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BEFORE WE OPEN THE DOORS TO SMOGTOWN, WE WANT TO THANK THE MANY people who gave us a tour, or at least pointed us in the right direction. Special credit goes to South Coast Air Quality Management District (AQMD) librarian Hiawatha Norris and her assistant Lora Trapp for retrieving files and tracking down obscure materials, and to district spokesman Sam Atwood for answering our inquiries. We also owe a major debt of gratitude to Gladys Meade, a legendary California clean-air advocate who granted us interviews while recovering from a serious illness. Jim Birakos, the district’s former communications chief and deputy executive officer, has our hearty appreciation, for knocking the dust off his files and memories from that brown-air period. Others deserving our appreciation include former and current California Air Resources Board chairs Mary Nichols, Tom Quinn, and John Dunlap, in addition to Bill Sessa, the board’s ex-longtime spokesman. Former AQMD executive officer James Lents gave us tremendous insight, as did Ed Camarena, the district’s onetime-enforcement boss. To all those other officials not listed here, please know your contributions show up in these pages and in our thoughts.

We’re equally appreciative of the archivists at our local institutions, particularly Shelley Erwin at the California Institute of Technology Archives, Simon Elliott at the University of California at Los Angeles’ Department of Special Collections, and Bruce Carouchet at Los Angeles County. The folks at the California State Archives and the University of Southern California Regional History Collection came through for us, as well, organizing dozens of boxes of documents for review. So did the capable people at the California State Library, the ARB Library, The Ronald Reagan Library, and the Los Angeles and Pasadena public libraries.

WHATEVER SCIENCE TELLS US ABOUT SENSE-OF-SMELL HARBORING OUR most enduring memories, any longtime Southern Californian knows that barraged lungs have a recall all their own. We were both youths here in the 1960s and 1970s, and our bronchial tracts remember the clotted skies that draped our hometowns in a mist of hydrocarbons, soot, lead, acidic gases, and particles that made entire mountain ranges disappear. They can’t forget the stabbing ache during sandlot baseball games, where you sometimes ran the bases feeling dizzy, or going to grab the morning paper and inhaling gasoline vapors. All our moms could do as we straggled in from the outdoors was to dispense aspirin, maybe a damp washcloth, and tell us to rest; the forecast called for letup in a week. Luckily, we didn’t know any better, so when the patio furniture faded and the flowers browned, when asthma, bronchitis, even cancer, unexpectedly decked our loved ones and acquaintances, we figured all big American cities lived saddled like this. We didn’t know then that the government that had vowed to give Los Angeles back its famous sun had practically self-immolated in its failure to deliver. In our boyhood reveries, we only knew that when temperatures rose and the landscape receded, you were supposed to breathe warily until you got indoors.

With those memories in our respiratory DNA, we bring to you L.A.’s greatest crisis as survivors of it. Our parents’ friends stored gas masks. Our P.E. classes were canceled on account of hovering hydrocarbons. To us, Orange County got its name from the color of its atmosphere, not its indigenous fruit. Moreover, though, we now recognize smog’s capacity to pounce again, no matter the massive gains that put light blue back in the horizon. Civilizations always seem to create ashes faster than anybody can sweep them up.

For reasons you’ll discover, air pollution was a devil at once ironic and insidious. Over the decades, it became an almost natural state requiring unnatural vigilance. Hundreds of thousands of people died from it, mostly from slow acting diseases, in a toll dwarfing local losses to war, traffic accidents, and gang bloodshed. Versatile in its mischief, it also provoked murders, suicides, mental disorders, faithlessness, and a reactionary itch for blame. It unleashed corporate skullduggery and tainted science, idling movie productions and beloved pets along the way. Presidential candidates hacked in it, hikers cursed it, comedians made jokes about it, and airline pilots disparaged it for obscuring UFO sightings (really). How far did it penetrate our world? Check out the statistics showing the Dodgers were more likely to win when the air hurt. Type in the four-letter word “smog” into the Los Angeles Times database, and you’ll get back more than 75,000 hits covering the years 1940-1970. When rock singer Commander Cody sang, “I’m lost in the ozone again,” we understood. It was our ozone, too.

Your authors met in the early 1990s, when Chip was a cub reporter, William the spokesperson for the beleaguered-yet-revered regional agency charged with reversing this destruction. It was a period when the air had grown alarmingly toxic again after years of steady improvement, as Los Angeles and Houston were battling not to be crowned the planet’s air-pollution capital. Frustrated regulators here ordered mandatory carpooling, smokeless barbecue briquettes, oil-free paints, and other crackdowns, while business asked, “Why blame us?” and environmentalists hollered, “What about the poor?” In many respects, it was déjà vu from our boyhoods. Tens years later, scarred by the fact the murky air remains, we decided to pen the L.A. smog phenomenon.

Be forewarned, though, this is not your father’s environmental tome. Down at the library you’ll find a mound of books exploring smog policy, smog chemistry, smog law, and enough automotive engineering to bore Mr. Goodwrench. Neither is this a campy, low-brow take on the subject. (There’s eBay for that, or 1971’s Godzilla Vs. The Smog Monster.) What you’ll find here, instead, is a broader social history with splashes of science, regulation, and culture mixed in. As denizens and writers, we focused on the human element in all its wheezy urgency. Along the way, we hope we extracted some lessons for a world looking to green over its damage.

THE BEAST YOU COULDN’T STAB FANNED ITS POISON ACROSS THE waking downtown. Cunning and silent, its gray mist engulfed buildings and streetcars, obscuring the sun and killing all sense of direction as it assaulted Los Angeles’ citizenry with a face-stinging burn. Though nobody realized it then, the mystery cloudbank would rattle the planet—making “green” a cause, not just a color—but first there was the suffering, a city full of it. Inhaling the viscous stuff socked folks with instant allergies whether they had them before or not, eyes welled, throats rasped, hands grasped for hankies and for answers. On July 8, 1943, crowds from Grand Avenue to Union Station muttered surprise at the abruptness of the confounding haze, later mouthing anger at whoever was responsible. The pall, which seemed to have lunged from everywhere and nowhere at once, was a real day-wrecker. After a few hours, what had been a steamy West Coast morning in the town that had shredded notions that one place couldn’t have it all felt more like a party crashed by industrial fire.

Peoples’ attempted escapes from the noxious cloud bred hair-raising street drama. Blinded drivers jerked from side to side to avoid collisions. Mothers snatched up frightened children into ornate lobbies for shelter. If it was hard on pedestrians, it was hellish for the beat cops supervising public safety, let alone for any dangling window-washers. Whatever had summarily blanketed downtown was reminiscent of a harsh, pea-soup London fog. Then again, this was Southern California, where fabulous sunshine was a birthright. Try telling that to the beast.

From within the horn-honking turmoil spread a wild rumor that the cloudbank meant war—chemical munitions the Japanese had lobbed in a sneak attack. With Pearl Harbor and the Imperial Navy’s shelling of Santa Barbara, might this be the first salvo against L.A.? Was mustard gas next? By hour two, the tendrils of the murky climes had thickened and widened, edging toward the northern foothills, where the big-spenders lived against the national forest’s piney backdrop. An irritating haze had intermittently gripped the central city since the turn of the century. Never a crisis before, it was fodder for blue ribbon committees and the reason for a drawer full of ordinances targeting smoke, soot, and odors. Now the stuff had re-materialized with a vengeance and, maybe, an agenda. Deprived of the sweet air they’d taken for granted, tens of thousands of Angelenos hacked: the thin and sickly, the corpulent moneymen of Spring Street, jug-eared Boy Scouts, grimy trench diggers, haberdashers, transplanted Okies. A judge furious that acrid air had invaded his courtroom threatened to adjourn for the day, the docket be damned.¹

City health inspectors instructed, even shushed Angelenos not to overreact. A focused crackdown, they said, should make the hijacked sun reappear. Engineers suspected that a rogue factory had leaked the gases, which the freakishly warm weather then trapped around the city. To officials’ delight, easy breathing returned the next day with the sunny skies. Relief and even corny humor rippled through the City of Angels. The Los Angeles Times, then Southern California’s archconservative conscience, joked that the onslaught was the product of “sulfurous fumes from a heated meeting in the mayor’s office” over streetcar-strike negotiations.² The laughing, however, was not universal. One councilman, risking the Cassandra crown in a land of optimism, warned they had better stem the recurring attacks or brace for the city frittering into a “deserted village.” ³ Balderdash, replied Los Angeles Mayor Fletcher Bowron, a judicious, owlish man whose forte was legislative nuance and stem-winding speeches. Angelenos had chosen Bowron and his progressive, good-government plank after a police and vice scandal doomed his predecessor. Bowron could sense people’s jumpiness about whether the fume-beast might spring again, so in August the mayor provided a fatherly guarantee. There would be, he promised, “an entire elimination” of the vexing plume within four months.⁴

So began the official campaign to make Los Angeles’ air sparkle uninterrupted. If you had predicted then that the airshed would remain hideously unhealthy sixty-five years later, somebody might’ve questioned your lucidity, perhaps even your patriotism. It was all about belief. When smog collared the city in the early 1940s, local government assessed it a moderate nuisance as fixable as a pothole-chewed boulevard. Los Angeles—America’s newest industrial powerhouse, not just its redoubt of Hollywood cool—had, after all, a military to arm and a neon future to invent. After the first batch of rulemaking accomplished little, a troupe of politicians from Bowron to eventually Ronald Reagan enacted progressively tougher rules that they expected would give the people back their sky. Smog, though, had a knack for dragging these expectations into exasperation, for inverting cheery promises into broken ones. As the years passed, the chemical air humbled many of the countermeasures against it with tenacity and guile, sowing discord among its victims, be they aggrieved family men or scapegoated industrialists. They knew smog would have its say into whether Southern California represented a land of the future or a civic flash-in-the-pan, and influence it would. Just when you thought it had lifted, it would strike harder, smudging the West Coast dream with a vapory char.

Not to fear, big voices proclaimed. America’s technological ingenuity had throttled the Axis and now was putting astronauts into orbit and push-button appliances into kitchens. Science held the answer to pure air without requiring disruptive lifestyle changes. Los Angeles, as such, converted itself into the world’s first-ever laboratory for smog destruction, its millions of inhabitants the test subjects. But, that’s getting ahead of the story.

In the summer of 1943, the city’s engineering department readied itself to apprehend the guilty. Out in the field, testers collected a hodgepodge of airborne samples—ammonia, formaldehyde, sulfuric acid, dust, chlorine—that would’ve been impressive if the men had not been so baffled about their origin. Most Angelenos, sweating rent, their focus on family and overseas combat, were disinterested in the chemistry of what was making them sniffle and tear. They just wanted their outdoors back. Regrettably, when Los Angeles’ City Hall finally fingered the source of the returning fumebank, it fingered the wrong culprit. This rashness had some justification. Southern California’s dry, crystal-fresh air was the dominant characteristic of the upbeat metropolitan personality. It was God-given advantage, central to lifestyle and commerce, worth practically any defense.

L.A. consequently burst into the unchartered world of air-pollution abatement less like Raymond Chandler’s shrewd detective Philip Marlowe and more like gunslinger John Dillinger. When spot inspections, triangulated coughing, and grimy drapes all pointed in the same direction—a Southern California Gas Co. factory east of downtown—authorities assumed it was the sole villain. Blame the obscure Aliso Street plant for shooting phenol and benzol from misfiring generators, they said. After a September 9 episode of wickedly gray air—the Times dubbed it a “daylight dimout,” the day thousands “wept, sneezed, and coughed” from “man-made hay fever”—Bowron snarled that he’d put an end to it. His men would slap code violations on the plant if the irritating fumes continued. The only reason inspectors had not already padlocked the factory was that it was a cog in the rubber-manufacturing cycle the military needed.⁵ Plant grit blistering the paint-jobs on nearby cars unnerved the mayor about its effects on delicate humans. Managers of nearby hotels and restaurants harbored their own fears, aghast to find that the air had splat black, greasy residue on their curtains and furniture. “The problem is fumes,” stressed councilman John Baumgartner. “There is no question that the main cause is the butadiene—so why beat around the bush?”⁶ Determined, city attorneys burned the midnight oil to return the city—including its dirty sofas—to normal.

The Feds were perspiring, too. They understood that Los Angeles, with its $9 billion in military contracts, was an armaments-production hotbed—not some backwater in revolt. They dispatched Col. Bradley Dewey, the U.S. “Rubber Czar,” to the West Coast for emergency consoling. The squat, whitehaired Dewey could work a room. Speaking inside the starchlinen environs of the California Club, he told the assembled audience that the gas company was close to perfecting new fume-cutting equipment that’d make things right. It had to; the factory was irreplaceable. With the bulk of the world’s natural rubber supply in the hands of the Japanese military at the time, the U.S. armed forces had become desperate for synthetic versions of it. Military brass had selected the West Coast, with its strategic location and manufacturing base, as the nexus for expanding production of the versatile, stretchy material. With that in mind, the Aliso Street plant had undergone a $14 million conversion that enabled it to mass produce crude butadiene, which then was used as feedstock in artificial rubber. Dewey stressed the connection between that operation and the plight of American combat troops overseas. After softening the crowd up with patriotic guilt, he promised breathable improvement by December. If not, he said, “You can call me a bum and I will close down the plant myself.”⁷

Dewey’s peace mission convinced Los Angeles and Pasadena to drop their prepared injunctions against the gas company. For the rest of ’43, with the factory offline for retrofits and the city bearing down on other flagrant smoke sources, the skies shimmered again in pale-blue majesty. These basic steps, the Times chest-thumped, had liberated the town.⁸ As if on punchline, the murk returned.

When the groans subsided, civic government mobilized with a battery of new entities and proclamations suggesting an offensive against a conquerable adversary. The Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors, a powerful board of five unglamorous “little kings” who oversaw the county’s unincorporated sections, appointed a “smoke-and-fumes” commission. In 1945, they shotgunned through a county ordinance limiting smoky effluents from backyard trash-burning, rubbish collection, diesel truck exhaust, and orchard heaters called “smudge pots.” The county grand jury acted next, convening to investigate the stuffy, poker-room conditions flaring around the region on hotter days. L.A. City Hall took it even further, christening a new department: the Bureau of Air Pollution Control. Government rustlings were good for the public outlook. For the folks at the L.A. Chamber of Commerce, salesmen of the gangbusters economy, they were, conversely, a cause for slight uneasiness. They preferred a go-slow approach where industrial cleanups were voluntary.

Whatever the method, it needed to be snappy, because the gray overhang was shrouding more communities than ever before. In the mid-1940s—when smog took a backbeat to issues of housing, crime, and traffic—people’s hankering for yesterday’s air went beyond aggravated sinuses and runny noses. It was about what they couldn’t see on the bad days, including landmarks or even a street sign a half-mile away. A wistful aesthetic about such lost scenery trickled into neighborhoods, riling up old-timers and nature lovers sentimental about the beach-to-mountains panoramas characteristic of so few places in the world. To them, the blocked skies were tantamount to acne on a beauty queen. It hadn’t been that long ago those homeowners had bragged about being able to make out Catalina Island twenty miles offshore on a cloudless day. Now washed-out hues supplanted those memories. Heavy smog bleached the terrain, making it seem as if somebody had swiped the boldest colors from nature’s palette. Instead of misty morning light, a blah brownish-gray filled windshields and bay windows. Spectacular sunsets of brilliant orange and noble crimson blurred to dull peach. Lush, emerald-green hillsides and jutting cocoa-colored mountains ebbed to silhouetted nothingness. No need telling that to the forestry department; it abandoned a lookout tower in Monrovia, just east of Pasadena, because fire-spotters couldn’t see much from sixty feet up anymore.⁹ The timing was ironic. Just as Hollywood magicians were perfecting Technicolor to infuse lifelike colors into movies, the outdoor canvas languished in dispiriting monochrome. On some mornings, the top floor of L.A.’s signature City Hall pierced the clinging filth like a cork bobbing in diseased water.

For writers, it was post-Industrial Age-noir. “Like a dirty gray blanket flung across the city, a dense, eye-stinging layer of smoke dimmed the sun,” ranted one scribe in September 1946.¹⁰ Slowly, a fringe of agitated suburbanites vocalized doubts that a few plant adjustments and regulations would revive L.A.’s picture-postcard vistas. In Altadena, a free-spirited hamlet northwest of Pasadena, the gunk chased residents indoors. “You can see the fumes, just crawl up the hills,” explained property-rights leader James Clark. The district attorney’s office, acting then as both smog cop and public guardian, had advised the Altadenans to relax; the “obnoxious fumes” had mainly a psychological effect. Clark, responding cleverly, invited the D.A. to travel there, then, to “get (his) lungs full of psychology.”¹¹

Curmudgeons notwithstanding, there was no wide clamoring for hearings or action. Los Angeles’ middle class was still sanguine about the future in 1946. One denizen, expressing the popular sentiment, believed that the same “capable leadership and patriotic endeavor” marshaled against the Axis in World War II would defeat this new “common enemy.”¹² Good Samaritans offered their assistance against the foe. Earnest requests for fresh air swept around as well, including a petition from thirty Pasadena City College students displeased that they were inhaling dark particles in their gym class. Publicity-chasers eagerly pawed at their opportunity. One young couple relayed a heartwarming story about how they were protecting their newborn by taking him up above the grime in their private plane. Right behind them was a pair of British and Dutch aviators on a cross-country tour. They claimed they could barely see where to land. Once they had, they evidently found a phone to call the Times.¹³

Nobody had to communicate the fact that the root cause of the gray air was proving harder to pin down than first imagined. Public engineers, having exonerated the butadiene plant after smog wafted even when the facility went offline, subsequently veered in another direction. Their focus was still enforcement, not chasing theories. One doozy had emanated from the president of the American Institute of Chemists, Gustav Egloff, who speculated that the improper combustion of gasoline-related products might be causing the mist.¹⁴ Ignoring that possibility, the engineers charged that oil refineries and smelters in a lunchpail industrial grid south of L.A. city limits were responsible for the bulk of the “the fumes epidemic.” Harry Kunkel, the city’s wrinkled “air pollution control” chief (before there was much control), reckoned his men were onto something. The vapors there had already overcome twenty-three truckers, which didn’t seem to be a coincidence. When Kunkel, a former World War I military pilot, inspected a nearby Long Beach foundry, the bleachy stench reminded him of French battlefield gases. Following his instinct, he bailed out of there fast.

Kunkel stayed on at his job past retirement to attack the mystifying crud.¹⁵ His office, in fact, rolled out the planet’s first “smogometer,” a machine that extracted foreign-matter from the air. Dandy sounding, it was barely useful, as was the case with most analytical instruments of the era. Kunkel’s meatiest contribution was putting his office’s manpower into the effort.¹⁶ The Los Angeles Police Department chipped in with recruits itself, and Bowron asked the 200 chemists in the Civilian Defense Corps to help, too. In one sense, officials were militarizing the offensive by assigning so many tangential people to it. The head of the school district even said students would join the effort.¹⁷ The D.A.’s office also sought aerial reconnaissance, and secured it by commissioning a squadron of private pilots to scout and report smoking chimneys and burning dumps. For all that, what leaders really desired was rulebook authority. Among other suspicions, they believed military contractors were hiding behind the war to skirt blame for their emissions.¹⁸

There were just so many complexities, in particular the apprehension the fumebank stirred with its relentless drift toward the suburbs. Like a damaging high tide, it rolled in and ebbed out, leaving some communities unscarred, others regularly abused. Citizens living downwind of the smokestack towers a half-county to the north and east often felt clobbered by them. In Azusa, a rural, hillside city northeast of downtown, severe air had already prompted two small evacuations by 1946. Bedroom towns in and around the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains were so alarmed about the creepy tendrils that they pointedly told the L.A. politicians to either discipline their industries or brace for a “relentless” backlash.¹⁹ Seeking consensus, county supervisors organized a meeting with twenty-six cities in the spring of 1946 about a uniform anti-air-pollution law. Nothing concrete emerged, and in October, hundreds of “aroused” Pasadenans held a protest march. It wasn’t a full-scale uprising, but the message from the suburbs was powerful: united they stood, wheezing they’d fall. L.A. authorities immediately sent out the message after the demonstration. Vernon, South Gate, Torrance, and El Segundo—nondescript manufacturing cities that had flouted cleanup calls for their refineries and steel mills like defiant teenagers—were polluting on borrowed time.²⁰

Southern California, so it seemed, still trusted that a crackdown was all that was required to make the weather pleasant again. Experts trekked in to furnish advice: Dr. Edward Weidlein, head of Pittsburgh’s Mellon Institute, came, as did members from the U.S. Bureau of Mines. They were of little help. Still, most people thought that L.A. had time to spare, assuming that “get-tough” policies and engineering breakthroughs would purify the airshed. For now, it was just periodic misery, neither metereological curse nor foreshadowing of unhappy days ahead.²¹ In a way, it was understandable. Los Angeles had rearranged nature in the past, so why not again?

Consider how it imported a natural resource to its parched terrain. In 1898, then-mayor Frederick Eaton realized his city had nowhere near the water it’d need to prosper, and appointed his buddy William Mulholland as superintendent of the just-formed Los Angeles Department of Water & Power to handle the predicament. The two men spotted the liquidity they needed a couple hundred miles north in the Owens Valley area, where runoff from the Sierra Nevada Mountains was abundant. Eaton lobbied President Teddy Roosevelt to halt a federal irrigation system for farmers there, while the cagey Mulholland, doling out bribes and misinformation, won the water rights needed for an aqueduct. The channel was as complex to design as the Panama Canal, and it certainly was historic. When workers completed it in 1913, the aqueduct expedited the city’s annexation of the rural San Fernando Valley and other development ambitions. Los Angeles grabbed so much water that Owens Valley felt betrayed. In 1924, armed farmers from that area dynamited part of the system to register their fury. Strained relations between the two areas persist to this day. Nonetheless, Mulholland said of the water pouring from his engineering feat, “There it is. Take it.” He had demonstrated that a city could bend nature to meet its demands. Before and after this water-grab, men here dredged massive harbors from silt, dragged a cosmos-searching observatory onto a mountaintop, smashed flight-speed records, and harnessed ocean currents for electricity.²² A near-religious devotion to technology had made Southern California’s nature seem malleable.

From the late 1930s on, Los Angeles had been riding a hot streak almost unprecedented for American cities. It hadn’t been an overnight success. Explorer Gaspar de Portola claimed the city and environs for the Spanish Empire in 1781 when Los Angeles was just a sleepy spot for cattle ranching. After earning its independence from Spain in 1821, Mexico hung on to the dusty province until the U.S. Army captured “Alta California” in 1846. Development-wise, though, it was still siesta-time for L.A.; Northern California’s gold rush monopolized the excitement. It was the Southern Pacific and the Santa Fe railroads that recognized the astonishing promise others had missed, building lines that precipitated a land boom in Los Angeles. When that land-acquisition waned, the discovery of oil deposits in 1890 lured a second wave of settlers and investors. One group of them hailed from the New York City movie industry. Enthralled by the cheap land and dry weather ideal for year-round shooting, they packed their Kodak cameras and makeup bags and plowed west like so many other dreamers.

Between the arrival of the first transcontinental railroad lines and the appearance of D.W. Griffith and Cecil B. DeMille, the region’s dry, crystal-clean air became its unofficial billboard. Soon it’d be a cottage industry, a franchise of sorts. Marketers peddled Southern California as a haven where spirits weakened by asthma, bronchitis, tuberculosis, and alcoholism would regain their strength. Health sanitariums popped up in Sierra Madre and northern San Diego County, in Riverside and Palm Springs. Famous drunks and the hopelessly sick supposedly became their old selves here. Fairytale-castle vacation resorts then seduced millionaire East Coast guests with advertisements about sun-splashed bliss. They rhapsodized that the balmy weather and shoreline-to-alpine landscape reminded them of lower Spain, even Greece. Writers, advertising men, and the miraculously recovered picked up where the travelers left off, praising the land as if it were a mythical concoction.²³ These believers evidently skipped the diary of Spanish explorer Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, who sailed into what is now San Pedro Harbor in 1542. Watching Indian fires darken the sky, Cabrillo had a name for the inlet—la Bahia de las Fumas (the Bay of Smokes).

Centuries later, nothing would transform Los Angeles from a middling city with potential to a regional behemoth like global combat. With a federal-money pipeline for warplanes and other weapons well trenched, hundreds of thousands of people from the Midwest and the South ventured here. New companies and corporate branches hotfooted in. Diversification soon flexed with textile, tire, and furniture factories. By 1949, the L.A. economy hauled in more fish than Boston, produced more cars than anyplace outside Detroit, all the while constructing 240,000 new homes and apartments in a four-year development geyser.²⁴

This wellspring of investment sprinkled magic on the Pacific Coast. Trend-watchers predicted that with America’s westward tilt, California would “radically influence the pattern of American life as a whole” with its modern, freewheeling style.²⁵ As one outsider enthused:

Even on his first, casual, hundred-mile drive, the pilgrim achieves a kind of stunned tranquility, and gazes unblinkingly at palace-studded mountains, rat-proofed palms, and supermarkets as big (as hangers for Air Force bombers). All this has given the lie to the starched double-doubters who cried that Los Angeles was a gaudy but impractical contraption which would inevitably collapse, trapping swarms of blondes and bare-toed yogis in its wreckage . . . Los Angeles has its own brand of magnificence. It is amazingly clean, awesomely spacious. It has ramshackle houses, but in comparison with other big cities, no slums. Its great boulevards wind through miles of windblown trees, bright flowers and sweeping, emerald-green lawns.²⁶

America caught the West Coast bug. Southern California, long a magnet for the restless and repressed, would soon contain a population larger than Montana, Idaho, New Mexico, Utah, Colorado, and Nevada combined. People were here for the jobs, here for their slice of the dream, and natural beauty gilded connections between the two. The Mediterranean climate churned out mild winters, low humidity, and long “Indian” summers promoting outdoor life so convincingly, in fact, that many newcomers seemed to overlook the fact that they’d moved into earthquake country.

The eclectic topography further enhanced the feeling of magnificence. Moving west to east, the counties seamed together California’s long shoreline with flatlands, foothills, and desert. To the north was agricultural Ventura; swampy Long Beach sat roughly one hundred miles to the south. The coastal plain, extending from Long Beach up to Malibu, gently transitioned easterly into two enormous floorbeds side by side in the San Fernando and the San Gabriel valleys. Rimming them to the north like a headboard were the brown-flecked San Gabriel and San Bernardino mountain ranges, which rippled east to west. (Behind them lied the sandy desolation of the Mojave high desert.) South of all that, near Palm Springs, were the San Jacinto Mountains. Gazing down from space, you’d notice that this mountainous contour formed a splendid bowl conducive, unluckily as it would turn out, to unmoving air. Not surprisingly, this landscape hosted a zoological grab-bag of wondrous varmints: the Western toad, the Monarch butterfly, coyotes, bears. Around the animals, the fertile land grew practically anything, especially juicy citrus and leafy vegetables. Variegated trees and flowers such as Coastal live oak, Torrey Pine, wild hyacinths, blue elderberries, and even wisteria sprouted thick and strong, to say nothing of the trademark palm tree that’d one day line the area’s swankiest boulevards.

All the Ivy League intellectuals and civic bosses of rival cities could muster in response was disparagement of Angelenos as a collection of boorish philistines. Favorably for these critics, smog served up reams of material twenty years before Johnny Carson roasted it in his nightly Tonight Show monologue. By pointing to the skies, they burst the L.A. balloon. Harvard sociologist Carle Zimmerman opined about a “completely lost” populace unable to rescue itself.²⁷ The St. Louis’ Globe-Democrat gleefully inferred that air pollution was Los Angeles paying the piper for its whirlwind growth and Sunset Strip vanity. “Angelenos can’t see their own mothers across the street” courtesy of air pollution, yet no one worries about darkness because of so many klieg lights advertising hotdog stands and plumbing-supply houses. Locals, the Globe added, resisted discussing smog with outsiders, because they’d deluded themselves it would lift.²⁸ As much as the stereotypes infuriated L.A.’s Establishment, the Globe’s needling was a tipping point. A month after the Globe’s jab, Times publisher Norman Chandler assigned veteran reporter Ed Ainsworth to write an air pollution series as a “public service.”²⁹

Unmentioned in the series was how the landowning Times was servicing its own economic interests along with those of the hoi polloi, and it was just as well. Chandler, son of the walrus-mustached ex-colonel who’d founded the paper, resembled an aging lifeguard with his strong build and copper skin. More genteel than his empire-minded father, he might’ve been the most influential person atop the banish-smog bandwagon. There weren’t many patriarchal options. Southern California was an amorphous confederation of cities and interests devoid of Rockefellerian-institutions or clubby machine politics. “No one can force anybody down anybody else’s throat,” Chandler liked saying.³⁰ Dubious as his premise was in a town where entities like the California Bank and the Merchants and Manufacturers Association called many shots, there was a transcendent truth to decentralized power—and an obvious downside to it. There was no central leader, no formidable bureaucracy. The Times, as the loudest voice around, was one of the world’s first environmental soliders, and Chandler was its General Patton.

Over the next months, the perceptive Ainsworth chaperoned readers through trash heaps, refinery boilers, chemical factories, and every other operation unofficially indicted for the scourge. “For years now,” Ainsworth began, “the sun has been something of a mystery.” To him, governmental unaccountability, “fumbling,” and duplicative efforts had been busts. They’d achieved as much as “punching a smoke cloud with bare fists.” Without a countywide law, he said forget about success. Part muckraking journalism, part educational text, Ainsworth introduced the area’s residents to chemistry-lab nomenclature they’d eventually learn like street names. As the series became popular, the paper invited readers to send the identities and addresses of polluters to the Times’ “smog editor.” By today’s standards, it was patchy reporting but rippinggood entertainment. Ainsworth described how I.A. Deutch, the man recruited from smoky Chicago to lead the county’s Air Pollution Control Department, ran his fanny off looking for clues and culprits in a “Sherlock Holmes Atmosphere.” Ainsworth noted the bombshell working next to Deutch in a crowded little office as they chased the trail of what Ainsworth nicknamed “Algy Aldehyde,” an obscure compound believed to make eyes water. He told how Deutch’s subordinates had to conceal jars measuring fine particles because naughty, young boys liked chucking rocks at them, and about the clampdown on diesel trucks he described as “lumbering monsters of the highway.” His stories signed off like serialized movie potboilers, where the screen fades to black as the detective closes in on the killer: “To be continued.”³¹

Los Angeles’ oil industry was smart enough to realize all this activity would train the crosshairs on it. A mélange of ferociously competitive petroleum giants, wildcatters, and independents, the sector embraced an early strategy to preserve this lucrative market: stay informed.³² It was no accident that the chairman of the Western Oil & Gas Association, a pivotal trade group, also quarterbacked the chamber of commerce’s smoke and fumes” commission, where he heard ear-loads about dangerous hydrogen sulfide and skunk gases. The D.A., in a blast at these manufacturers, filed thirteen smoke-abatement lawsuits, including two against well-known outfits—Standard Oil’s coastal refinery and Vernon’s Bethlehem Steel Corporation.³³ As word about the industrial crackdown spread, distant politicians hoping to save the day flung in unsolicited suggestions. Some of them were obvious long shots. Senator Joseph McCarthy (R-Wisconsin), future commie-hunter and then head of the Senate’s War Assets Investigating Committee, encouraged the county to relocate its entire chemical industry from its vaporous climes to the open arms of Henderson, Nevada. He believed Nevada’s cheap land and vacant plants could free L.A. of its albatross.³⁴ No one took McCarthy up on it. Petroleum executives maintained their guard.

In December 1946, with the crud striking again and weird reports coming in about pollution-gnawed crops and forests, reinforcements hit town. No, not the Feds, nor the state; neither of them had much substance to offer. The Times had coaxed St. Louis professor and mechanical engineer Raymond Tucker to L.A. for an analytical examination about why the problem was occurring and what would reverse it. St. Louis residents in the 1920s and 1930s had wheezed dirty, carbon-thick air until the city’s politicians appointed Tucker smoke commissioner. With the help of both the local newspaper and smokeless coal, he’d returned easy breathing to the Midwestern town. To the Times he looked like a battle-tested gem.

Tucker’s report, prepared after a feverish two-week visit, keenly, if not originally, connected the manufacturing jetsam with L.A.’s warm, stagnant weather patterns. Industrial operations that had nearly doubled during the previous five years, he noted, had unloosed a fearsome foursome of smoke, dust, fumes, and odors originating from smokestacks, cooling ponds, boilers, and storage tanks in the industrial zone. Couple this with a population explosion—the county ballooned from 900,000 people to 3.7 million just in the pre-war days—and it was little wonder the Mediterranean-like climate had turned traitorous. The professor had seen the enemy, and it was the undiscouraged cascade of companies producing oil, lumber, food, soap, paints, and warplanes migrating here, along with smoldering dumps and smelly locomotives already around. Against this prosperity, Tucker singled out sulfur and its chemical cousins as the top concerns. Marginal amounts of floating compounds found mostly at morgues and metal-finishers were secondary worries.³⁵ Car and truck exhaust also were minor accomplices, as L.A. vehicle traffic actually had declined between 1941 and 1944. “Although it is quite possible that the automobile does contribute to the nuisance,” Tucker explained, “it is not in such proportion that it is the sole cause.”³⁶ Had Tucker dug deeper, correlating smog with the demise of Southern California’s rail system in what was already America’s car capital, he might’ve more emphasized the role of the automobile. Yet with Los Angeles’ thirst for unequivocal answers, he never did, and this diluted his otherwise pioneering legacy.

The media publicized the professor’s findings with frontpage fanfare normally reserved for assassinations or post-war parades. If you want sapphire skies again, the Missourian lectured, it required a tough-love regimen extending from factory equipment to the private household. It meant a prohibition on backyard trash burning and a chemical audit of every smokestack. It meant resisting the temptation to heap blame on any one industry when they were all complicit to fluctuating degrees. Tucker’s doctrine would become environmental dogma for sixty-plus years. “Any air pollution program,” his report said, “must attack the nuisance at its source. The atmosphere cannot be controlled but the discharge of contaminants into the air can be.”³⁷ The flaw in Tucker’s manifesto was its presumption about corporate behavior: that large outfits geared for efficiency would alter their production methods in the absence of compelling evidence they were at fault. His other error was in failing to persuade area leaders to enlist crackerjack scientists to analyze the interactions of the contaminants already identified. If they were incapable of inflicting such eye-watering, view-blocking harm, shouldn’t that mean a return to the drawing board?

Helpful as that recommendation might’ve been, civic backslapping over the professor’s wisdom is what filled the public square. County supervisors tripped over themselves lauding him and the Times. Pasadena assemblyman A.I. Stewart fed the cheerfulness with his discovery of a loophole in the state code freeing manufacturers and dumps to emit any amount of smoke or fumes they deemed “reasonable.”³⁸ Even before Tucker’s report was printed, Stewart had introduced the aptly numbered Assembly Bill No. 1 to create a countywide smoke-abatement district vested with police powers under the state constitution. Industry hackles rose swiftly. Farmers wanted exemptions for their crop-warming smudge pots. The railroads fulminated that new regulations would bog down interstate commerce. Oil and power interests complained about having to seek permits every time they expanded or fine-tuned their equipment. The headstrong were everywhere.

It wasn’t only business that Stewart was confronting, either. For generations, the county’s patchwork cities had coexisted under the tacit canon of “home rule.” Essentially a gentleman’s agreement, it stipulated that proposed state laws of major consequence had to receive the blessing of the individual communities they’d affect pre-submission—and there hadn’t been united agreement for Stewart’s legislation. Mayor Bowron, in particular, had stewed over it precisely because cities would have no policy voice; it’d be the county supervisors in charge of the new district.³⁹ Still, Tucker had shown the way out. Police every source no matter how miniscule, and do it with arms linked.

As Southern California debated how to establish a pollution district without halting its salad days, gruesome accidents caused by blinding street conditions took many to early graves. There’d been causalities of spirit, and now there were causalities of the flesh. On January 24, 1947, for instance, two young people died in separate accidents when the motorcycles they were riding on collided with automobiles in the midst of a disorienting smog/fog whiteout. Another man unable to navigate it perished when he slammed his automobile into a Red Car trolley.⁴⁰ A wholly different image of L.A.—formerly modern dreamland, now emerging dystopia—began to crystallize.

Unease about community health percolated alongside these consequences. Troubled parents and hypochondriacs wanted guarantees that the awful way they felt did not signal disease or chronic illness ahead. Physicians curious about the effect of unleashed gases on industrializing cities, meanwhile, recognized the unique test case at their doorstep. Most of them were troubled. An army germ-warfare doctor glum about air quality and slum housing foresaw Los Angeles overrun by rheumatic fever. Dr. Bernice Wedum, a specialist for that disease, followed up by announcing that neither she nor her colleagues would continue shipping their patients to L.A. to recover. “Your smog,” she chastised, “[is a] serious public health matter.”⁴¹ It was a gutsy stand to take. In those days, medical stories about the short and long-term effects of breathing L.A. air frequently carried a jocular tone that neutralized many residents’ innate fears. One story in particular was a pop-culture kneeslapper, even if the city’s boosters, some of them demeaned as “sunshinesellers,” wished it’d never appeared. A transplanted East Coast man, it seems, had approached his L.A. doctor with an atypical medical dilemma. He said he needed a new glass eye to match his remaining real one, because pollution rendered it bloodshot so often. The Associated Press ran the story of the one-eyed man around the world.⁴² Besides feeling mocked, state health officials realized something from this anecdote: they had better start making plans about how to study what biological harm smog portended, because the knowledge gap was immense.

Dr. George Kress, chairman of the Los Angeles County Medical Association’s air pollution panel, was one of the first local physicians to trumpet anti-smog convictions. For the severely ill and the elderly, Kress said, heavy air pollution might be a fatal catalyst, since it appeared to restrict oxygen in the blood stream. If you had TB or asthma or heart problems, an approaching smog attack was a prudent time to book a trip. He called the stuff a “disease breeder.”⁴³ A group of “militant mothers” from South Central L.A. voiced their own misgivings, begging for environmental justice decades before activists would create that concept. They wanted the smog exiled, and the burning dumps—riddled with hospital waste, ash, rotting tires, and rats—shuttered. They were saddling their kids with never-ending colds and infections. The mothers estimated that 300,000 disenfranchised people like them were suffering as a result of reckless garbage policies. These were under review, thanks to smog, but the mothers wanted action now. When one group of them met at a local school to discuss it, a miasma of smog and trash fumes made them throw hankies over their mouths.⁴⁴ All around the county, parents were noticing their children gasp, lose sleep, and struggle to focus at school. Bundles of letters about it began clogging politicians’ mailboxes.

If L.A.’s upturned weather had set it apart from the rest of the country before, it was now becoming literally isolated. General and civil aviation might’ve been the first profession systematically handcuffed by air pollution’s infiltration.⁴⁵ In February 1947, a Palm Springs beauty pageant teetered into a roll-call contest when only ten of thirty contestants boarded flights able to pierce the sub-climate. Pilots landing at the future Los Angeles International Airport could sympathize. They had to bone up, and fast, on instrument navigation, because poor visibility often enveloped the runways until the planes were just above them. One young pilot unable to locate the airstrip was fortunate to find a “hole in the smog” to make an emergency landing around the slack-jawed sunbathers at Santa Monica Beach; years later, a bewildered aviator put down on a strip of future freeway in Pomona.⁴⁶ By the late 1940s, the fumebank clung so regularly that the federal government agreed to permit mail-ferrying helicopters in the L.A. Basin to fly by instruments. Aviation became downright unfriendly. Even the skywriting companies got no pass. Authorities falsely accused them of further junking the air with their vaporizedoil letters. Once episodic, smog was grounding more planes than ever before.⁴⁷