Hard Rock Chapter, Ariz.

Lorraine Herder, 68, stands on her recently planted cornfield in the Black Mesa region of Navajo Nation on June 24. When she was growing up, the family brought its livestock to nearby springs for water. With those sources long gone after decades of local coal operations and rising temperatures, “this area is all dried up,” she says. Each day, her family leaves home to fill a 275-gal. vat—at 1¢ per gal. Last year they spent $5,000 on supplemental feed for the animals.

Bà Lorraine Herder, 68 tuổi, đứng trên cánh đồng ngô mới trồng của bà ở vùng Black Mesa thuộc Quốc gia Navajo vào ngày 24 tháng 6. Khi bà lớn lên, gia đình đưa gia súc đến các con suối gần đó để lấy nước. Với những nguồn đó đã bị biến mất từ lâu sau nhiều thập kỷ hoạt động than tại địa phương và nhiệt độ tăng cao, “khu vực này đã cạn kiệt”, cô nói. Mỗi ngày, gia đình cô rời nhà để lấp đầy 275 gal. vat — ở mức 1 ¢ mỗi gal. Năm ngoái, họ đã chi 5.000 đô la cho thức ăn bổ sung cho động vật.

Lake Oroville, Calif.

A view of the lake through trees burned during a previous fire season on July 2, when the elevation was recorded at about 680 ft. above sea level. California's water resources department stated "extremely dry" soils and "climate change-induced early warm temperatures" led to a dramatic reduction in runoff this past spring. In early August, in a move the state said it anticipated, the hydroelectric plant that is fed by the reservoir was taken offline for the first time after water levels dropped below 645 ft., the previous low set in 1977. By late October, the state projects, the elevation could sink to as low as 620 ft.

Phoenix, Ariz.

William Calvin “Slim” Sterling stands near his tent on June 14. “It feels like God is holding a magnifying glass to your legs,” said the 39-year-old, who suffered from heatstroke months ago, during what became Phoenix’s hottest June on record. “I can feel the sun cooking my shoulder blades.” For relief, he covers his head with a wet shirt, uses a battery-powered fan and stays as hydrated as possible. “It’s a war zone,” he says. At a nearby shelter with shade, “it’s like peace.”

Sycan Estates, Ore.

Jeff Whited sits among his destroyed belongings on July 22. The Bootleg Fire arrived “just like a freight train,” says Whited. “It looks like a freaking bomb went off.” The 63-year-old had been helping clean up the wreckage of his brother’s burned-down house when flames reached his own. Guitars and amplifiers, snowmobiles and trucks, engine parts, chain saws, a huge cache of hand tools and much more—all gone, Whited says. “This sure was a beautiful place,” he says. “It doesn’t leave a beautiful memory with me, not this picture of it.” At the grave of his partner on his 12-acre property, wind chimes used to hang in the trees. Whited recalls asking why she wanted so many of them, to which she replied, “When I'm gone, baby, you’ll know I’m still there when you hear ’em.” After the fire, he says, “I can’t hear one. They’re gone. Every wind chime.”

Palm Springs, Calif.

On June 18, Jill Langham and her friend Geoffrey-Martin Cyr planned to have drinks together in the evening. The desert city was experiencing a heat wave: for 43 consecutive days in June and July, temperatures hit 100°F or higher. The soles burned off Langham’s shoes that day, on which the high was 119°F. Cyr planned to lie out near a pool before meeting up. At close to 5 p.m., he texted to say he was “winded” but on his way. He never arrived. Langham didn’t think much of his absence—their plans were casual, and they were due to have brunch that weekend anyway. She later learned Cyr, 55, had collapsed and was transported to a hospital, where he died the next day from complications of heatstroke. “I really wish I had sent him a photo of those [shoes] and said, ‘Hey, be careful out there,’” she says. “Would he have listened? He was a sun worshipper.”

El Dorado Hills, Calif.

Boat docks rest on the floor of Folsom Lake, a reservoir on the American River in the Sierra Nevada foothills about 25 miles east of Sacramento. On June 30, as California ended one of its driest rain seasons on record, the reservoir registered just 30% of its capacity. “This drought is real. Climate change is real,” Governor Gavin Newsom said three weeks later, standing bone dry in what in typical years would have been waist-deep water. “If you don’t believe in science, please, you’ve got to believe your own eyes.” By Aug. 14, the water had dropped 6% more.

White Salmon, Wash.

Shane Brown, 35, visits the grave of his mother Jollene Brown at Klickitat County Cemetery District No. 1 on July 24. As a heat dome settled over the Pacific Northwest in late June, Jollene’s air conditioner wasn’t working properly, so he bought her a “swamp cooler”—an affordable device that cools the air through the evaporation of water. On the night of June 27, she told Shane, the air was so hot in her apartment that the cooler needed to be constantly refilled because the water evaporated so quickly. Shane said he would get her a new AC. The next morning, she wasn’t picking up his calls. After arriving at her home, Shane found her “just sitting in her recliner with her head to the side, like she had just fallen asleep,” he says. “Jolly,” 67, was full of opinions but not judgmental, loved Dolly Parton and Patsy Cline and puffins, and was among at least 60 people in Portland (and hundreds in the region) who died from hyperthermia during the heat wave. Shane called 911 and ran to a neighbor until police arrived. Later, while waiting for the medical examiner, he sat in the room with his mother “just because I wanted to be near her,” he says. “I didn’t want to leave her alone in the hot room.”