Pointe au Chin, no. Cherie Matherne looked at Bayou Pointe au Chien, wide enough for several boats to pass. In the distance, a cluster of dead trees marks where salt water flows during storm floods.
It wasn’t always this way. The bay was previously shallower and wide enough for a small boat to pass. Lands where cattle once roamed are now flooded, and elders tell stories of tree canopies that were once so lush that they are almost closed today.
The fine grid of the Louisiana coast has been steadily declining for generations. Meanwhile, the Pointe au Chin Indian tribe and other indigenous people struggle to protect what remains and adapt to their changing environment. This includes strenuous efforts to build temporary reefs that slow erosion and create sturdier homes and buildings to better withstand storms.
“We want to be able to make it happen so that people can stay here as long as possible, as long as they want to stay,” said Matherne, who as director of day-to-day operations for the tribe has helped coordinate its response to the erosion threat.
They hope to avoid the fate of the Jean-Charles Choctaw, a neighboring tribe forced out three years ago about 40 miles (64 kilometers) north from the encroaching Gulf of Mexico. The Isle de Jean Charles – their island home southwest of New Orleans – lost 98% of its land.
The Louisiana coast has been steadily declining for several reasons.
Dams along the Mississippi River cut off the natural flow of sand, silt and clay that make up the lands, starving wetlands of the sediment they need to survive. The canals have allowed saltwater to flow into wetlands, killing the freshwater plants holding them together and accelerating erosion. Groundwater pumping causes the land to sink, and greenhouse emissions from burning coal, oil and gas fuel hurricanes and accelerate sea level rise.
Since the 1930s, Louisiana has lost about 2,000 square miles (5,180 square kilometers) of land — sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. A USGS analysis found When erosion was at its worst, coastal wetlands the size of a football field were disappearing every 34 minutes.
It’s a difficult problem to solve without being able to rely on the Mississippi River to periodically drop sediment to preserve the land, said Sam Bentley, a geology professor at Louisiana State University.
“It will displace ecosystems, it will displace communities, it will isolate existing infrastructure along the coast,” Bentley said. “And there will be a lot of changes that will be very difficult to deal with.”
Indigenous burial sites and cultural sites are at risk of erosion, and traditional ways of life – such as shrimping, fishing and subsistence farming – are under pressure. Without action, researchers estimate the state could lose up to 3,000 square miles (7,770 square kilometers) — an area larger than Delaware — over the next 50 years.
Coral reefs built from oyster shells are one attempt to stop erosion.
Oysters are collected from restaurants, stuffed into bags and stacked offshore to form coral reefs. The program, launched by the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana in 2014, has recycled more than 16 million pounds (7.3 million kilograms) of shells in that time. This is enough to protect about 1.5 miles (about 2.4 kilometers) of shore.
Because the Pointe-au-Chene tribe had a 400-foot (123-meter) reef built in 2019 to protect a historic mound, the coalition measured a 50% reduction in the rate of land loss where the reef was built, said James Karst, a spokesman for the coalition.
But there are limits to what reclaimed oyster shells can do. There aren’t enough shells for Louisiana’s 7,721-mile (12,426-kilometer) coastline, and transporting them is expensive, so they must be strategic, Karst said. Many of the reefs they have built protect sites of cultural importance. They are also limited to areas where the water is salty enough for the oyster shells to last.
Their work may seem like a small drop in the bucket, “but when you’re losing ground at the rate you are now,” Karst said, “you need all the drops you can get in the bucket.”
Some of the coalition’s most recent work came about 30 miles southwest of Pointe au Chin territory, in an enterprise with the Grand Caillou/Dulac band of the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw tribe that concluded in November. It was built at the Maritime Consortium of Louisiana Universities, a location that is easy for the public to see and recognize, President Devon Parfitt said.
when Hurricane Ida The hurricane struck in 2021, making landfall in the area with maximum sustained winds of 150 mph (241 km/h).
Dozens of homes in and around Pointe-au-Chene were damaged or destroyed. Some families moved inland or left the area entirely, but most returned. With the help of groups like the Lowlander Center, a nonprofit that works with indigenous and coastal communities facing risks like climate threats and land loss, the tribe is rebuilding stronger.
The homes are raised off the ground and fortified with hurricane tape, heavy-duty windows and doors that can withstand high winds and water. Electrical equipment was raised to stay above storm level. They have rebuilt or repaired 13 homes; About five new homes are planned and they are raising money to fortify the remaining ten or so homes.
“We know that creating just one home in a community does not make a community safe,” said Christina Peterson, director and co-founder of the Lowlander Center. “It will only be safe if the entire community is involved in raising that level of safety.”
But challenges remain. State-recognized tribes have struggled to gain federal recognition, and without it, it will be difficult to get grants and other aid from the federal government, they said. Instead, they rely on partnerships with organizations and institutions.
Funding cuts approved by the Trump administration also make it difficult for tribes to achieve their goals.
The Grand Caillou/Dulac Band of Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw has applied for a federal grant to build a community center with food, water and emergency renewable energy designed to withstand hurricanes. When the cuts happened, their request was submitted.
Likewise, the Pointe-au-Chien region has applied for funds to install solar panels on every home, but they are not hopeful of getting their application approved.
Teresa Dardar, a Pointe-au-Chene senior, said a lot has changed in the five decades she has lived there. The pond behind her house became larger, and she could recognize Lakes Shane and Felicity. Now it was just a large body of water. People once hunted deer and walked through wooded areas.
What has not changed is calm and close relationships. Everyone knows everyone. People still hunt as the generations before them did.
“This is where our ancestors were, and we feel like we are abandoning them” to leave, Dardar said. “We have sacred sites that we still visit.”
By slowing the erosion process and building more homes, the tribe hopes that younger families will move to Pointe-au-Chene. They also know that protecting their lands from sinking under water will protect the interior.
As Dardar put it: “We are the buffer zone.”
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