As our train rose higher, we were met with the fuming of smokestacks. Trucks churned in and out of factories like waves. Rows of suburban homes thinned out, while block-like warehouses and roads took their place, flattening the coastline of the industrial Bay. We — the photographer, Siyu, and I — had arrived in the heart of Oakland’s industrial sector, feeling small amongst the fifth-busiest container port in the US and corporate giants like PG&E. Lesser known, however, is a quiet marsh nestled between shipyards and airport: the Damon Slough.

For decades, Damon Slough has made local news as a hotspot of litter and pollution, though in recent years it has been receiving less media attention. It’s the habitat of a diverse species including the endangered California Clapper Rail and the Salt Marsh Harvest Mouse. The mouths of the wetland’s two creeks run under a series of freeways to meet in the Slough and drain into the estuary. Hence, the only direct access point we could find was by crossing under the I-880.

We followed BART’s tracks down San Leandro Street. The scene was bleak. The pavement was littered with discards: plastic bags, wrappers, syringes, cans, and cigarette butts. The litter overflowed from dumpsters and spilled along street-sides. Garbage bags laid slack against fences. Meanwhile, tall barbed-wire fences surrounded the few green spaces left.

These green spaces were located on the other side of the tracks, which was starkly well-kempt compared to our side. Brightly colored modern apartments were stacked like Lego blocks. There were leashed dogs and idle police cars. The streets were sparkly and clear of debris. The homogenous, calm-toned neatness of the other side was jarring compared to our bleak scene — we hadn’t expected such a clear-cut picture of gentrification on our walk to the marshland.

The closer we got to Damon Slough, the deeper we traversed into Oakland’s industrial landscape. We became submerged in a sea of cars, roads, and parking lots. The already scarce sidewalks and walkways disappeared. We were forced to walk alongside freeways as everything from trucks, UTVs, to forklifts passed us by. In this realm of metal and machinery, there was no place for us. The skyline was raised by an array of manufacturing plants and warehouses. Most common were automobile-related industries for everything from auto service, manufacturing, or sale of auto parts. Unsurprisingly, the biggest source of microplastics in California’s coastal waters is car tires. On our walk, we saw various tire remains on the sides of the roads. At one point we passed a Sherwin-Williams, their logo featured a paint bucket dumping blood-red paint down the sides of the planet. Cover the Earth, it read. We sighed at the irony.

Large street in industrial Oakland with skid marks.

We continued walking. Homes were eclipsed by industry, and we did not see a single pedestrian until we approached another train track, this time Amtrak. As we walked further down the tracks, the cold concrete began to fade away to fresh dirt with some scraps of swampland. Plant life sprung from puddles and streams. Among the life was a mixture of industrial waste and street litter.

Finally, we arrived at Damon Slough which brought an instant sense of relief. The serenity of the sunlit waters allowed us a moment to breathe. The light, flecked along the water, moved with the ebb and flow of the ocean’s skin. There were groups of birds too, some palm-sized and others tall with necks craned.

A Great Egret and a Black-necked Stilt near a trash-littered edge of Damon Slough.

However, we soon began to notice the trash on the bank’s edge: see-through bottles and shiny tin wrappers. As I turned over some rocks and leveled my eyes with thick bushes I saw trash in late stages of decomposition. They were embedded in the damp mud, choking trees’ sides. Much of the plastic was string-like, weaving through grass and soil. The waste seemed to be melting into the marshland as if it were part of the ecosystem itself.

A brownish bottle in the higher tide of the bank. In the backdrop, flocks of birds scavenge for food.

Eventually, we met a local couple who knew the marshes well. They told us about the variety of birds: cormorants, geese, and gulls. With spring upon us, the colors of their coats were changing, ranging from blue and white wings to red tails. I wondered how many microplastics were building up inside these organisms; and whether the birds could tell trash from feed. When we told the couple about our mission to trace plastic pollution in the slough, they told us that the day’s high tides likely rolled over the litter of the marshland, carrying some trash further into the Bay, and others closer to the bank. On low tide days, they told us how the marsh was often dry and even walkable, but the litter was more visible. They told us too how rainfall, particularly the recent heavy storms, would sweep up trash from the streets into the marshland.

Before we left, the couple handed me their binoculars and pointed toward the horizon line, where a faraway cormorant, neck bent over a floating wrapper, looked about ready to dive.

As the wind grew stronger, gusts blew trash through the tall grass and onto the shore. We followed the trash along their path and soon noticed more waste than ever as we neared the bank.  Here, the trash was almost whimsical. Bright orange buckets. Beaten couches. Stuffed animals in a late stage of decay. The loud buzzing from the nearby construction site drowned out the sound of the wind and waves. The herons, however, seemed unbothered.

In the shallow waters, the rotting of trash was particularly visible. Without channels for trash to flow in or out, the rot had permanently taken hold of the land. The waste had adopted the dirt-like color of the surroundings — blending in. The litter had taken the place of sticks and rocks. For a moment, I could no longer distinguish pollution from nature. It had taken over.