This story was originally published by Slate and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

Quiet fell over the room, which was neither full nor very loud to begin with, and the 2026 Florida Citrus Show began.

“It should be a great day,” began the event’s first speaker. “Rain should hold off today, even though we definitely need more rain.” No one laughed.

There was no need to say that things were bad. Everyone knew it. The mood wasn’t sour—citrus farmers could handle sour. It was something else. Postapocalyptic. Florida is in the midst of its worst drought in 25 years, but the dry spell actually ranked far down on the list of challenges these bedraggled growers were facing.

You are today more likely to see the oranges printed on Florida’s 18 million license plates than a box of actual fruit.

In 2003, the mighty Florida orange industry produced 242 million boxes of fruit, with 90 pounds of oranges per box, most of which went on to become orange juice. Now, not even 25 years later, the United States Department of Agriculture was forecasting a pitiful 12 million boxes of oranges, the least in more than 100 years, the worst year since last. A decline of more than 95 percent.

And everyone knew, more or less, that even that figure was not happening. “Twelve million? I would doubt it,” Matt Joyner, CEO of Florida Citrus Mutual, the state’s largest trade group, told me. There was chatter that even 11 million might be out of reach. Could the total end up being less than that, just seven figures? In Florida, the citrus capital of the world, you are today more likely to see the oranges printed on the state’s 18 million license plates than a box of actual fruit.

Rick Dantzler, chief operating officer of the Citrus Research and Development Foundation, took the podium. He was blunt. “It’s been a dumpster fire of a year,” he said.

On the list of immediate problems: the implementation of tariffs and retaliatory tariffs, then the government shutdown, then a stunning, historic freeze, days long, at the end of January and early February, that besieged the fragile orange trees.

And yet those, too, were just footnotes to the even larger problem. Already, Florida had lost about three-quarters of its citrus growers. The last of them, these spent survivors, these hangers-on, had trudged to the Citrus Show to talk about the real problem, which was the disease.

In 2005, Florida first got signs of a new affliction in its groves called citrus greening disease. It also has a Chinese name, Huanglongbing, or HLB, because it came from China, where oranges also came from in the first place.

Already, Florida had lost about three-quarters of its citrus growers.

Citrus greening disease is caused by a bacterial infection that is delivered by the gnawing of the Asian citrus psyllid. (It’s now believed the psyllid first turned up near the Port of Miami in 1998.) The flea-sized psyllid bites the leaves and transmits the disease, which slowly chokes out the tree’s vascular system from the inside, taking years to finally show itself. By the time a tree is displaying symptoms—three to five years, in most cases—it’s too late.

Floridian farmers are no strangers to disease. When HLB first began to spread, there was no indication it would be any worse than any other bug that had appeared over the years. The farmers did what they always did: They sprayed and sprayed, chemicals and pesticides, stuff so powerful that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the US Food and Drug Administration freaked out about potential risks to human health.

But greening spread anyway. Industry groups and the state poured money, millions, into finding a cure, and every time they thought they’d figured it out, it didn’t work, and the greening accelerated. Hurricanes turned out to be a vector for spreading the little winged bug. The wind carried the psyllid all over the state, dropping it off in hundreds of thousands of acres of groves.

Soon enough, trees everywhere were showing blotchy, mottled, yellowed leaves and suffering from twig dieback and sparse foliage. Under duress, the trees would drop all their fruit on the ground prematurely. What rare fruit survived to maturity on these little, addled trees was misshapen, acrid, and stubbornly green on one end; in short, it tasted terrible. Even after being squeezed and processed and pasteurized, the juice was gross.

Now, according to the University of Florida website, the disease is “incurable.” It warns: “There is currently no treatment for citrus greening. Once a tree is infected, it will eventually become unproductive and may even die.”

I asked numerous people—farmers and industry leaders and researchers—to estimate how many trees in Florida now have greening. The answer was resounding: 100 percent. Every single tree.

The Citrus Show was meant to rally those weary troops, to assure them that help was on the way, that this was the bottom. That there was reason to hold on.

And there was: There had been some progress, with oxytetracycline, OTC for short, a powerful antibiotic that is used to treat chlamydia and sometimes syphilis in humans. It wasn’t a cure, exactly, but ceaselessly applied, it was keeping the effects of greening at bay for a few months at a time. Growers were boring holes in the bases of their infected trees and injecting it. It was expensive, and it had only been in use for two or three years, and it would only be a temporary fix at best. But it seemed to be working. There were greener leaves, and oranger fruit, and a palatable juice product.

They had been wrong before, yes—who could forget the tree-steaming solution, which once looked so promising, tenting each tree with a makeshift steam room cranked to 130 degrees, but which ended up failing when it became clear the bacteria were in the roots. But this one seemed, the researchers tried to assure their charges, for real.

A panel of multigeneration growers took the stage to weigh in on their experiences with OTC. It wasn’t altogether triumphant. “Injection just crushes the older trees,” said Tommy Thayer, a fourth-generation grower.

“Most groves are not producing as well post-Ian as pre-Ian,” said Daniel Hunt, of the legendary Hunt Bros. citrus family, referring to the 2022 hurricane. But he had done double injections on some trees, and had seen successes. “Our Valencias were beautiful,” he said. “They had color.”

“Unfortunately, they’re all on the ground right now,” said Thayer, because of the freeze.

Their panel closed with a request that everyone say something positive about their experience in the citrus industry. “The long history,” offered Hunt. “Good for character-building.”

Scientists took the stage, one after another, supplying encouragement. The OTC trials were positive; they were fast at work on a genetically modified tree. “The tree of the future,” they said, again and again. And it was in the lab, and it was on the way. The OTC might tide them over until that GMO creation was ready for widespread planting.

But the timeline, they conceded, was difficult. “We don’t have time because of how the industry is,” said Manjul Dutt, a researcher with the University of Florida Institute of Food and Agricultural Sciences. The realistic run from discovery to commercial production of the GMO tree? “Typically, it’s five years before a tree produces flowers and fruit,” so…“10 to 14 years.” A second researcher presented a slightly different timeline: 12 to 18 years.

“Hopefully you can stay in business,” commented a third.

“Someday, there’s gonna be a talk where ‘HLB’ and ‘solved’ are in the title,” said Randy Niedz of the USDA. “This is not that talk.”

The afternoon wore on. At lunch, I spoke to Jillian Rooney of the Crop Disaster Recovery group, which had a tent set up in the parking lot. I told her I was writing about the state of the citrus industry in Florida. “Oh. Sad,” she said.

A sign at another booth seemingly encouraged the growers to try growing anything else. “Why grow passion fruit?” read one, with a list of its potential upsides. “Sugar apple,” suggested another.

After lunch, the bad news kept coming. It wasn’t just greening that had to be worried about. There were root nematodes, launching a subterranean attack. There was citrus canker, a viral infection that had plagued citrus for years prior to the arrival of greening. (It, too, came from China.) Then came a seminar on citrus black spot, another recent arrival.

“It is not known how it arrived,” said Clive Bock of the USDA. “But it could spread to the whole Gulf Coast.”

Things had deteriorated quickly. “Three, four years ago, the juice was 80 percent from Florida,” said Weston Johnson, of the Coca-Cola Company, which owns Minute Maid. “Now we’re 20 percent Florida.” A quintessential crop and national icon of the 20th century in America was dying before our eyes, and outside this room, most of the country—even Florida itself—had barely noticed.

Juice shots were being given out, in tiny 1.5-ounce bottles. “Made with orange-like hybrids with tolerance to HLB. This juice is an innovation that represents the future of citrus,” a sign next to the cooler said. “100 percent American juice,” boasted the label.

I drank it. It didn’t taste very good.

The custom of drinking orange juice with breakfast is not very widespread, taking the world as a whole, and it is thought by many peoples to be a distinctly American habit,” begins writer John McPhee in a famous two-part 1966 essay in the New Yorker that ran to 40,000 words, an indulgence that met the grandeur of the industry.

Maybe attention spans were too long back then.........

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