The Lingering Shadow of Aliso Canyon: A Decade Later, The Fight Isn't Over

Ten years. A decade, in truth, has passed since that terrifying, seemingly endless cascade of methane began its insidious creep across Southern California. October 23, 2015 – a date etched into the memories of thousands, marking the onset of the Aliso Canyon gas leak, an environmental catastrophe so vast it remains, to this day, the single largest methane release in U.S. history. And yet, here we are, a full ten years on, and the very facility that unleashed such devastation? Well, it’s still very much online, you see.

It’s a peculiar thing, isn't it? To live in the shadow of such a monumental event, to know that the source of so much fear and illness continues to operate, almost as if the earth hadn’t bled poison for four months straight. For those in communities like Porter Ranch, it’s not just a historical footnote; it’s an ongoing nightmare. Patty Healy, for instance, a resident who’s become a tireless advocate, describes the decade as a “journey of suffering.” Her words carry the weight of countless others who have reported a horrifying litany of health problems: relentless nosebleeds, throbbing headaches, baffling respiratory ailments, and, most chillingly, a surge in various cancers.

You might think, after such an egregious event – some 100,000 tons of methane, along with benzene and other toxic chemicals, spewed into the atmosphere, displacing thousands of families – that action would be swift, decisive. But, honestly, the wheels of justice, or perhaps more accurately, the gears of regulation, turn with a glacial slowness here. SoCalGas, the company at the heart of it all, continues to operate Aliso Canyon, storing natural gas deep beneath the earth. It’s a crucial cog, they argue, in Southern California’s energy infrastructure. But at what cost?

Activists, like Kyoko Hibino, refuse to let the world forget. They’ve witnessed firsthand the profound, often invisible, toll this facility takes. Children still get sick, adults grapple with chronic conditions, and the pervasive sense of unease never truly dissipates. These are not isolated incidents; they are patterns, documented and lamented by the very people who breathe the air around this ticking time bomb. You could say, for once, that the community is not just fighting for a closure, but for a semblance of peace, a return to normalcy that has been denied them for too long.

The legal battles, of course, continue to drag on, adding another layer of exhaustion to an already weary populace. There are settlements, certainly, but money, as we all know, can’t truly mend shattered health or erase the trauma of being forced from your home by an invisible enemy. The state has been tasked with a plan to decommission the facility, to slowly but surely draw down its operations. But that process, like everything else connected to Aliso Canyon, has been agonizingly protracted. It leaves many wondering if the lessons of 2015 have truly been learned, or if the dangers, though perhaps less visible now, simply lie dormant, waiting for another moment to strike.

It’s a stark reminder, this decade anniversary, that environmental disasters don't always end when the news cycle moves on. For the residents near Aliso Canyon, the disaster is a continuous present, a shadow that lengthens with each passing year, and a fervent hope that, at last, true closure might arrive.