldn't even agree on the minutes of the meeting.
The Navajos thought the government had committed to pursuing
"responsible parties" early in the process and listed this as an "action
item" in their summary of the discussion.
After getting a copy, the EPA wrote back: "Please delete as an action
item…. USEPA did not agree."
In 1996, federal officials finally concluded that King Tutt Mesa did
meet criteria for a Superfund cleanup.
But because there were only 19 homes within three miles, its chances of
making the national priority list were uncertain, said Andrew Bain, a
regional EPA manager.
There was one sure way to make the cut. The Navajo president, like any
state governor, could designate a single site for the national list. If
the president wrote a letter, King Tutt Mesa could be the one.
But by then, the EPA was urging the tribe to consider a different
path.
Another approach
Long before the uranium boom, miners had been digging for coal in Navajo
country. Hundreds of spent coal mines dotted the reservation, and by the
1990s the tribe was filling and sealing them.
The work was paid for with fees collected from coal mining companies
across the country and distributed by the Interior Department. The EPA
began pushing the Navajos to use this coal money to seal the uranium
mines, too.
Hoskie much preferred Superfund. The coal program wasn t designed to
deal with the complicated issues surrounding the uranium sites.
Superfund gave the EPA the power to clean polluted groundwater that had
spread beyond a mining site. The coal program couldn t pay for that.
Superfund could remove and replace homes built with radioactive waste, a
pervasive problem on the reservation. The coal program couldn t pay for
that, either.
Superfund could go after mining companies to pay for cleanups. The coal
program couldn t.
Turning elsewhere
In 1998, the EPA finally began to test for radiation and water
contamination throughout the reservation. Navajo leaders saw reason to
hope for the thorough cleanup that had eluded them for so long. But the
sampling effort ended prematurely after an argument between tribal and
U.S. officials over control of information.
The Navajos demanded that the federal crew pack up and leave. The
sampling never resumed.
Ordinary Navajos resolved to turn elsewhere for help.
Milton Yazzie had been trying for seven years to get the tribe or EPA to
test springs and reservoirs in Black Falls, Ariz. He suspected that
cancers, kidney disease and eye problems among his family and neighbors
were connected to the uranium mines. Yazzie drove an hour or more to
Flagstaff, Ariz., several times a week to fill barrels with drinking
water for his family.
In 2002, he persuaded EPA officials to hold a meeting at his parents
home to talk about uranium hazards. A year later, the agency honored him
as an "environmental hero." He drove to San Francisco to receive a
plaque.
"Despite approaching numerous agencies, the area remains without clean,
regulated water," an EPA news release said.
Yet six months later, the EPA denied an application from the U.S. Indian
Health Service for a grant to bring clean water to Black Falls. The
project was "ineligible," EPA officials said, because there was no
evidence that the locals were drinking polluted water.
At wit's end, Yazzie asked researchers at Northern Arizona University to
help. He guided chemistry professor Jani Ingram to six springs, wells
and reservoirs. Tests of the water found dangerous concentrations of
uranium and arsenic.
The Indian Health Service went back to the EPA. Eventually, the agency
provided $830,000 for a pipeline to Black Falls Bible Church, where
water will be sold to residents. The pipeline is expected to be finished
in 2008.
But Yazzie, 49, said he would always wonder whether tainted water caused
the kidney cancer that took his sister's life last year. She was 59.
When a tribal official e-mailed condolences, Yazzie typed a choppy
reply: "There isn t a day that goes by thinking, what if I had done
things differently, something would have been accomplished."
In the hamlet of Red Valley, Ariz., residents fear that pollution from
uranium mines will spoil their plans for a new ball field, senior
center, high school and other development. The planning committee
contacted Franz Geiger, a chemist at Northwestern University, who
sampled six wells in June 2004 and found uranium and arsenic. The
concentrations were particularly high in a well serving 200 students at
Red Rock Day School.
Back on campus, Geiger and a student researcher experimented with
filters they hoped would remove the contaminants. The filters took out
uranium, but not arsenic.
"It's at best a temporary solution," Geiger said, "but it's
something."
A big gray heap
Before United Nuclear Corp. began mining there in 1968, the valley where
the big waste pile now stands was called Red Water, for the color of the
local pond after a heavy rain. But residents soon adopted the name of
their noisy new neighbor, Church Rock Mine.
Before long, they got used to the rumble of pickup trucks dropping
low-grade ore off a ridge. In time, the waste pile reached the top of
the cliff and stretched along its breadth.
Teddy Nez, his wife and their children lived about 500 feet from the
heap. When United Nuclear closed the mine in 1982, Nez assumed the
company would haul away the waste. He was wrong. He watched with concern
as sheep, goats and cattle climbed up the pile and onto the ridge and as
people searched the property for sacred herbs for healing ceremonies.
Through the 1980s, Nez, his wife Bertha and her cousin lobbied Navajo
leaders to complain to the EPA.
Diane Malone, the tribe s liaison to the Superfund program, said she
didn t learn about the waste pile until the mid- 90s, and then by
chance. She was invited on a tour of United Nuclear s nearby processing
mill, just off the reservation, which was being cleaned under
Superfund.
Malone glimpsed the gray heap on the Navajo side of the border. On
future visits to the mill site, she d ask company and EPA officials:
"Why is that pile still sitting there?"
"Nobody really took it seriously," she said.
Through fellow Navajos, Church Rock residents made contact with Chris
Shuey, who studies uranium issues for the Southwest Research and
Information Center in Albuquerque. With Shuey s help, Navajo activists
had obtained a $90,000 grant to conduct radiation testing. Church Rock
Mine was added to the project.
On learning of the grass-roots effort, the EPA provided technicians and
a van with radiation-scanning equipment. The tribe donated detectors and
training.
Malone joined the Navajos who walked through the residential community
near the waste pile in October 2003, halting every few steps to take
readings at waist and ground level. The morning was cold and blustery
and the readings confirmed that the sand stinging their faces was
radioactive.
"We just wanted to get out of there," she said.
The EPA concluded that chronic exposure to the radiation levels in the
valley could lead to bone, liver and breast cancers.
In September, after negotiations with the agency, United Nuclear agreed
to investigate the extent of the contamination. Then the two sides will
discuss what further steps to take.
The network of families in the valley includes 96 grandchildren. The
grown-ups want them to be able to stay and raise families of their own.
"We would like for them to build houses here that are safe," said Teddy
Nez. "That's our goal."
(Por Judy Pasternak, Los Angeles Times, 21/11/2006)