One could lose oneself for hours in the patterns and erratic splotches of colors. Do I live in a swath of self-righteous green? Or in guilt-ridden, fiery orange? Does urban density really reduce our environmental impact? And how gluttonous are those McMansion-dwelling exurbanites, anyway?
The answers to all these questions and more are now just a mouse-click away thanks to an exhaustive household carbon footprint study, complete with those colorful and hypnotic interactive maps, recently published by University of California Berkeley researchers. Drawing on all sorts of data, from the amount of time folks spend in their cars to the number of rooms in their homes to the sources of energy that power their homes, they were able to determine how much greenhouse gases the average household in a particular geographical area is spewing into the atmosphere. The more you consume, the bigger your carbon footprint.
At first glance, the findings aren't so surprising: If you live in a very densely populated urban area — say San Francisco proper or even downtown Los Angeles — your household carbon footprint is likely to be lower than just about anyone else’s. That’s because city-dwellers live in smaller homes, don’t have to travel as far to get to work or run errands, and are more prone to walking or riding public transport than they are to hop in their car and drive. Meanwhile, the California city folk have a relatively low energy-related carbon footprint because California’s electricity mix leans more on hydropower, solar and wind, and less on coal, than other parts of the country.
Yet there is also a bit of a twist. Earlier studies had found a direct, negative correlation between density and carbon footprints — that is, emissions decrease as population density increases. Christopher Jones and Daniel Kammen, the Berkeley researchers, however, “reveal a more nuanced relationship between population density and HCF.” The suburbs just outside those green cities, it turns out, are colored a deep orange on the maps, signifying an unusually large carbon footprint, whether they are densely populated or not. Indeed, the suburban emissions "shadow" tends to blot out the efficiencies of the urban core, making the per capita carbon footprint of big metro areas just as big or bigger than those of smaller, sprawling cities or rural areas.
“As a policy measure to reduce GHG emissions,” Kammen and Jones write, “increasing population density appears to have severe limitations and unexpected trade-offs. In suburbs, we find more population dense suburbs actually have noticeably higher HCF, largely because of income effects.” Yes, income effects: Rich people have bigger carbon footprints, mainly because they live in bigger houses, have more cars and generally consume more of everything.
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What happens when you give a homeless person a subsidized apartment? The answer isn’t as straightforward as you might think. But in Utah, it’s proven a resounding success – out of 17 chronically homeless people who took part in the state’s 2005 pilot program, all were still off the streets two years later, spurring a long-term “Housing First” initiative that’s reduced Utah’s homeless population by 74 percent while saving the state millions of dollars.
Lloyd Pendleton, Director of the Utah Homeless Task Force, remembers one woman who took part in the pilot program. She’d been on and off the streets for over a decade, but after she was given a place of her own in Salt Lake City, still chose to sleep outside next to a dumpster. Eventually, she started crashing on the floor of the apartment. And after a while, she began sleeping in the bed. Today, she lives near her family, 70 years old, sober and happy.
Had she lived just across the border in Wyoming, her story might have ended very differently. Though its rate of homelessness isn’t particularly high, Wyoming falls dead last in the nation for sheltering its homeless, with only 26 percent receiving shelter, compared to 61 percent nationally. Plus, Wyoming’s homeless population has been on the rise: According to official data from the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, it’s more than doubled over the last three years, though Mary Randolph of the Wyoming Rural Development Council says it’s hard to know what the exact numbers are because the state’s record-keeping has been so inconsistent.
Still, she adds, the homeless population has indeed increased: “When the economy tanked, people heard there were (oil and gas) jobs in Wyoming and flooded out here. There weren’t jobs, and weren’t homes either, so a lot of people ended up on the streets.”
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The Arizona Supreme Court has greenlighted a lawsuit that the Hopi Tribe brought against the city of Flagstaff, Ariz. for selling wastewater to a local ski resort to make fake snow.
In a procedural victory, the tribe has won the right to proceed with its lawsuit challenging Flagstaff’s 2002 decision to sell reclaimed wastewater to the Arizona Snowbowl ski area, on claims that the wastewater snow creates a “public nuisance.”
The Arizona Court of Appeals last April had overturned a trial judge’s dismissal of the case in 2011. The city then asked the supreme court to review the appeals court ruling, but the petition was denied on Jan. 7.
The ruling means that the Hopi can go forward with its claim that the wastewater – pumped up the mountain directly from Flagstaff’s sewage treatment plant – creates a “public nuisance” by “interfering with the public’s enjoyment” of the mountain wilderness area on the San Francisco Peaks mountain range, where the ski resort is located. A Hopi win would mean Flagstaff would have to cancel its water supply contract to Snowbowl.
The development is the latest chapter in a decade-long legal saga between Arizona Snowbowl, 14 miles north of Flagstaff, and a collective of environmental groups and Native American tribes who say the wastewater snow will harm the delicate alpine ecoystem and potentially human health, if skiers ingest it. The Peaks are sacred to 13 Native American tribes, who view the wastewater snow as a desecration.
"Using wastewater harms the use and enjoyment of these areas and degrades the pristine nature” of the area, then-Hopi tribal chairman Leroy Shingoitewa said in the Navajo-Hopi Observer after April’s ruling.
But Snowbowl manager J.R. Murray has said that – with diminished snowfall due to climate change – the resort needs to supplement natural snow to maintain its season and stay in business. He declined to comment on the latest lawsuit because the resort is not a party to it.
The City of Flagstaff contends that the Hopi’s public nuisance claim doesn’t apply because “the alleged nuisance” – snowmaking – is already authorized and regulated by federal and state authorities.
Indeed, in 2002 when Snowbowl contracted with Flagstaff to purchase reclaimed water from the city’s wastewater treatment plant to use for snowmaking, it required the permission of its landlords, the U.S. Forest Service, which conducted a lengthy environmental review.
The water used for snowmaking is also regulated at the state level, through Arizona’s Department of Environmental Quality. After wastewater snowmaking began in December 2012, the agency required Snowbowl to post signs around the resort telling customers not to eat the snow, among other things.
Shift more of the nation off coal-powered electricity and onto that supplied by natural gas, and what do you get? A significant reduction in the carbon emissions driving the alarming climatic shifts we already experience in our daily lives. That’s the theory anyway, based on the fact that natural gas produces about half the carbon dioxide that coal does when burned. And if you put aside concerns about drilling’s impacts to air and water quality, it’s an important one, since this electricity switch may account for a significant portion of the overall decrease in U.S. greenhouse gas releases that’s occurred over the last few years.
Trouble is, the climate benefits of natural gas hinge on just how much is leaking from the wells, pipelines, compressor stations and other infrastructure used to extract and deliver the fuel. But due to the paucity of comprehensive data, the large margins of error in the findings and the wildly disparate conclusions of various researchers, nobody’s quite sure what the percentage is. Methane, natural gas’s primary component, is a vastly more potent greenhouse gas than CO2, though more short-lived; as Sarah Keller reported for High Country News last summer, as little as 3 percent loss could cancel out the emissions reductions achieved by moving from coal to gas. Recent studies certainly don’t stoke confidence. One based on thousands of actual air samples, published in the The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences in November, concluded that U.S. methane emissions were actually 1.5 times higher than previously thought, and that those for the oil and gas industry in Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas were 5 times higher, reports The New York Times.
Given this, you’d think the industry would be falling all over itself to do away with leaks and thus help ensure its place in the U.S. energy pantheon long into the future, as well as improve its dismal public image. Presenters and attendees at an industry conference I went to last summer certainly beat the hey-enviro-hypocrites-we’re-reducing-greenhouse-gases! drum almost to the point of being annoying. And when President Obama made natural gas a key part of his climate strategy, energy companies and trade groups were more than happy to toot their horn.
You even might think that the industry, which in some cases is becoming more openly environmentally progressive in response to public concerns about hydraulic fracturing, would embrace Colorado’s landmark proposal to rein in fugitive methane emissions from oil and gas operations, announced last fall as part of a larger effort to tighten air quality rules. After all, doing so would make the industry’s recent concern about climate change seem more, um, well, genuine.
So is it? Nope.
Here at High Country News, some of us recently had a lively discussion about our slogan: “for people who care about the American West.” After 43 years, is it still the best phrase to convey who we are and what we do? We added the “American” to that slogan some years ago, realizing that in an increasingly globalized world, “West” could be interpreted in a much broader sense than we intended.
Our definition of the West has morphed over the years. We mostly cover the 11 Western states, and for us, one of the key characteristics of those states is their high proportion of public land. Texas is only peripherally a part of our West, mostly because it has little public land. And because, well, it’s Texas.
During our first few decades, we mostly focused on the Interior West, the eight states with the highest mean elevations (hence “High Country”). We didn’t often write about California, Oregon or Washington. But now we cover those states regularly. And our scope continues to expand – we venture into Alaska now and then, and out into the Great Plains. We’ve even run stories set in Oklahoma. These days, our West seems to be defined more by the 100th Meridian, the line between East and West, between moist and arid, described in detail by John Wesley Powell.
The discussion got me thinking about the many ways to consider the boundaries of both states and regions. The lines defining each state, of course, are based on physical geography and political history. National Journal political correspondent Alex Seitz-Wald describes how a few of them came to be:
Sometimes it seems as if the energy industry wants to turn the New World back into a resource colony for the rest of the globe. First, coal companies, seeing a reduction in demand domestically, tried to sell more coal overseas. Then, thanks to the shale gas glut, the fossil fuel industry has been trying to get liquid natural gas terminals approved and built, so it can sell its goods to Japan, China and Europe.
Now, they want to hock all that newfound bubblin’ crude — oil, that is, black gold, North Dakota Tea — on the shelves of the global supermarket. That would enable the companies drilling the West’s oilfields to sell more of their product at a higher price. But the only way to do that is by lifting the ban on crude exports that was put in place during the 1970s energy crisis in an effort to insulate Americans from the volatile price swings of the global market. ExxonMobil and ConocoPhillips broached the subject of lifting the ban, and most recently Sen. Lisa Murkowski, the Republican from Alaska, joined them and other Western oil state congressmen from both sides of the aisle.
On the one hand, the idea of exporting oil makes perfect sense. All the other big world oil producers do it, and thanks to advances in hydraulic fracturing and horizontal drilling, we are now a big oil producer. We sell Coca-Cola and Chevrolets and corn to the rest of the world, so why not crude?
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One snowy evening over the holidays, I sat down for a beer with screenwriter Susan Shilliday ("Legends of the Fall"), who moved from Los Angeles to rural western Massachusetts eight years ago to run a used bookstore. We were discussing how difficult it is for independent booksellers to stay in business when Susan brought up a similar challenge faced by her first love: cinema. The theater in a nearby college town had recently closed, she told me, and many others are on the brink.
I’m a diehard bookworm and not much of a movie buff, so while I’ve pined for small, independent bookstores since watching Meg Ryan’s character lose hers in 1998’s "You’ve Got Mail," I hadn’t realized that small theaters are equally endangered. According to Rolling Stone, more than 1,000 rural theaters are at risk of closing in the next few years, and hundreds more have already shut their doors. The threat isn’t so much competition from giant multiplexes (though that’s an issue, too): It’s the cost of retrofitting old facilities to meet new digital standards.
As I write this, a Hollywood revolution is quietly unfolding: 35-mm film, the iconic medium that captured Charlie Chaplin, Katharine Hepburn and Henry Fonda, is becoming obsolete. The change began in 2002, when a coalition of big studios got together to create new digital parameters for the industry. Digital films are less expensive to produce ($150 per copy compared to $1,500), and studios can save billions each year by going digital. By the mid-2000s, only a few hundred theaters worldwide were capable of playing digital films, but with the digital-only release of "Avatar" in 2009, scores converted to be able to screen the 3D hit.For corporate multiplexes, the $40,000 to $75,000 per screen required for digitization wasn’t a problem. Yet for small theaters, the change can be catastrophic.
As of this year, Hollywood will begin releasing movies almost solely in digital format, meaning theaters that haven’t converted will be left in the dust. It’s rare that Hollywood’s actions reverberate through the rural West, but the switch to digital has given remote Western towns more reasons to worry for their future. “They’re … forcing people to convert or close,” says Amy DeLuca, program director for the 89-year-old Paradise Theater in Paonia, Colo., High Country News’ hometown. “It would be a tragic loss (for the town) if we can’t keep the theater open.”
People want to support local theaters as anchors of the community, Shilliday says, but even the most loyal patronage can’t offset the cost of installing new projectors, screens and sound systems into the funky old buildings that have long been mainstays in places like Paonia or Eatonville, Wash., another town that’s had to scramble to save its theater by converting to digital.
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Three years ago, Slovakian paleontologist Peter Vrsansky found a surprise in a shipment of fossils from Rifle, Colo. Hidden in the collection was an unexpected new peek into the insect world during the Eocene epoch, 50 million years ago. Vrsansky discovered four new species of Ectobius cockroach that are five million years older – and originated from a different continent – than scientists have long thought. It turns out that Ectobius cockroaches did not originate in the Old World – Europe and Africa – 44 million years ago, but in the New World – North America – 49 million years ago.
These insects were most likely scuttling around this continent, and apparently the mountains that predated the Rockies, before even acquainting themselves with Eurasia. Scientists say that the critters must have eventually migrated through either the then-balmy Arctic and into Scandadavia, or across the Bering Land Bridge and into Eurasia.
Uncovering specimens like these, “is like putting together a puzzle, but the pieces can be moved in space and time,” said Conrad Labandeira, a co-author of the scientific paper on the discovery and a senior scientist at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, DC. “Every time you put a piece in its place, you flesh out these patterns of evolution.”
The man who actually unearthed the cockroach specimens is David Kohls, an avid fossil hunter from Battlement Mesa, Colo. The amateur collector uncovered the fossils from bluffs overlooking the Colorado River in Garfield County, Colo. It was one of countless trips he made to the Green River Formation, and he was probably armed with a rock hammer, a wood chisel, and plenty of newspaper to wrap any delicate findings. At the time, over a decade ago, he didn’t realize the implications of his find. “But evidently it was a pretty big deal,” he said this week.
The Green River Formation, part of which is close to Kohl’s home, is a particularly good place to hunt for fossils; large, shallow lakes that once covered the area preserved a rich library of plants and animals. Plus, the formation is young enough that it escaped some long-term geological processes like erosion and metamorphism that can ruin the quality of fossils.
When I started working for High Country News eight years ago this month, there was no shortage of issues to write about. Natural gas drilling was going nuts, nearly every sector of the economy was on fire and immigrants were streaming through the desert to live the dream. Perhaps most bewildering to me, however, were the immigrants coming to the West from the rest of the United States, buying homes, and causing small and big towns alike to sprawl out into desert, forest and farmland.
As a native of rural southwestern Colorado, I had a mixed reaction to the influx. It was painful, to say the least, to watch the land my ancestors had once homesteaded get gobbled up by mega-tract homes that I could never afford to own or rent. And any dummy could see that growth as an economic engine in itself was unsustainable. On the other hand, a rural community that never grows, that never has folks moving in and out, can be a pretty stagnant place. I knew that affluent newcomers could be the best bet for badly needed cultural and intellectual growth in my little town. My small-town upbringing yearned for more cosmopolitan flair. Later, when I owned businesses in Silverton, Colo., a tiny former mining town that missed the boom altogether – the population plummeted for years after the mine closed in 1992 – I understood the need for a certain amount of critical mass to keep a community, not to mention business, vital. Silverton, for one, desperately needed newcomers just to survive.
But the growth of the early 2000s went far beyond critical mass in some areas. Nevada grew at a rate of more than 4 percent per year, quadruple the national rate. Between 2005 and 2006, Arizona grew by almost 200,000 people, and demographers at the time expected the population to reach 8 million by 2015. Even after the Great Recession ripped through the Western housing market, growth-boosters and demographers alike didn’t believe it would create a big dip in population growth: As late as 2009, analysts at Arizona State University expected the Sun Corridor region of Arizona, a megapolitan area that includes Phoenix and Tucson, to grow by 140,000 people per year between 2010 and 2020.Read More ...
The Bobcat Protection Act of 2013 (AB 1213), introduced in March by Santa Monica assemblyman Richard Bloom (D), went into effect January 1. It prohibits trapping the wild cats along the boundaries of Joshua Tree National Park and requires the state Department of Fish and Wildlife to establish similar no-trapping areas along the boundaries of California’s national parks, monuments, wildlife refuges and other designated areas across the state. The new law also bans bobcat trapping on private land without the written consent of the landowner.
As HCN editor Jodi Peterson reported in June, demand for U.S. fur has skyrocketed, mostly from increasingly affluent Chinese and Russian consumers. In 2012, according to the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, 1,607 bobcats were killed in California during the winter hunting and trapping season. (Though the trapping season is more than two months shorter than hunting season, trappers accounted for more than three-quarters of that total.)
While bobcats are not a federally-protected species, some conservationists worry that their populations are poorly understood and that continued trapping, along with destruction and fragmentation of prime habitat, poses serious threats to the long-term viability of the species.
If the new law protecting them can be said to have a birthplace, it is on a boulder-strewn hillside on the outskirts of Joshua Tree National Park belonging to local conservationist Tom O’Key. An amateur astronomer and co-founder of the Southern California Desert Video Astronomers, O’Key has been active in a host of local issues, including fighting light pollution and solar farm proposals in the Morongo Basin.
O’Key has also buying up parcels on the boundary of Joshua Tree National Park with the specific purpose of not developing them. “I buy boulders,” he says, making a space between his palms of no more than a few inches. “A crack that big is enough space for a Chuckwalla.”