If it's blowing in the wind, it must be spring

Nature turns into a hassle

What used to pass as part of the natural rhythm has, over time, turned into a recurring urban irritant.

For Hu Honghai, a resident of Changping district in Beijing, the situation is "messy". "You wash your car, and before long it's covered again," he says. "My eyes feel uncomfortable, my throat too. Sometimes I can't even tell if it's a cold or an allergy." He occasionally wears a mask or uses eye drops, though more often he just puts up with it.

That kind of quiet endurance is common. Wang Cheng, a researcher with the Research Institute of Forestry at the Chinese Academy of Forestry, points out that the fluff is part of a tree's natural reproduction cycle and has existed in northern China for centuries. "When it lingers and builds up, it starts to interfere with daily life and even health," he says.

For people who work outdoors or spend long hours on the road, the impact is more immediate. Yang notes that the fluff can affect not just comfort but safety. "If you're not careful, it can clog the radiator," he says. "In serious cases, that can damage the engine." He has installed a protective mesh to keep it out.

Add the cost of allergy relief, and the nuisance becomes something more tangible.

There's also a fire risk. The fluff contains plant oils and ignites easily. A stray spark is enough. There have been cases of piles of accumulated fluff catching fire due to cigarette butts or children playing with fire, with some escalating into larger incidents. Yang recalls lighting some fluff in a courtyard out of curiosity. "I ended up burning my shoe cabinet," he says. "A brand-new pair of leather shoes went with it."

Why it feels worse now?

The issue isn't only how much fluff there is. It's how close it is to where people live. Wang says that in the past, the catkins would drift into farmland, grasslands, forests, and rivers or wetland areas, where they would get trapped and not float in the air.

But urbanization has changed this. In cities, vast expanses of paved surfaces don't trap the fluff, so it keeps flowing back into the air. Wang explains that several factors come into play — the types of trees planted, how densely they are arranged, and the way urban spaces are built.

The age of the trees also matters, Wang emphasizes, with older trees producing more fluff. In the past, poplar and willow trees were often planted for timber and cut down before they ever reached the stage of heavy production of catkins. But with stronger urban ecological protection, they've been left to grow much longer in cities.

Given the discomfort, the first reaction of many residents is simple enough: why not just cut these trees down or replace them? The reality, however, is far more complicated than it seems.

Poplars and willows — especially populus tomentosa — once played a central role in greening China's northern cities. They grow quickly, tolerate harsh conditions, and provide long stretches of shade. Decades on, many of them now stand as towering trees and have become part of the city's ecological fabric.

Cutting them down is far from a simple fix. It would be expensive, ecologically costly, and at odds with the idea of ecological civilization. For many residents, it would also mean losing a familiar piece of the city's green memory and everyday landscape.

Hu puts it plainly: "Cutting them down doesn't seem realistic. But I've heard the city is replacing some of them." This is a common dilemma: people are bothered by the problem, but also recognize how complicated it is to manage.