This might be Nikki Haley’s moment.

Not her moment to become the Republican presidential front-runner. (Don’t be silly.) Not even her moment to nip at Donald Trump’s heels. But it could be her chance to consolidate the anti-Trump support in the GOP, and to make a solid play for the silver medal and maybe a good speaking slot at the RNC in Milwaukee next summer.

The former South Carolina governor and United Nations ambassador has risen, slightly, in recent polls, and is now third in RealClearPolitics’ average of national polls, after Trump and Ron DeSantis. She is consistently coming in second in polling in the first-in-the-nation primary state of New Hampshire, having pulled ahead of DeSantis there. This week, she picked up the endorsement of former Representative Will Hurd when he dropped out of the Republican race. She’s appearing at two major donor conferences this month. Her boomlet is a long way from the big candidate bubbles of the 2012 and 2016 GOP primaries, but it’s the most notable surge in the race right now.

Haley has brought this about in part with strong performances at debates, where she’s managed to come off as an adult (sorry, Vivek), a lively presence (sorry, Mike and Tim), and an actual alternative to Trump without letting that define her (sorry, Chris). But more than anything, she has benefited from the dramatic flameout of DeSantis.

[Mark Leibovich: Just wait until you get to know Ron DeSantis]

Nearly a year of campaigning has revealed a huge gap between “Ron DeSantis,” the candidate conservative elites thought they were getting when they coalesced behind him last fall, and Ron DeSantis, the actual man Americans have seen on the trail. Influential conservatives imagined a charismatic, crusading figure who could marry the belligerent rhetoric of Trump to a more traditional conservative platform and effective, low-drama governance. Plus he was a winner: Unlike Trump, who led Republicans to defeat or underperformance in 2018, 2020, and 2022, DeSantis had romped in Florida in the 2022 midterms. (Democrats also feared he was a formidable contender.)

This combination enthralled old-school Republicans who had not either surrendered to Trumpism or abandoned the party. National Review practically became a DeSantis fanzine. Rupert Murdoch’s influential empire excitedly covered him, with the New York Post labeling him “DeFUTURE.”

Instead, they’ve gotten DeFlation. Just as my colleague Mark Leibovich predicted last November, the more people get to know DeSantis, the less they like him. He delivers his lines like, well, he’s delivering lines. He seems incapable of talking to people like he’s a human being. His election-fraud squad and anti-Disney onslaught petered out. His vaunted campaign meme farm turns out to have had a thing for Nazi imagery. His flop reboot showed that the only boots that give him any lift are Cuban heels. Most lethally, from the standpoint of his bandwagon backers, he has failed to come close to challenging Trump’s dominance in the race, which was his whole appeal. (Though some backers simply refuse to believe it.) Donors have fled. A super PAC backing DeSantis has cut spending and lost staff. Murdoch has quickly gotten over DeSantis, like just another romantic partner.

Thus the Haley buzz right now. Hurd’s support won’t do much for Haley on its own—if he had many followers, he wouldn’t be dropping out—but it bespeaks the concern of anti-Trump Republicans that they must consolidate to defeat Trump, and that DeSantis is simply not capable of doing that.

But although it’s true that DeSantis looks like a terrible candidate, his ultimate problem was not that he’s a terrible candidate but rather that GOP primary voters don’t want someone other than Trump. The premise of the Haley boomlet, insofar as it exists, is that Republicans would choose another candidate if only the right one presented him- or herself. But Trump is consistently polling above 50 percent among GOP voters nationally. This isn’t a replay of 2016, where he managed to squeak past a splintered field but never achieved more than plurality support until he’d clinched the nomination.

[David A. Graham: The 2024 U.S. presidential race: A cheat sheet]

Trump-chilly Republican elites still haven’t accepted the reality that rank-and-file Republican voters have a different ideology than they do. What’s surprising is that even after failing to stop Trump in 2016 and seven years of eulogies for the Republican establishment, party elites still don’t get that. Speaking to a conference of his former donors yesterday, Mitt Romney said, “I want to put responsibility on your shoulders as the people who are financing campaigns to have some say as to when it’s time for the person you support to say, ‘Okay, I’m getting behind someone else.’”

The donors, who presumably didn’t come into their piles of money by being bad at math, can run the numbers easily enough and see the flaws in this argument: Even if every Republican candidate except Trump dropped out and backed Haley, she’d still be trailing Trump. (That’s obviously not going to happen, especially given how bad the vibes are between Haley and Ramaswamy.) This makes Haley’s rise intellectually interesting, but it also means it will likely just be a footnote to Trump’s renomination.

The mouth of the Mississippi River is the arena for a kind of wrestling match. In one corner of the ring is the saltwater of the Gulf of Mexico, and in the other, the river’s freshwater. The two shove against each other, and usually, the Mississippi flows with enough force to keep the saltwater out. But this year’s drought, currently affecting 40 percent of the continental United States, sapped the Mississippi of water pressure, and a wedge of saltwater began muscling its way upstream along the riverbed this summer. It’s already corrupted the drinking water in several towns in southeast Louisiana, and could reach New Orleans around late November. The ocean is winning.

Whatever the climate brings in a year, the Mississippi River keeps the score. This year’s saltwater intrusion “is the integration of all these environmental events that have happened throughout the Great Plains, throughout the Ohio Valley, throughout parts of the Mountain West,” Matthew Hiatt, a hydrologist at Louisiana State University, told me. Landside drought lowers the river’s water levels, and rising sea levels on the ocean side pushes saltwater in. Those who study the Mississippi agree that this year’s saltwater intrusion is a particularly dramatic example of what may become a more frequent feature of the dry season. “This is not a one-off or once-in-100-years thing,” William McAnally, hydraulic-engineering professor emeritus at Mississippi State University, told me. “It’s something we’re going to be seeing rather often.”

[Read: Why doesn’t New Orleans look more like Amsterdam?]

This isn’t the first time it’s happened. During the Dust Bowl, New Orleans’ drinking water had a salt concentration 55 percent above current federal guidelines. And in 1988—a year so hot and dry that about 30 percent of the nation’s corn crop failed and wildfires raged in Yellowstone for months—a wedge of seawater stopped just short of the water-intake plant for the eastern bank of Orleans Parish. In the past few decades, saltwater has traveled far enough upriver that the United States Army Corps of Engineers built semi-temporary underwater earthen dams, or sills, four different times to stop it—in 1988, 1999, 2012, and last year. This year and 2022 mark the first consecutive times the Army has had to do so.

Human activity is also directly clearing the path for saltwater. Throughout the Mississippi’s history, engineers have lowered its southernmost riverbed to accommodate the ships that fuel the region’s economy. The Army Corps of Engineers last lowered the channel in 1987, to 45 feet below the water line, and has begun deepening it to 50. Any drop “essentially provides more space for saltwater to move in when the water levels are low,” Hiatt told me.

These compounding factors—lowering the river’s navigational depth, sea-level rise, and changing rainfall patterns—are a formula for more frequent saltwater intrusion, he said. In general, you can think of the Mississippi “like a stock portfolio,” John Sabo, the director of Tulane University’s ByWater research institute, told me. Rain in Ohio can cancel out drought in Minnesota, for instance, but when everywhere is withering, the river dips and peters. The Mississippi’s flow patterns are also becoming more volatile, McAnally, the MSU professor, told me. A statistically predictable pattern of rainfall runoff and river discharge, used to design infrastructure for 100-year floods, for instance, “has become a statistically unpredictable pattern of dry spells and wet spells,” he said.

This type of saltwater wedge is, in some sense, an affliction particular to the Mississippi River. Even Mobile Bay Estuary, 150 miles east, doesn’t experience this degree of intrusion, McAnally told me. Tides can make the difference. In many estuaries, tidal fluctuations churn saltwater and freshwater like syrup and ice in a slushie machine, discouraging the separation that a wedge requires. The Mississippi estuary, comparatively, is calm enough that the denser saltwater can settle and move upriver.

[Read: Mark Twain remembers his riverboat-pilot training]

The underwater dams that the Army Corps builds work by halting the saltwater flow on the river bottom, said McAnally, who evaluated the efficacy of the 1988 sill as the chief of the Corps’ estuary division. The Corps also built a sill when the intrusion began this summer, but in late September, the seawater overtopped it. “At some point, the ocean gets high enough that sills don’t work anymore,” Sabo said. “And we might be there.”

As the salt moves up the river, communities who get their drinking water from the river have to drink bottled water, pipe freshwater in from elsewhere, or run desalination systems. Keith Hinkley, the president of Plaquemines Parish (where the saltwater has been since June), told reporters he hopes to install permanent desalination systems in the region—an energy-intensive and expensive proposition, but a longer-lasting fix. Tyler Antrup, a visiting professor of urban planning at Tulane, says it might make sense to build a water-treatment plant further upriver, large enough to accommodate multiple towns. Over time, saltwater intrusion could affect communities outside the river’s immediate vicinity. If saltwater flows into the Mississippi more regularly and stays for longer stretches, eventually it leaches into the groundwater. Right now this type of knock-on effect of sea-level rise is a greater worry in places such as Florida and Texas, but in Louisiana, too, “that could be something we deal with in the future,” Sabo told me.

And water does not move alone. “If anything settles into that salt wedge, it’s going to move upstream until the currents are too weak to propel it,” McAnally said, leaving deposits of sediment. This could create problems in the spring when the Mississippi runs high and moves that dirt into the navigation channel and interrupts shipping. “That would take what is normally a large dredging burden and turn it into impossible,” he told me.

If the saltwater keeps returning, too, the lower Mississippi could begin to fundamentally change. “There’s ramifications on coastal fisheries. There’s ramifications on transportation. There’s ramifications for how we build infrastructure,” Sabo said, because saltwater can corrode pipes and send heavy metals into the water supply. The southern part of the Mississippi is a balancing act of interests: shipping, farming, fishing, tourism, and the infrastructure to protect it all from hurricanes and saltwater. “When we deal with one, we affect the other,” McAnally said. “So what we need is to take a systems view of the whole thing.” If the saltwater returns often enough, far enough up the river, it could change the most basic way a city perceives itself, too. “If we’re focusing on where freshwater meets saltwater, it means in New Orleans and maybe beyond—we become a truly marine coastal city,” Sabo told me.

This year, at least, Hiatt believes that the saltwater will likely be gone by spring, when snow melts in the upper Midwest and sends a pulse of freshwater all the way to Louisiana. The state has long been at the center of the Mississippi’s fight with the Gulf, catching blows from hurricanes, flood, and saltwater and habitable because of the engineering solutions that mitigate those dangers. But for this year’s particular saltwater problem, “the only thing that is going to fix this is rain,” Hiatt said. “And lots of it.”