Environment Archives - Page 4 of 63 - Lincoln Institute of Land Policy (2024)

In his three decades leading the Scenic Hudson Land Trust, Steve Rosenberg saw waves of people moving from cities to the Hudson Valley following major events: 9/11, Hurricanes Sandy and Irene, even Chelsea Clinton’s wedding in Rhinebeck. So when another wave arrived during COVID-19, part of the great migration of urban office workers to rural America, it wasn’t exactly novel.

But this time, things were different in the Hudson Valley, which runs along the Hudson River from New York City to Albany. Land and real estate prices were skyrocketing, due to the influx of new residents and the broader pressures of the market. In the region’s cities and villages, gentrification had begun sweeping areas long marred by disinvestment, displacing low-income residents, posing a threat to Black and Brown communities, and making it hard to preserve and create affordable housing.

This “intense pressure on the land,” Rosenberg says, was also making the job of conservation harder. Just a decade earlier, land trusts could more easily assemble three or four parcels of land to create a contiguous protected area that would help preserve wildlife habitat and build climate resilience. Now it would take 10 or 12 purchases to assemble a comparable amount of acreage, and conservation groups were more frequently being outbid. As they vied with outside buyers for land, the region’s conservation and housing organizations faced similar challenges, and some began to wonder if they could accomplish more by working together. At the same time, some conservation organizations, prompted largely by the Black Lives Matter movement, were exploring how they might better address racial justice, public health, and climate equity as part of a more community-centered type of land conservation. But housing and conservation groups also seemed to exist in parallel worlds, with different missions, goals, funding models, and governance structures.

Still, Rosenberg saw potential. When he retired from Scenic Hudson in 2021, he teamed up with Rebecca Gilman Crimmins, a Hudson Valley native and affordable housing professional in New York City, to convene a working group of five conservation land trusts and five affordable housing organizations in the region. The groups began learning about each other’s work, identifying where that work intersects, and mapping potential places where they might partner. They combined census, biodiversity, and climate data with their knowledge about local officials, planning policies, and land use regulations. “Healthy communities need to have both” open space and affordable housing, Rosenberg said. “They shouldn’t be seen as mutually exclusive or in opposition to one another.”

As real estate prices spike, the climate unravels, and America undergoes a racial reckoning, conservation and affordable housing groups are beginning to explore how they can work together. In 2022, the Lincoln Institute convened practitioners and advocates, including Rosenberg and Crimmins, to discuss the potential for collaboration by conservation land trusts and community land trusts. Through a series of virtual and in-person discussions supported by the 1772 Foundation, participants from national, regional, and local groups explored the barriers that have gotten in the way of partnership—and the opportunities ahead.

Shared Concerns, Separate Roots

America’s first conservation land trust, The Trustees of Reservations, was dreamed up in the late 1800s by landscape architect Charles Eliot, whose father was president of Harvard. Eliot saw the nation’s cities yellowing with industrial pollution, and envisioned wild green pockets of open space in every city and town. The state enabled The Trustees to begin acquiring and protecting land in 1891. Today, America has 1,281 land trusts that have protected more than 61 million acres. Mostly operating in rural and suburban settings and often run by volunteers, land trusts protect wildlife habitats, critical ecosystems, and natural, historical, and cultural sites by buying and managing parcels outright or by holding conservation easem*nts—voluntary legal agreements with landowners that limit development and other defined uses on a property.

Community land trusts (CLTs), by contrast, have more recent beginnings. In 1969, a group of civil rights activists led by Charles Sherrod set out to build collective wealth and power among Black farmers in southwest Georgia. They created New Communities, an undertaking that combined community ownership of land with individual homeownership, serving as a model for today’s CLTs. The organization was forced to foreclose on its land in 1985, after the USDA’s discriminatory practices deprived it of crucial grants and aid in the wake of a devastating drought. But it’s still operating as an educational organization, and it ignited a movement: today there are more than 300 CLTs in the country. CLTs are still oriented toward serving marginalized communities, and typically own land while giving individuals the opportunity to own the homes and businesses on top. Despite their rural origins, most CLTs now focus on providing permanently affordable housing in urban settings.

These distinct origins have led to an array of differences, as Katie Michels and David Hindin describe in a working paper prepared for the Lincoln Institute convening. Land trusts have tended to focus on and be led by wealthier, whiter, and more rural constituencies, while CLTs are more often geared to and governed by people of color. The resources available to the groups are also different.

“Compared to CLTs, land trusts may be wealthier organizations with greater access to political power and financial resources,” Hindin and Michels write, noting that public and private funding is usually dedicated to conservation or housing, but not both. Because both groups need land to fulfill their mission, they add, “some local conservation and community land trusts have had negative experiences with each other and may view the other as competitors.”

But that’s beginning to change. “We’re starting to see some conservation land trusts and CLTs really trying to figure out how to work together,” said Beth Sorce, vice president of sector growth at Grounded Solutions Network, a national nonprofit that promotes affordable housing solutions and grew out of a network of CLTs. As cities metastasize and affordable parcels grow scarce, conservation and affordable housing organizations are beginning to see past their differences, says Sorce, who participated in the Lincoln Institute convening: “We have a common goal of a really healthy, livable place. Maybe instead of everyone trying to acquire land individually, we could work together to figure out how to do this in a way that makes our community green.”

Land trusts across the country “are providing so many benefits to our environment and to people’s lives and well-being,” said Forrest King-Cortes, director of community-centered conservation at the Land Trust Alliance (LTA), a national coalition of conservation land trusts. LTA hired King-Cortes—who also participated in the Lincoln Institute convening—to lead its efforts to put people at the center of conservation work, and he sees “more opportunity to have dialogue with other movements like the affordable housing movement.”

As these conversations continue, participants are identifying many possible forms of collaboration, from exchanging ideas and information to jointly pushing for policy reform. In some cases, groups are taking action on the ground. In Ohio, the Western Reserve Land Conservancy, which has long worked with local land banks to acquire properties for public green space, is beginning to partner with CLTs on community-led, joint planning that will include affordable housing. On Mount Desert Island in Maine, where housing constraints and costs lead 54 percent of workers to live off-island, the Island Housing Trust, a CLT, is partnering with the Maine Coast Heritage Trust on a 60-acre project that combines wetland conservation with the development of affordable workforce housing. And in a rapidly developing, predominantly Black suburb of Seattle, the Homestead Community Land Trust and community-led Skyway Coalition are partnering with the support of the Community Land Conservancyto protect affordability and green space as they stave off gentrification.

A Collaborative Model in Athens, Georgia

While conservation and affordable housing advocates explore opportunities for collaboration, they can learn from organizations that have built both goals into their mission. The Athens Land Trust is considered by many to be the shining light at the intersection of these worlds.

In the early 1990s, Nancy Stangle and Skipper StipeMaas were developing a rural intentional community, Kenney Ridge, on 132 acres in Athens-Clarke County, Georgia—about 200 miles north of Albany, where the CLT movement was born. The plan was for Kenney Ridge to consist of private lots for homeowners, a community farmhouse and gardens, and common, conserved open space. But as they laid out the development, they realized that setting aside more land for conservation also made the private lots more expensive, because the costs of building roads, water lines, and sewer lines were divided between the lots, and more conservation amounted to fewer lots—and fewer lot owners to bear the costs. “They were seeing this tension between environmental-type development and affordability,” said Heather Benham, the Athens Land Trust’s executive director. And it was pricing out some of their friends.

Around this time, Stangle was taking her kids to the zoo in Atlanta when her car broke down. A woman pulled over and offered to take Stangle to her office, where she could use the phone. The woman worked at a community land trust, the Cabbagetown Revitalization and Future Trust. After reading up on the CLT model, Stangle and StipeMaas decided to create an organization that would function as both a land trust and a CLT, and the Athens Land Trust was born.

For the first few years, the Athens Land Trust functioned mostly as a conservation land trust. Then in 1999, one of its board members bought a vacant lot in a historically Black neighborhood of Athens and donated it to the group. The local government provided an affordable housing grant, and the organization built its first house.

The two wings of the organization continued to grow—the trust came to hold over 20,695 acres of conservation easem*nts, from farms outside Athens to pine plantations and mountains in north Georgia, and it built and rehabbed homes inside the city—but they remained practically separate. “Basically, when we answered the phone, it was pretty clear if somebody was calling for one thing or the other,” said Benham. The callers were typically either low-income Black families interested in housing, or white farmers wanting to protect land they had owned for generations.

In the early 2000s, these parallel strands of work began to intersect. A board member mentioned that drug activity was taking place on a vacant lot in their neighborhood. Could the land trust turn it into a community garden?

“It didn’t seem like such a far leap to do gardens when you’re protecting farms,” said Benham. “That became a project, and then it just kept growing.” Other neighborhoods began reaching out about starting similar projects. The group partnered with the local university to create a network of community gardens, and an urban farm where neighbors could grow food to sell, supplementing their income. A USDA grant provided funds, and the city also offered some land. To maximize the community’s benefit from the land, the Athens Land Trust began running gardening classes and farm workdays, youth programming around agricultural skills, and a farmers market in a low-income Black neighborhood. These activities support the Athens Land Trust’s goals of fostering economic development and community empowerment, Benham says. “The economic opportunity around the farmers market and the small business development,” she says, weaves the parcels into the “neighborhood ecosystem and economy.”

Where Conservation and Justice Meet

As the urban work of the Athens Land Trust grew, its leaders began applying an equity lens to their rural conservation work too, identifying populations underserved by previous efforts to protect farmland. In April 2023, the land trust was close to reaching a deal for the first conservation easem*nt on a Black-owned farm in Georgia. Throughout the United States, 97 percent of farms and 94 percent of farm acreage belongs to white farmers. Many Black landowners lack clear title—a legacy of unjust property inheritance rules—and are unable to donate or sell easem*nts on their land, while those who have fought to gain clear title may be understandably hesitant to sign over any rights. Benham adds that the scoring mechanisms used by the USDA Natural Resources Conservation Service to determine whether to conserve a parcel tend to favor farms located on prime agricultural soils. “Well, surprise, surprise—most Black farmers didn’t get the most prime lands,” she notes.

Benham believes the Athens Land Trust has managed to straddle both worlds because its fundamental goal is to give the community control over lands and development. Eschewing tunnel vision toward either housing or conservation, the trust and other similarly minded organizations “might have more shared framework, vocabulary, practices, and ways of engaging” with the environmental justice movement than conservation land trusts do, she said.

That’s reflected in philanthropy too: the funders who seem to understand how the trust’s conservation and housing work align are the ones who recognize their environmental justice–like “sustainability work in low-income neighborhoods.”

In the South Bronx, New York, a community land trust launched in 2020 operates with a similar hybrid model, working to preserve housing affordability and protect open space, including the neighborhood’s network of community gardens. The South Bronx Community Land and Resource Trust grew from the work of local community development corporation Nos Quedamos (We Stay), which started in the 1990s as grassroots resistance to an urban renewal plan that would have displaced a low-income, mostly Latino community. Committed to “development without displacement”—development driven and controlled by the community—Nos Quedamos now has a portfolio of affordable housing. It launched the CLT to “create and support a healthier community by bringing into balance land use, affordability, accessibility to services and open space, environmental sustainability and resilience, community scale and character.” It is designed to be a centralized, community-owned entity.

Julia Duranti-Martínez, who works with CLTs at the national community development organization LISC and is a board member on the East Harlem/El Barrio CLT in New York City, recommends that conversations about collaboration “defer to the groups who come out of environmental justice organizing.” In a real estate market where land is expensive and scarce, housing and conservation group vie for parcels, and new parks are often seen as harbingers of gentrification, the community development projects that have navigated these tensions most successfully have been driven by the same fundamental goal as the environmental justice movement, she says: ensuring that “Black, Indigenous, and communities of color are really the ones in a decision-making role.”

Duranti-Martínez adds that the framework of CLTs has historically shared more in common with environmental justice groups than with the conservation movement. “They are promoting these community stewardship models not in opposition to affordable housing,” she said, but simply because “a healthy community” has “all kinds of different spaces: dignified and affordable housing, affordable commercial space, green space, and community and cultural spaces.”

Moving Forward

Despite promising ideas for collaboration and enthusiasm for these initiatives, ideological and cultural hurdles remain. Success, for land trusts, has historically been measured in the number of acres protected and dollars leveraged, but these conventional measures “don’t really capture the full impact” of smaller or more complex projects, said Michels. Protecting green space and building housing on five acres could take the same time, effort, and resources as conserving 10,000 rural acres, she notes, which means there are some ideological frameworks on the conservation side that have to shift.

Potential collaborators also need to proceed purposefully and thoughtfully; meaningful and inclusive community engagement will be key to the success of combining affordable housing and open space goals, say many involved in this work, whether that effort is happening inside a single organization or as part of a collaboration between groups. “Conservation has a lot to learn about building community stakeholders in as decision-makers within our organizations,” says King-Cortes of LTA. Despite growing interest in broadening the movement’s work, “many of us are not ready, I would say, to jump into partnership with affordable housing groups until we’ve done our homework: until we’ve learned about the roots of the affordable housing movement, the ties to the civil rights movement.”

Yet conservation groups also have a wealth of resources and expertise to offer. For CLTs, “by far the biggest inhibitor to being able to scale is access to land and money,” said Sorce of Grounded Solutions Network. Partnerships often help fill that gap, and conservation groups could help with this too. “They could team up to acquire a larger parcel, some of which is going to be conservation, some of which is going to be housing.”

In fact, this kind of partnership could benefit both sectors. “Everyone’s struggling to fundraise,” said King-Cortes. “Everyone’s trying to make the most of what we’ve got. But by working together on planning, I think both movements can get more done and maximize resources.”

Succeeding at that will take some effort, because most funding for conservation and housing has historically been separate, as Michels and Hindin noted. “All of the public policy-supported programs and funding are totally siloed,” Rosenberg confirmed. A housing group that wants to build a development with trails, parks, or community gardens can typically only get funding to build the housing, while on the flip side, conservation groups can’t get funding to do anything besides conserve land.

However, there are exceptions to that rule. In Vermont, housing and conservation groups organized in 1987 to create a single public funding source, the Vermont Housing and Conservation Trust Fund, administered by the Vermont Housing and Conservation Board (VHCB). Michels, who worked at VHCB for several years, says it demonstrates a potential model for collaboration. It has nurtured relationships and understanding between the two communities, and both practitioners and policymakers have come to see the dual goals as complementary, not competitive—reinforcing an almost 100-year-old land use tradition of compact settlement surrounded by a working landscape.

Every year, a coalition of affordable housing and conservation groups lobbies the state legislature for VHCB funding. The result is “a lot of relationship building across those communities of practice, and they each know what the other is working on,” Michels said. VHCB has invested in projects with both elements in many towns, ensuring that affordable housing and open space are both available. “There’s a version of collaboration that doesn’t involve working together on a single parcel,” but pulling for the same outcomes, Michels said; when an opportunity does present itself on one parcel, it is widely embraced.

Back in the Hudson Valley, Rosenberg’s working group is also eyeing Massachusetts’ Community Preservation Act as a model. Voters in Massachusetts can opt for their municipality to apply a surcharge on property taxes, which can then be used to fund conservation, affordable housing, outdoor recreation, and historic preservation. New York’s legislature has authorized some municipalities to vote for a local real estate transfer fee to create a community preservation fund, but the proceeds can only support conservation, not housing.

Identifying policy reforms that could help accomplish its work and agreeing on a statement of shared purpose have been priorities for the Hudson Valley group, which has continued its explorations with support from Regional Plan Association, the project’s fiscal sponsor, and the Consensus Building Institute. “There are actually some collaborations that are already beginning,” said Rosenberg. The Kingston Land Trust, which has been studying and promoting the community land trust model since 2017, has partnered with the regional affordable housing group RUPCO to launch a CLT as part of its Land for Homes initiative. The organization also worked with graduate students at Columbia University and Bard College to develop a regional housing vision and a guide for collaboration between conservation and housing groups. The Chatham, New York–based Columbia Land Conservancy, meanwhile, is serving as the fiscal sponsor for another new CLT.

And within the working group, one of the conservation land trusts identified a 113-acre farm parcel for sale in the town of Red Hook that “defines the gateway to the community,” Rosenberg said. Red Hook has a community preservation fund to support conservation, and Scenic Hudson and other groups have long been active there. But having recently expanded its public sewer system, Red Hook was also looking to develop more affordable housing—and, in the case of this property, to fend off private buyers who were interested in developing the whole parcel.

Conditions seemed favorable. So two of the working group’s housing organizations and two of the land trusts met with local officials to discuss collaborating with the town on a project that would achieve both goals: conserving farmland and building some affordable housing. The town now plans to purchase the land, working with one of the land trusts to place a conservation easem*nt on most of it and setting aside the rest for homes to be built by one of the affordable housing groups. “That project is not done, but it is moving forward,” said Rosenberg. “That’s really exciting.”

LINCOLN INSTITUTE COLLOQUIUM ON CONSERVATION AND COMMUNITY LAND TRUSTS

During 2022, the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy led a yearlong research effort on the potential for collaboration between conservation land trusts and community land trusts (CLTs). With the support of Peter Stein of Lyme Timber Company and a grant from the 1772 Foundation, the institute convened a core group of experts in conservation and affordable housing for a series of meetings, culminating with a colloquium and working paper.

The colloquium has informed ongoing efforts to advance land conservation and affordable housing priorities. In February, working paper coauthors Katie Michels and David Hindin advised the Connecticut Land Conservation Council’s summit for advocates and leaders in the conservation and housing sectors to consider shared agendas and future policy goals. In March, Jim Levitt, director of Sustainably Managed Land and Water Resources at the Lincoln Institute, moderated a keynote panel titled “Affordable Housing and Land Conservation: Not an Either/Or” at the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Land Trust Coalition; the panel included a colloquium participant.

“To thrive, communities need permanently affordable housing and permanently conserved land that provides green space, natural infrastructure, and biodiversity-friendly habitat,” says Chandni Navalkha, associate director of Sustainably Managed Land and Water Resources at the Lincoln Institute. “By working in greater collaboration, these communities of practice have unique potential in leveraging their decades of success and experience to implement multigoal, multibenefit projects that address communities’ most pressing challenges.”

Audrea Lim is a writer in New York City whose work has appeared in the New York Times, Harper’s, and the Guardian. Her book Free the Land, on the commodification of land and alternatives in the United States, will be published by St. Martin’s Press in 2024.

Lead image:Graduate students from Columbia University worked with the Kingston Land Trust on a project that envisions new affordable housing models on communally owned property, including medium-density apartments.Credit:“(E)CO-Living: Towards a More Affordable and Green Kingston” by Yiyang Cai, Kai Guo, Lingbei Chen, Wenyi Peng. Urban Design Studio II, Spring 2021, Graduate School of Architecture Planning and Preservation, Columbia University. Faculty: Kaja Kühl coordinator, with Lee Altman, Anna Dietzsch, Shachi Pandey, Thaddeus Pawlowski and Associates, Zarith Pineda, Victoria Vuono. Local Partner: Kingston Land Trust.

El verano pasado, la mayoría de las personas del rincón montañoso al noreste de Nuevo México esperaban ansiosas la llegada de la temporada de monzones de cada año. El incendio forestal de Hermits Peak y Calf Canyon había comenzado en abril, llegó a quemar 138.000 hectáreas y destruyó cientos de propiedades. Los residentes anhelaban un respiro del humo y las evacuaciones que habían empezado a definir sus vidas. Pero, entonces, llegó el monzón, no solo antes de lo previsto, sino que con mayor intensidad de lo normal.

A medida que la lluvia caía a cántaros sobre la tierra que se había vuelto impermeable a causa del incendio, el barro y el agua bajaban en cascada por las pendientes de las sierras de la Sangre de Cristo y desembocaban en las vías fluviales, los campos, las rutas y las viviendas. Sin haberse recuperado aún del incendio, los residentes se vieron forzados a lidiar con un desastre nuevo, y en muchos casos, tuvieron que abandonar sus viviendas otra vez.

“Sus viviendas se inundaron, perdieron los corrales, los graneros se quemaron”, relató Veronica Serna, comisionada del condado de Mora, una de las áreas más afectadas por el incendio y las inundaciones. “Una roca se desmoronó y le bloqueó todo el acceso a una familia”. No tenían nada de agua y ningún camino para salir a conseguirla. Imagina no poder ducharte en tu propia casa ni lavarte las manos o usar el inodoro. Fue devastador”.

Serna recuerda otra familia “cuya casa se siguió inundando una y otra vez. Un día pasamos a ver cómo seguían, y estaban quitándose el barro del calzado y sacando el barro de la habitación con una pala. Es tan duro ver eso”.

La inundación también afectó al condado de San Miguel, exactamente en el sur: provocó daños en viviendas e infraestructuras, contaminó pozos y comprometió las fuentes de agua. “La mayoría de las personas ya regresaron a sus comunidades, pero aún les preocupa el futuro, porque la inundación no se detendrá”, dijo Ralph Vigil II, un agricultor y encargado del agua que creció en el condado de San Miguel y dirige la cooperativa de productores rurales allí. “Temo que tengamos que lidiar con esto por años”. De acuerdo con la Agencia Federal para el Manejo de Emergencias (FEMA, por su sigla en inglés), después de un incendio forestal, el riesgo de inundación sigue siendo alto por hasta cinco años, hasta que la vegetación se recupera (FEMA 2020).

Vigil tuvo la oportunidad de sobrevolar en helicóptero la cicatriz del incendio en otoño, cuando el fuego ya se había controlado por completo y las peores inundaciones habían menguado. “No entiendes realmente la inmensidad del daño hasta que estás allí”, dijo. No solo lo alarmaron la aniquilación de los paisajes y las comunidades que siempre amó: “También vi el riesgo de más incendios y los signos reales de lo que vendrá”.

Debido a que el cambio climático contribuye para que las temporadas de incendios forestales sean más intensas y prolongadas, los incendios están dejando secuelas en todo el oeste de los Estados Unidos, y eso expone a las comunidades aledañas al riesgo de inundaciones. Esas inundaciones, que pueden ser catastróficas, pueden ocurrir mucho después de que el incendio se apaga. De cara a estas amenazas, las comunidades pueden tomar decisiones en torno al uso del suelo que ayuden a generar resiliencia.

Después del fuego, el diluvio

El nombre de la Sierra de la Sangre de Cristo, que se extiende desde Colorado hasta las proximidades de Santa Fe, es acertado. Las cadenas, valles y cuencas que habrían tenido un aspecto más pequeño desde el punto de vista de Vigil en el helicóptero conforman la mayor parte de dos cuencas que son la fuente de vida de las comunidades y tierras agrícolas río abajo. Unas 23.000 personas de los condados de San Miguel y Mora dependen de estas cuencas para obtener agua potable y para la agricultura.

En condiciones apropiadas, las quemas programadas y los incendios naturales mantienen la salud del ecosistema. Pero el incendio del Hermits Peak y el Calf Canyon, el más grande de la historia de Nuevo México, se salió de control y causó un caos. Un 24 por ciento del área quemada se clasificó como incendio de gravedad alta, que causó la muerte de muchos árboles y tuvo efectos profundos en el suelo. Cuando los árboles y la vegetación se queman bajo llamas incandescentes, liberan gases que endurecen el suelo y lo transforman en un material impermeable, similar al hormigón. Esto le permite al agua correr por el suelo de los bosques como si fuera un estacionamiento en pendiente, mientras aumenta su velocidad y acumula sedimentos hasta desbordar en las comunidades que se encuentran abajo.

“Antes de un incendio, estos ecosistemas y pendientes forestados actúan como una esponja, pero después del fuego, nada detiene a la lluvia”, dice Micah Kiesow, científico especialista en suelo en el Bosque Nacional de Santa Fe y líder del equipo de incendios de Respuesta de Emergencia en Áreas Quemadas (BAER, por su sigla en inglés). Los equipos de BAER evalúan el daño de los incendios forestales en las tierras que son propiedad del gobierno federal. “Observamos una cantidad enorme de erosión, sedimentación y flujos de residuos en las áreas más gravemente afectadas por el fuego, que con el tiempo llegan hasta los drenajes y arroyos que se encuentran abajo”.

Mientras las inundaciones posteriores al incendio afectaron a muchas comunidades alrededor del área quemada, en general, los daños más graves se produjeron en el condado de Mora. En el condado, uno de los más pobres del país, hay alrededor de 2.130 viviendas distribuidas en unos 3.200 kilómetros cuadrados. Serna estima que 200 de esas viviendas se incendiaron, y otra cantidad incontable se vio afectada por las cenizas, el agua y los sedimentos que llegaron hasta las comunidades de Mora, Holman, Chacon y Guadalupita. “Es triste, porque muchas de las viviendas de nuestras comunidades eran de adobe”, explica. “Nuestra gente ha vivido aquí por generaciones, heredaron estas construcciones de adobe de sus tatara, tatara, tatarabuelos”.

Gran parte de las personas que resultaron afectadas eran productores rurales. Según Serna, muchos residentes tenían frízeres llenos de ganado y carne de caza de alta calidad que tuvieron que tirar tras los cortes de luz que hubo como resultado de las inundaciones. Mientras tanto, las acequias (pequeñas zanjas o canales que desvían el agua de los arroyos y ríos para brindar agua a las tierras agrícolas y formar las bases del acceso al agua en esta parte de Nuevo México) se obstruyeron con madera, rocas y barro. Según la Asociación de Acequias de Nuevo México y los informes de Source New Mexico (Lohmann 2022), más de 40 acequias se destruyeron como consecuencia del incendio. La infraestructura de la que estas comunidades remotas dependen para todo, desde el cultivo de alimentos hasta el acceso a los servicios cruciales, sufrió un daño profundo.

Inmediatamente después del incendio, fue difícil acceder a fondos federales de emergencia. En los meses posteriores, sin embargo, se puso a disposición de quienes resultaron afectados por los incendios un volumen significativo de financiamiento: alrededor de US$ 3.900 millones en total, incluidos US$ 2.500 millones de la Ley Federal de Asistencia por el Incendio del Hermits Peak y el Calf Canyon que se aprobó en septiembre, y US$ 1.400 millones asignados en el proyecto de ley de Asignaciones Varias de 2023. Los daños totales generados por el incendio aún no se confirmaron, pero se estima que alcanzan los US$ 5.000 millones.

A pesar de la entrada de financiamiento, “De verdad, no creo que [US$ 3.900 millones] vayan a ser suficientes”, dijo Serna. “¿Cómo reemplazas árboles que tenían más de 100 años?” ¿Cómo recuperas todo eso? Es decir, ¿existe un importe en dólares que pueda compensar eso? ¿Cómo recuperas el tiempo?”.

Si bien los esfuerzos de recuperación continúan, el riesgo de más daños por inundaciones persiste, con una dependencia vertiginosa en la intensidad de las futuras lluvias y deshielos. Los funcionarios del condado de Mora empezaron a desarrollar un plan de mitigación de riesgos para los impactos potenciales de incendios e inundaciones futuros. Este tipo de planificación es una de las muchas medidas que las comunidades deben implementar para volverse más resilientes ante desastres cada vez más graves y frecuentes.

De reactivo a proactivo

En muchos casos, después de un incendio, las comunidades enfrentan un riesgo de inundaciones, pero el tiempo no siempre está de su lado. “El desafío en Nuevo México es que tenemos una temporada de incendios que va de abril a junio, seguida inmediatamente de una temporada de monzones”, dijo Brian Williams, director de gestión de emergencias de Santa Fe. “Esa ventana de tiempo entre el final de la temporada de incendios y el comienzo de la temporada de inundaciones dura unas semanas, no meses. A menudo, se superponen, y entonces es una carrera frenética para mitigar los impactos potenciales lo mejor posible. Y, en cierta medida, las cosas que puedes hacer son limitadas”.

Cuando los equipos de BAER analizan la dimensión de los daños en las áreas que son propiedad del gobierno federal, parte de su responsabilidad es determinar las prioridades para las medidas de mitigación inmediata, idealmente, antes de que lleguen las precipitaciones extremas. Estos ecosistemas, que suelen estar forestados, son los candidatos principales para la siembra y la cobertura del suelo con mantillo con método aéreo, que puede ayudar a que las áreas quemadas empiecen a recuperarse; la restauración de cauces de arroyos también puede ayudar a combatir el riesgo de inundaciones. Para prepararse para los monzones de Nuevo México, el equipo de BAER también recomendó y supervisó cierta cantidad de intervenciones de emergencia, incluida la instalación de obstrucciones en cauces de arroyos para redireccionar los residuos y sedimentos, y reparaciones de puentes y obras de drenaje transversal para facilitar el acceso de los vehículos. Es probable que estas medidas hayan ayudado a minimizar algunos de los impactos más extremos de las lluvias, pero es difícil cuantificar su efecto, y la dura verdad es que lo que puede hacerse en el período entre la extinción del fuego y las lluvias extremas es limitado. Aún más duro es el hecho de que, en muchas regiones, ese período parece acortarse cada vez más.

Es entendible que muchas de las conversaciones en torno a las inundaciones posteriores a los incendios se centren en las medidas de recuperación de los ecosistemas como las que los equipos de BAER recomiendan y facilitan. Sin embargo, prepararse con eficacia para los desafíos singulares de recuperación y las erosiones potenciales posteriores a un incendio también demanda una reflexión significativa por parte de las comunidades y los propietarios de viviendas.

Las decisiones sobre la planificación y el uso del suelo pueden minimizar el riesgo antes de que los incendios ocurran. En el terreno, las comunidades pueden instalar infraestructura que ayude a contener o redireccionar el flujo de residuos, acondicionar las viviendas con materiales menos inflamables, e identificar y mejorar las rutas de evacuación. Además pueden disminuir los combustibles peligrosos en los bosques y podar los árboles y la vegetación alrededor de las estructuras para crear espacios de defensa. Parte del trabajo de reducción de combustibles, que es una herramienta esencial de la gestión forestal, implica ciertos riesgos. El incendio del Hermits Peak y el Calf Canyon fue el resultado de dos incendios de los Servicios Forestales de los Estados Unidos que se desviaron: una quema programada y un proyecto de quema de pila. Los incendios se combinaron y se esparcieron a causa de los fuertes vientos. Pero en las condiciones correctas, las quemas programadas pueden reducir el riesgo de incendios y ayudar a mantener el ecosistema saludable.

En el plano de las políticas, las comunidades pueden tomar medidas, como prohibir o limitar el desarrollo en áreas vulnerables a incendios e inundaciones. En lugares donde se permite el desarrollo, pueden exigir el uso de ciertos materiales de construcción, como un recubrimiento exterior resistente no inflamable. Además, los funcionarios regionales y locales pueden mapear los riesgos de incendios forestales y de flujo de residuos para ayudar a determinar cuándo y dónde construir; desarrollar planes previos a los desastres, que permitan a las comunidades considerar cómo enfrentarán los desafíos de recuperación, como restaurar la electricidad; proveer viviendas temporales o gestionar la reconstrucción a largo plazo; y presupuestar proyectos de forma proactiva, como mejoras de infraestructura para el tratamiento del agua pluvial, que ayuden a las comunidades a sobrellevar mejor las inundaciones. Las comunidades pueden involucrarse en la planificación de escenarios, un proceso que puede ayudarlas a identificar y planificar varios futuros posibles.

Planificación de escenarios para la resiliencia ante incendios forestales

La planificación de escenarios puede ayudar a las comunidades a prepararse para un futuro incierto. La práctica guía a los planificadores, los integrantes de la comunidad y otras partes interesadas, al poner en consideración diversos futuros y maneras de responder a ellos de forma eficaz, y planificar en función de estos. En el caso de los incendios forestales, las comunidades pueden considerar los efectos de un clima cambiante sobre factores como la salud pública, la vivienda, la equidad, la economía, la disponibilidad de agua y la calidad de vida. ¿Cómo podrían sequías más intensas y frecuentes afectar los esfuerzos de erradicación de incendios forestales? ¿Cómo pueden las políticas climáticas regionales coordinadas reducir el riesgo de incendios forestales y mejorar la calidad de vida? Al hacer preguntas como estas y explorar múltiples resultados posibles, las comunidades pueden prepararse mejor para los desafíos futuros. Para obtener más información sobre esta práctica de planificación o asistencia para ejecutar un proceso de planificación de escenarios, visite el sitio del Consorcio para la Planificación de Escenarios del Instituto Lincoln.

Según un informe del Instituto Nacional de Ciencias de la Construcción cada un dólar de fondo público gastado en la mitigación de riesgos desde 1995, se espera ahorrar seis en los costos generados por desastres futuros (NIBS 2019). Después de décadas de centrarse en el financiamiento para la recuperación de los desastres, el gobierno federal inició un cambio hacia el financiamiento de la planificación previa a los desastres y la mitigación. La FEMA publicó una guía de planificación previa a los desastres y ha puesto a disposición un monto limitado de fondos para los proyectos de mitigación de desastres (FEMA 2017). Lamentablemente, este tipo de planificación anticipada, a menudo, depende del tipo de interés político y el financiamiento que suele llegar con mayor facilidad una vez que el desastre ya ocurrió.

“Pienso que el desafío fundamental con todo esto, al igual que con la mayoría de los peligros naturales, es que nos resulta muy difícil planificar con anticipación”, dijo el Dr. Kimiko Barrett de Headwaters Economics, un grupo de investigación sin fines de lucro con sede en Montana que trabaja para mejorar el desarrollo de la comunidad y las decisiones sobre la gestión del suelo en todo el país. “Somos reactivos por naturaleza, respondemos a los estímulos, en lugar de anticiparnos. Incluso después de que ocurre un incendio forestal, tenemos una pequeña ventana para movilizar y ejecutar los cambios transformadores necesarios antes de que la amnesia surta efecto, o de que la subjetividad surta efecto, donde se siente que [como el incendio ya] ocurrió, jamás volverá a ocurrir”.

Un enfoque holístico

A medida que más áreas resulten afectadas por los incendios forestales cada vez más destructivos, la amenaza de erosión e inundaciones en estos paisajes también aumentará, y esto debe tenerse en cuenta en la planificación y las decisiones de uso del suelo, dice Barrett.

Explica que los principios de la política holística de uso del suelo para la resiliencia ante los incendios forestales se conectan inherentemente con la planificación para los impactos potenciales posteriores a los incendios, como las inundaciones. Las medidas que se solían utilizar para generar resiliencia en las comunidades ante los incendios forestales (como la reducción de combustibles peligrosos cerca de infraestructuras críticas, la planificación de rutas de evacuación, la consideración de la densidad de viviendas y los patrones de desarrollo en las obras nuevas, y el mapeo del riesgo) también brindan beneficios intrínsecos en el período posterior al incendio.

“[Adoptar esas medidas] significa que las comunidades tendrán más probabilidades de sobrevivir a un incendio forestal, por lo que este elemento de reconstrucción y recuperación está inherentemente mejor posicionado, ya que se priorizan esa reflexión y esa planificación estratégica premeditada”, dice Barrett. “Así que [la planificación para los incendios y sus impactos] deben ir de la mano. El desafío es que el financiamiento federal y la política a menudo no lo analizan en dichos términos, o dentro de dicho marco holístico”.

Además, cuantificar y analizar las necesidades de planificación de los peligros muy localizados de comunidades individuales (desde el mapeo del riesgo hasta la implementación de la mitigación a una escala significativa) es complejo cuando un área aún no ha sentido los impactos de un incendio forestal o no ha vivido el desastre posterior a un incendio. Por ejemplo, al mapear el riesgo, se reduce el desafío de predecir dónde y cómo un incendio forestal puede afectar un paisaje; sin embargo, crear mapas integrales y precisos sigue siendo difícil, no solo debido a los datos contundentes necesarios para hacer dichas predicciones, sino también a la resistencia de la comunidad.

“Existe mucha resistencia, muy similar a lo que se observa en Florida y en otras partes con respecto al aumento del nivel del mar y otras situaciones, donde los políticos, desarrolladores y dirigentes comunitarios suelen decir ‘La verdad, no queremos saber (o puede que queramos saber, pero, en realidad, no queremos que se haga público’)”, dijo Molly McCabe, directora ejecutiva de Hayden Tanner, una empresa de asesoramiento en inversiones que se centra en el impacto social y la sostenibilidad en el ambiente construido. “Así que existe esta tensión entre ‘Queremos que nuestra gente esté segura’ y ‘Además, es un riesgo económico’”.

En 2022, el estado de Oregón creó un mapa de riesgo de incendios forestales de todo el estado, y lo distribuyó a 150.000 residentes que vivían en áreas que enfrentaban un riesgo alto o extremo. De inmediato, surgió una controversia: los propietarios de viviendas sospecharon que el mapa podría afectar los valores de los bienes inmobiliarios y las tasas de seguro, y a algunos les preocupó que esto pudiera generar nuevos códigos de edificación o exigencias para el fortalecimiento de las viviendas (un enfoque de acondicionamiento que implica medidas que van desde el reemplazo de ventanas hasta la poda de árboles y arbustos cercanos). El Departamento de Silvicultura de Oregón retiró el mapa para continuar con su desarrollo, pero la respuesta fue una reflexión clara de los desafíos relacionados con adelantarse al riesgo.

Este problema se embarra más cuando se trata de planificar para la erosión y las inundaciones después de los incendios: ¿cómo podemos cuantificar, de forma significativa, los impactos potenciales de un desastre que es el resultado de otro desastre, que también es muy difícil de predecir? Y ¿cómo se puede obtener la aceptación de los residentes que podrían verse económicamente afectados por un mejor entendimiento del riesgo en ciertas áreas?

A pesar de los desafíos, algunas comunidades están progresando, dijo Barrett: “Puedo decirte que existen comunidades que reconocen su nivel de riesgo y lo están combatiendo enérgicamente, de formas que superan lo que vemos por parte de las exigencias federales y las regulaciones del estado”.

Comunidades que pasan a la acción

Barrett dijo que algunas comunidades en California han implementado exigencias más allá de los requisitos estatales ya existentes para los estándares de resistencia a la ignición. Portola Valley, por ejemplo, adoptó una ordenanza de fortalecimiento de viviendas para complementar el código de edificación del estado que requiere materiales de construcción no inflamables para los desarrollos nuevos en áreas de alto riesgo. En 2020, los residentes del condado de Marin aprobaron una medida que aplica un impuesto a los bienes inmobiliarios de diez centavos cada 930 centímetros cuadrados para apoyar los esfuerzos de prevención de incendios forestales. Se espera que la medida, que incluye excepciones para la ciudadanía de la tercera edad de bajos ingresos, genere alrededor de US$ 20 millones al año por un período de 10 años.

Tanto Barrett como McCabe mencionaron que las propuestas de bonos fueron un medio satisfactorio (aunque no se usaron mucho), para que las comunidades motivadas reserven financiamiento para los incendios forestales y la resiliencia posterior a estos. Un ejemplo muy destacado es el Proyecto de Protección de la Cuenca De Flagstaff (FWPP, por su sigla en inglés), iniciado después de que el incendio Schultz quemara unas 6.000 hectáreas en la zona montañosa al norte de la ciudad en 2010. El incendio en sí mismo tuvo poco impacto en las viviendas y bienes inmobiliarios privados de Flagstaff, pero, un mes después, fuertes lluvias desencadenaron flujos de residuos e inundaciones que arrasaron con el valle, lo que causó la muerte de una joven y la pérdida de 85 viviendas. Dos años más tarde, los residentes aprobaron un bono de US$ 10 millones que ayudaría a proteger la cuenca de agua, las viviendas aledañas y bienes inmobiliarios contra impactos similares.

El FWPP es una asociación entre el estado, la ciudad y el Bosque Nacional Coconino, que busca ayudar a reducir el riesgo de incendios forestales y las inundaciones posteriores a los incendios. “Resultó ser uno de los mejores ejemplos que he visto de una asociación que realmente surgió como resultado de un evento bastante devastador que se relacionó con otro posterior a un incendio”, dijo Barrett. “Es un muy buen ejemplo de lo que puede suceder cuando están presentes los actores correctos, y de comunidades y socios locales que reconocen un riesgo y actúan en consecuencia”. El año pasado, el electorado de Flagstaff mostró un apoyo constante para continuar la extinción de los incendios forestales de la ciudad y los esfuerzos de gestión del agua pluvial, con un 76 por ciento de votos a favor de una propuesta para emitir US$ 57 millones en bonos para invertir en infraestructura relacionada con los incendios y el agua.

McCabe mencionó a Montecito, California, como otro ejemplo destacable de resiliencia comunitaria que surge de la tragedia. El incendio Thomas de 2017 desestabilizó las pendientes que están encima de Montecito. Cuando estas pendientes se vieron sometidas a un diluvio tan solo unas semanas después, 23 personas perdieron la vida y 130 viviendas se destruyeron. Desde entonces, funcionaros del condado de Santa Bárbara han desarrollado mapas de riesgo de flujo de residuos para el área, y una organización sin fines de lucro dirigida por la comunidad, llamada Proyecto para las Comunidades Resilientes, facilitó la instalación de tejidos de acero para captar los residuos en los drenajes arriba de la comunidad.

En Montecito y otras comunidades, McCabe dice que, “las personas están usando de forma voluntaria los subsidios y otras sumas de dinero para construir sus viviendas sobre bases con tres metros de elevación, así, si estas llegan a encontrarse en medio del trayecto del barro, este correrá por los costados. Pero no vi ninguna política que exija eso para las construcciones nuevas, mucho menos para las construcciones existentes”.

Aun así, la política local y regional puede apoyar dichas acciones individuales. Pueden ofrecerse subsidios e incentivos para seguros a propietarios de viviendas que creen espacios de defensa alrededor de sus casas, o a quienes acondicionan sus viviendas con materiales no inflamables. Los programas como FireWise USA, una iniciativa de la Asociación Nacional de Protección contra Incendios, pueden ayudar a los vecinos a organizar proyectos colectivos de mitigación de incendios y responsabilizar a los residentes para que mantengan las propiedades a lo largo del tiempo.

Otro factor para lograr una aceptación a nivel local es la comunicación estratégica. En el condado de Chelan, en el centro de Washington, las campañas de información pública en torno a la reducción de los incendios forestales incluyeron a traductores para atraer la atención de las comunidades hispanohablantes. La interacción con personas que no hablan inglés y comunidades migrantes, sumado a otras comunidades que corren un riesgo desproporcionado de incendios forestales e inundaciones posteriores a los incendios, es un componente importante de las campañas de información pública a lo largo del proceso, desde la preparación para los incendios forestales hasta la navegación por la etapa de recuperación.

Un cambio decisivo

En 2012, un incendio forestal enorme quemó 35.200 hectáreas cerca de Fort Collins, Colorado. Durante los meses posteriores al incendio, las cenizas y el barro obstruyeron el río Poudre, que provee agua potable para 135.000 residentes río abajo. Los sedimentos taparon las tuberías de la planta local de tratamiento de agua, lo que demandó tareas adicionales de limpieza y tratamiento e hizo que la ciudad tuviera que instalar sensores para la supervisión de sedimentos en el río. “Éramos privilegiados y, en cierta forma, probablemente dimos por sentado que estas cuencas siempre nos brindarían agua limpia y fresca todo el tiempo”, contó la gerenta de calidad del agua de la ciudad, Jill Oropeza, a una estación de radio local (Runyon 2020). “Para muchos de los que trabajábamos allí, esa fue la primera vez que tuvimos que enfrentar la realidad de que nuestras cuencas se encuentran bajo presión”.

Según el Servicio Forestal de los Estados Unidos, las cuencas forestadas del país proveen agua potable a 180 millones de personas. Noventa y nueve por ciento de la gente que depende de los sistemas hídricos públicos en los Estados Unidos obtienen, al menos, parte de esta agua de los ecosistemas forestados (USFS 2022). La investigación sugiere que, entre 2017 y 2020, inundaciones posteriores a incendios forestales contaminaron el agua potable de cientos de miles de personas del oeste (Romero 2022).

En el condado de Mora, “las personas me enviaron fotografías de cuando abrían el grifo y salía lodo”, relató Serna, la comisionada del condado. Muchos pozos quedaron destruidos, y algunos residentes lograron recuperar el agua recién en octubre y noviembre. La ciudad de Las Vegas, en el condado vecino de San Miguel, casi se queda sin agua para sus 13.000 residentes después de que los restos de un incendio trazaran su curso hasta el interior del embalse local. Con un resto de agua limpia para apenas 20 días, la ciudad usó los fondos de emergencia del estado para convertir un lago local en una fuente de agua de reserva a corto plazo. El alivio a largo plazo llegó en forma de US$ 140 millones a través del proyecto de ley de asignaciones varias que permitirá a Las Vegas invertir en mejoras para el tratamiento y la filtración del agua.

En respuesta a situaciones como estas, organizaciones como Coalition for the Poudre River Watershed, en Fort Collins, y Greater Santa Fe Fireshed Coalition, que se centra en un área de riesgo alto justo al sur de la zona del incendio del Hermits Peak y el Calf Canyon, están reuniendo a partes interesadas para entender mejor los riesgos que presentan los incendios forestales para el suministro y la calidad del agua. Muchas comunidades del oeste se enorgullecen de los lugares de donde proviene el agua. Es fácil persuadir a las comunidades que dependen de los recursos que proveen estos ecosistemas para que se protejan las cuencas contra incendios forestales (y, por ende, de flujos de residuos) de mucha gravedad, y, al generar resiliencia en las cuencas, inherentemente, se genera resiliencia para las comunidades río abajo.

Ya sea que el foco esté en incrementar la resiliencia de una cuenca, en dirigir los desarrollos hacia zonas menos vulnerables, o en prever múltiples futuros posibles y prepararse para estos, las comunidades pueden implementar muchas medidas para generar resiliencia ante los incendios forestales posteriores a las inundaciones. La profunda influencia que tienen las decisiones presentes y pasadas con respecto a la gestión del suelo sobre los resultados de las inundaciones y los incendios forestales dejan cada vez más en claro que podemos prepararnos mejor para eventos que están exacerbados por las acciones humanas, y, en algunos casos, por la falta de acciones. La planificación adecuada para los incendios forestales y los flujos de residuos o inundaciones subsiguientes en el oeste exige una cantidad significativamente superior de financiamiento, recursos y soluciones normativas creativas a la disponible hoy en día, pero si se actúa y se invierte en una etapa temprana, se puede dar paso a comunidades más fuertes y mejor preparadas para enfrentar desastres futuross.

Amanda Monthei es escritora autónoma, productorade pódcasts y exbombera de humedales. Su trabajo sobre adaptación y resiliencia ante incendios forestales se expuso en The Atlantic y The Washington Post, así como en su pódcast Life with Fire. Vive en Bellingham, Washington.

Imagen principal:Incendio del HermitsPeak y el CalfCanyon sobre LasVegas, NuevoMéxico, en mayo de2022.Crédito:Robert Browman/Albuquerque Journal vía AP.

Referencias

Agencia Federal para el Manejo de Emergencias (FEMA) 2017. “Pre-Disaster Recovery Planning Guide for Local Governments”. Washington, DC: Agencia Federal para el Manejo de Emergencias. www.fema.gov/sites/default/files/2020-07/pre-disaster-recovery-planning-guide-local-governments.pdf.

Agencia Federal para el Manejo de Emer-gencias (FEMA) 2020. “Flood Risks Increase After Fires”. Hoja informativa. Washington, DC: Agencia Federal para el Manejo de Emergencias. Noviembre. www.fema.gov/sites/default/files/documents/fema_flood-after-fire_factsheet_nov20.pdf.

Lohmann, Patrick. 2022. “After Fire and Flood, Ash Chokes Acequias in Northern New Mexico”. Source New Mexico. 25 de julio. https://sourcenm.com/2022/07/25/after-fire-and-flood-ash-chokes-acequias-in-northern-nm.

Agencia Federal de Gestión de Emergencias (NIBS). 2019. “Natural Hazard Mitigation Saves: 2019 Report”. Washington, DC: Agencia Federal de Gestión de Emergencias. www.nibs.org/projects/natural-hazard-mitigation-saves-2019-report.

Romero, Simon. 2022. “How New Mexico’s Largest Wildfire Set Off a Drinking Water Crisis”. The New York Times. 26 de septiembre. www.nytimes.com/2022/09/26/us/new-mexico-las-vegas-fire-water.html.

Runyon, Luke. 2020. “For the West’s Drinking Water, Wildfire Concerns Linger Long After Smoke Clears”. KUNC. www.kunc.org/2020-10-20/for-the-wests-drinking-water-wildfire-concerns-linger-long-after-smoke-clears.

Servicio Forestal de los Estados Unidos (USFS). 2022. “Quantifying the Role of National Forest System and Other Forested Lands in Providing Surface Drinking Water Supply for the Conterminous United States”. Washington, DC: Departamento de Agricultura de los Estados Unidos. https://www.fs.usda.gov/research/treesearch/64978.

This article is part of a larger feature on how land use battles are hindering the clean energy transition.

Acritical land use dimension of the clean energy transition is the mining of metals used for batteries for electric vehicles and general power storage, including lithium, cobalt, copper, nickel, niobium, and graphite. The World Bank estimates that over 3 billion tons of minerals and metals will be needed by 2050 to meet the clean energy storage and deployment goals in the 2015 Paris Agreement—a production increase of 500 percent.

With these minerals in such high demand, regions like Latin America, which controls two-thirds of the global supply of lithium, are under tremendous pressure to allow mining as a new source of economic development. But the mining process is dangerous, hugely disruptive to the environment, and often occurs within Indigenous territories.

The resource-rich countries where the minerals are, primarily in the Global South, are home to extensive biodiversity and uniquely vulnerable to the impacts of climate change, said Claudia Dobles Camargo, former First Lady of Costa Rica, where open-air mining is banned. “We cannot just transition from one type of energy to clean energy without taking into consideration that this could become a new extractivism,” she said.Honduras and El Salvador have also banned the practice.

Beyond the developing world, any move to extract these clean-power minerals seems to become instantaneously contentious. When a Maine couple discovered large lithium deposits on their property, they were surprised that neighbors didn’t celebrate the potential contribution to the clean energy transition—but rather demanded state regulators prevent any kind of mining operation at all.

Technology may come to the rescue, in the form of more sustainable lithium mining techniques involving microbes, seawater, and brine. Lithium can also be recycled from old batteries, a process dubbed “urban mining.” And researchers at MIT and elsewhere are working on new kinds of batteries, such as metal-air devices using aluminum, zinc, or iron, all of which are abundantly available, that would obviate the need for lithium altogether.

Another approach to minimize damage and land use conflicts: reduce demand for batteries for electric vehicles by driving less—a higher bar, to be sure, for societies just getting used to the concept of alternatives to fossil fuel.

A report by a team led by Providence College Professor Thea Riofrancos found that the United States “can achieve zero emissions transportation while limiting the amount of lithium mining necessary by reducing the car dependence of the transportation system, decreasing the size of electric vehicle batteries, and maximizing lithium recycling.”

“Reordering the US transportation system through policy and spending shifts to prioritize public and active transit while reducing car dependency,” the report says, “can also ensure transit equity, protect ecosystems, respect Indigenous rights, and meet the demands of global justice.”

Anthony Flintis a senior fellow at the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, host of theLand Matterspodcast, and a contributing editor ofLand Lines.

Lead image:Silver Peak lithium mine, Nevada.Credit:simonkr via E+/Getty Images.

One emerging consensus to combat climate change is increasingly clear: electrify everything, and make that power come from renewable sources, like wind, solar, and hydro power. Removing fossil fuels from electricity generation can be surprisingly smooth, as clean power facilities have rapidly become more cost-efficient. Renewables are currently 20 percent of US power generation and steadily growing.

But there’s a sprawling and daunting land use task that is necessary to make that clean energy transition happen: not only the siting of solar arrays and wind farms, but the construction and improvement of transmission lines and substations and pipelines, across thousands of acres of land.

Researchers at Princeton University have estimated that if manufacturing capacity for turbines and photovoltaics continues to ratchet up as it has been for the last several years, up to 400,000 square miles will be needed in the US to harvest wind energy alone. That means much more visible renewable energy infrastructure on hilltops, in suburban neighborhoods, and in what may feel like people’s backyards.

Battles over the siting of wind and solar installations, and opposition to the key upgrades and expansion of the grid that will allow clean power to plug in, are occurring on a state-by-state basis, in the absence of federal authority or oversight. In many cases, renewable energy facilities have been cleared through the permitting process to start operating, but remain in limbo because they can’t plug in to the existing, antiquated grid.

A crazy quilt of local land use regulations—including bylaws restricting solar fields and wind farms—has amplified the voices of opposition from neighbors and organized groups, including, in what many climate advocates consider a profound irony of the times, some environmental organizations. In addition, land use conflicts are hindering another critical component of the clean energy transition: the mining of metals such as lithium to make high-capacity rechargeable batteries, for electric vehicles and storing power from renewable sources when the sun doesn’t shine or the wind doesn’t blow (see sidebar).

Those targeting net-zero emissions by mid-century hoped for a high-level wave of renewable energy that would transform the way everyone gets their power. Instead, there are standoffs and bottlenecks, at the state and local level, as the execution of this extraordinary transition gets bogged down, literally, on the ground.

“I would agree things aren’t going well right now—though I would suggest that we also have way more shots on goal than in previous years, so there are more stories of projects getting blocked because there are just more project proposals,” said Sarah Banas Mills, senior project manager at the Graham Sustainability Institute and lecturer at the School for Environment and Sustainability, University of Michigan.

As frustration mounts at what many see as a fumbling of the ball at a key moment in the fight against climate change, Mills, who has been tracking battles over renewable energy all over the US and coauthored a paper on the topic, says a more nuanced analysis is required about each and every site, now that installations are ramping up. Wind projects in places with more people or higher scenic amenities are more likely to be opposed; neighbors may also be more likely to balk at large solar arrays on farmland, which many clean-energy advocates thought would be an easier sell.

“Renewables present one of the biggest economic opportunities rural communities have seen in decades,” she said. “But with all opportunities, there are trade-offs. That we have so many communities saying no suggests to me that in many places communities are finding that the positives—economic benefits—don’t outweigh the negatives. Changes may need to be made to project characteristics, like size, location within the community, and distribution of economic benefits . . . to get more communities to ‘yes.’”

Itwasn’t always this way. In the past, there was little to no veto power exercised at the local level, as industrialization advanced and critical infrastructure was deemed necessary, whether canals, railroads, and telegraph lines in the 19th century, or the interstate highway system in the 1950s.

A common thread for infrastructure is the intensive use of land, which is necessary to complete networks and distribute benefits across large expanses. This was especially true in the development of the grid. Power plants were built at whatever location was required, whether near a coal mine or on a river. Then, a decentralized but highly connected system of substations, transformers, and transmission and distribution lines got the power to the end user—homes and businesses. The flow of power is from point to point and as it happens, since large amounts of electricity are not stored; the power is used as it is produced, and vice versa.

Although the construction, organization, and regulation of the grid started out in a patchwork state-by-state and regional framework, the federal government established oversight with the Federal Power Act of 1920, which Congress passed to coordinate the development of hydroelectric projects such as the Hoover Dam. Major new agencies like the Tennessee Valley Authority, established in 1933, helped create a sense of intention and purpose; bringing electricity to rural areas was part of a national mobilization in economic development during the Great Depression (and, also intentionally, a fountainhead of jobs). Among other federal agencies, what is now known as the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) took the lead in managing power generation and the grid, although generally oversight of utilities, and the prices they charge in particular, remains a state responsibility.

In terms of the extraordinary accomplishment of the grid, the ultimate result of planning and coordination is the familiar landscape of today: 160,000 miles of high-voltage power lines draped on shiny metal stanchions up to 200 feet tall, with forest and brush cleared away underneath, crisscrossing the countryside, whisking electricity generated by 7,300 power plants to nearly 150 million customers across the US, according to the USEnergy Information Administration (EIA). The North American grid—three grids, technically, called the Eastern, Western, and Texas Interconnect—is completed by millions of miles of low-voltage power lines and distribution transformers.

To date, most electricity is produced using conventional sources such as natural gas, oil, coal, and nuclear. But at least 20 percent of the nation’s power is now generated by renewable energy facilities—wind, solar, hydroelectric, biomass, geothermal—and that proportion is growing, as coal-fired power plants, for example, are steadily phased out. Over the past decade, 290 coal-fired plants were decommissioned in the US, leaving 224 in operation.

The Biden administration has pledged to eliminate fossil fuels as a form of energy generation in the US by 2035, setting the goal of 80 percent carbon-free electricity by 2030. Wind, solar, and hydroelectric power have been the fastest-growing segment of the energy sector, and will be further fueled by some $370 billion in funding under the Inflation Reduction Act. Wind and solar projects, steadily improving in their technology and efficiency, are ready to roll.

But therein lies the current land use challenge—not only in the siting of renewable energy installations, but also in the all-important upgrade to the grid to carry and distribute all that clean power. On both fronts, the development of renewable energy has been stymied in recent years.

Opposition to offshore wind farms, notably the Cape Wind project off Cape Cod, was perhaps the first and most infamous example of affluent homeowners objecting to clean-energy infrastructure because they claimed it spoiled the view. But wind farms on land, whether atop ridges or on farmland, have also ignited fierce opposition, even in remote areas.

In Northern California, Shasta County supervisors rejected a proposal by Connect Wind/Fountain Wind for 48 turbines on rural land after hearing concerns about impacts on wildlife habitat, Indigenous lands, and even whether the turbines would interfere with fighting wildfires from the air. A local ordinance passed shortly afterwardbanning large wind projects outright. The California Energy Commission is allowing the developers a second chance under a provision of Assembly Bill 205, which can override local veto power over clean energy projects.

In Iowa, a judge ordered developers to dismantle three 450-foot turbines on farmland after neighboring landowners complained about the noise they made. The victorious opponents, who successfully argued that the zoning board shouldn’t have issued the permits, hope their battle “will empower other rural landowners and small towns to take on wind,” according to the Des Moines Register.

A typical concern as well is the danger posed by wind turbines to birds—although pesticides, buildings, and housecats kill many times more birds than the slowly rotating blades, and clean-tech researchers, using artificial intelligence, have come up with ways to keep birds away anyway.

Solar installations have not fared much better. While more than 2,500 solar farms are up and running in the United States, solar projects are increasingly running into blockades, in Indiana, Ohio, Virginia, and elsewhere. Neighbors often get in an uproar when they see how large, visible, and land-intensive some of the solar arrays are, describing them in alarming fashion, as in one battle over a Midwest proposal, as filling up thousands of football fields with shiny, deep blue panels.

Researchers in a 2021 Michigan study found that despite readily acknowledged benefits such as economic development, tax payments, and compensation for the landowner and community, “projects have increasingly faced local resistance . . . [due to] aesthetics, noise, and negative impacts to rural and Tribal culture, values, and community energy sovereignty, along with . . . risk to wildlife, productive farmland, biodiversity, and human health.”Additional perceived risks included lowered home and property values, increased electricity rates, impacts to tourism, and the toxicity of materials used in construction and operation, the study says.

A team at MIT studied 53 American renewable energy projects that were paused, delayed, or canceled between 2008 and 2021 in 28 statesbecause of local opposition. The researchers identified seven common drivers of conflict: environmental impact; financial viability; quality of public engagement; Tribal rights; health and safety concerns; and concerns related to land and property values.

“We found overwhelming evidence to suggest that federal, state, and local regulators need to rethink the design and operation of their facility siting processes,” the researchers conclude. “A fast and fair transition to renewable energy will not be achieved in the US if policymakers and energy developers do not anticipate and respond proactively to the full array of sources of local opposition.”

High-profile standoffs have the effect of scaring off partners worried about bad publicity. In Queensland, Australia, the tech company Apple withdrew from an agreement to buy power from a proposed 80-turbine windfarm on nearly 2,000 acres, a project the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) had criticized for threatening koalas, wallabies, and red goshawks. A WWF spokesman applauded the move, saying it demonstrated “leadership and a commitment to renewables that are good for climate and nature.”

Opposition to transmission lines and the upgrades and expansion of the grid that are necessary to handle new clean power has been perhaps the most strenuous of all—leaving renewable energy installations that have already been built or permitted to remain in limbo, an untenable scenario for green-tech companies and investors.

A four-year legal battle over a 145-mile transmission line that would carry hydroelectric power from Quebec to Massachusetts has been representative of the bare-knuckle brawling over land use. Conservation groups said the pipeline threatened wilderness areas in Maine, where most of the line would be constructed, prompting a statewide vote against the project, though it had already been permitted. A judge recently ruled that construction could resume.

Proponents complained that the opposition had been financed and motivated by a rival natural gas utility seeking to block competition. Joseph Curtatone, president of the Northeast Clean Energy Council, said he hoped the court decision “marks an end to the self-interested, corporate-funded attempts to sabotage this project.” Building the project as planned, he said, would remove more than 3 million metric tons of carbon annually and provide $200 million in desperately needed upgrades to the electric grid.

“This is essential work in our effort to electrify everything in order to avoid the worst effects of climate change. Without grid upgrades we can’t deliver power to heat pumps and electric vehicles. These are the kinds of big leaps we need to take after decades of minimal progress on climate action,” he said. “If we’re fighting tooth-and-nail over removing 3 million tons of CO2 with lower-cost energy, we’re never going to reach net zero.”

In the book Superpower, the author Russell Gold chronicled the ultimately futile attempt by Houston businessman Michael Skelly to get approval for a transmission line to connect windfarms in Oklahoma to the grid in Tennessee, which became emblematic of community opposition paired with politics. But the same problem keeps recurring. It took 18 years before a 732-mile transmission line was approved by federal authorities to carry clean power from the proposed 700-turbine TransWest wind farm on ranchland in Wyoming to homes and businesses in California. The interstate project required multiple approvals under the National Environmental Protection Act (NEPA), with detailed examination of impacts on flora and fauna,including the sagebrush grouse.

The objections to green infrastructure have evoked past battles over endangered species, sacred sites, and otherwise culturally valuable land. The Greenlink West project, a 470-mile transmission line through Nevada, is under fire because it might disturb woolly mammoth tusk fossils.

The irony is not lost on many that environmental laws passed in the 1970s to combat rampant pollution are now being used to fight renewable energy projects that will curb climate change. Environmental litigation is threatening a wide range of environmentally advantageous initiatives across the country, from dense housing to bike lanes to congestion pricing.

“I’m an environmentalist, which means I’ve got some practice in saying no. It’s what we do,” wrote Bill McKibben in an essay for Mother Jones titled, “Yes in Our Backyards.”McKibben’s decades of activism include successfully fighting the Keystone XL fossil-fuel pipeline. “But we’re at a hinge moment now, when solving our biggest problems—environmental but also social—means we need to say yes to some things. . . . One way may be to back up a little and think of the slightly longer term.”

Without any sense of a grand plan or rationale, and environmentalists divided—one camp saying impacts on the environment must always be considered, the other that there will be no functioning wildlife habitats or thriving species if climate change isn’t curtailed—renewable energy projects are increasingly being viewed as whatHarvard professor Alan Altshuler called LULUs: “locally unwanted land uses,” like prisons or landfills.

An array of solutionsfor overcoming this impasse has emerged recently, including legislation introduced just this year. At least three steps are needed to adequately and effectively deploy clean energy infrastructure, says Patrick Welch, an analyst in the Climate Strategies group at the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy: federal-level permitting reform, local regulatory changes, and more strategic and creative planning.

“In many instances, there are genuine issues regarding the proposed siting of new solar, wind, and hydro projects—whether that is related to stormwater runoff issues, other impacts on important ecosystems, or new land grabs on Indigenous lands,” Welch said. “We need to be more strategic and creative. Things like co-locating solar on parking lots and rooftops or interstate rights of way, rather than clearcutting forests, are good solutions.”

The Nature Conservancy’s Site Renewables Right initiative, which identifies suitable sites for wind and solar energy by mapping factors including environmental impact and agricultural production, is a good example of trying to find workable solutions, he said; another is Baltimore County’s study on solar siting, which identified nearly 34,000 acres of potential optimal solar sites on rooftops, parking lots, and degraded lands.

But even with more appropriate siting, Welch said, permitting and local land use regulations can get in the way. “Both sides of the aisle have known for decades that NEPA and the associated permitting spiderwebs are responsible for long, unnecessary delays. Now, the climate crisis has brought new urgency to that conversation. Local regulations must allow for the appropriate siting of renewable energy infrastructure, too.”

Federal coordination—harkening back to the more intentional establishment of infrastructure in the first half of the 20th century—has seemed to many the obvious first step. This spring, US Senator Sheldon Whitehouse (D-RI) and US Representative Mike Quigley (D-IL) introduced the Streamlining Interstate Transmission of Electricity (SITE) Act, which would establish a new federal siting authority at the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission to ease the process of constructing long-range, high-voltage transmission lines.

“If we don’t build more long-range transmission lines, much of the low-cost clean energy that is coming online will simply not be able to get to the homes and businesses that need it,” Whitehouse said when unveiling the bill. The goal is better reliability, an upgrade of the nation’s creaky grid infrastructure, and lower emissions while “responsibly balancing local needs and preferences,” he said.

There is action at the state and regional scale as well. After criticism that state regulatory authorities have been dragging their feet on the clean energy transition, Massachusetts Governor Maura Healey appointed climate-savvy commissioners to the state Department of Public Utilities, and established two new commissions, one to review clean energy siting and permitting, and another to coordinate offshore wind development.

In Washington State, Governor Jay Inslee recently signed a bill requiring longer-term planning by utilities and allowing bigger transmission projects to go through the state’s streamlined siting process. The Bonneville Power Administration (BPA), which manages hydropower from 31 federal dams in the Northwest, has proposed some upgrades to its system, which, if completed, will help increase transmission capacity.

The electricity market is structured differently in the Pacific Northwest than inCalifornia and other states, making coordination and planning that much more difficult, said Emily Moore, director of the Climate and Energy program at the Sightline Institute. Washington and Oregon have assertive climate action plans to shift to clean energy, but even if all utilities agreed to switch tomorrow, the grid couldn’t support the load, she said, so hundreds of wind and solar projects are languishing.

“In an ideal world, we would have clarity on how much more transmission is needed . . . and where it would go, so we could then start building it before it is too late,” she said. “But planning, at least in our region, is largely reactive, not proactive. Changing that here will require new levels of coordination between BPA, individual utilities, regulators, and policymakers.”

When renewable energy projects or transmission lines are first rolled out to the public, developers would do well to practice better stakeholder engagement, said Josh Hohn, a principle at the urban design firm Stantec. He urges project leaders to help people visualize what’s actually being proposed “before imaginations run wild.”

Building consensus about clean energy infrastructure is especially challenging in part because the land use issues are so local, but tie back to the global problem of climate change, requiring conceptualizing priorities in sometimes counterintuitive ways. For example, it seems outrageous to clear trees to make way for solar panels. But according to one forest ecologist, doing so actually reduces carbon emissions more after a period of time than leaving the trees in place.

Technology is also advancing so rapidly, the land use dimension of clean energy could become less onerous. Geothermal drills require less land, though are akin to the oil rigs that have dotted the landscape since the turn of the last century.

Batteries are getting better, allowing clean power to be stored. And there is the notion of the mega-solar project, consolidating arrays all in one or two large, out-of-the-way locations, like a corner of the Sahara desert. By one calculation, solar panels on a single parcel of 43,000 square miles—1.2 percent of the Sahara—could power the entire world.

At a more conceptual level, McKibben—who founded the organization Third Act to recruit aging boomers concerned about climate change—called for a change in mindset when looking at clean energy infrastructure. Instead of viewing it as unsightly, he suggests, we could appreciate how it’s helping the planet wean off fossil fuels, and has great economic returns as well. “It’s a different kind of beauty,” he said in an interview, though he acknowledged people are used to judging landscapes by more conventional measures.

Whether such reconceptualization can happen remains to be seen. But the public’s relationship with land has clearly become a key element of the clean energy transition. Above all, this is a moment for thoughtful land policy, with the future of the planet hanging in the balance, said the Lincoln Institute’s Patrick Welch.

“Given the scale and urgency needed for this massive rollout of new infrastructure, there is a significant risk that we do it in a way that leads to serious unintended consequences,” Welch said. “So we need to be mindful and strategic—but not to the point of inaction.”

Anthony Flint is a senior fellow at the Lincoln Institute, host of the Land Matters podcast, and a contributing editor to Land Lines.

Lead image:Protesters in Maine express their opposition to a planned hydroelectric corridor that will cut through the state as it carries energy from Quebec to Massachusetts. Credit: AP Photo/Robert F. Bukaty

Forests are hardworking heroes in the fight to manage climate change, but they can’t remove enough carbon dioxide from the atmosphere to single-handedly help the world reach its Paris Agreement targets. However, what if we focus on protecting not just the trees, but also the larger animals that have historically lived among them, like gray wolves and elephants?

Well, that could get us a lot closer.

In a new study published in Nature Climate Change, an international team of researchers led by Yale ecology professor Oswald J. Schmitz found that protecting and restoring populations of animal species—including marine fish, gray wolves, wildebeests, sea otters, African forest elephants, and bison—can supercharge the carbon capture capabilities of their respective ecosystems, enhancing the total amount of CO2 naturally absorbed and stored by as much as 6.41 gigatons per year.

That’s more than 14 trillion pounds of CO2, and about 95 percent of the annual “negative emissions” needed to limit global warming to 1.5ºC in line with the Paris Climate Agreement.

The findings could have a big impact on land and marine conservation efforts, says Jim Levitt, director of the International Land Conservation Network (ILCN) at the Lincoln Institute. “This is not your everyday piece of natural climate solution research,” says Levitt, who was not involved in the study. “I think this is a major insight.”

Animating the Carbon Cycle

Climate change and a staggering worldwide loss of biodiversity are not just concurrent crises of the natural world; they’re two sides of the same coin, each impacting the other. This research suggests that the positive climate impacts of land and ocean conservation can be amplified even further when coupled with what’s called “trophic rewilding”—that is, protecting and restoring the functional roles of animals within their ecosystems.

That’s because many animals all over the world augment the carbon capture potential of their native habitats in different but impactful ways.

In the African Serengeti, for example, migrating wildebeests graze on grasses and, with the help of dung-burying insects, return that carbon to the soil. When disease decimated wildebeest populations in the early 20th century, the resulting overabundance of dry, uneaten grasses led to more frequent, intense wildfires that turned the savannah into a net emitter of CO2. Now the wildebeest population has recovered, and the Serengeti is once again a carbon sink.

Endangered forest elephants in central Africa, meanwhile, spread the seeds of trees and woody plants, and trample and devour vegetative undergrowth, helping carbon-dense overstory trees grow faster and bigger. Based on one of the authors’ earlier studies, the researchers estimate that restoring wild elephant populations just within the region’s 79 national parks and protected areas—about 537,000 square kilometers of tropical rainforest—could help capture roughly 13 megatons of additional CO2 per year, or 13 million metric tons.

When large mammals like muskoxen trample arctic snowpack, that cold crust of compressed snow helps keep the soil below from thawing and releasing methane. Migrating marine fish eat algae near the surface and send it to the ocean floor as fecal pellets. Predators like sea otters help carbon-absorbent kelp forests thrive by keeping seaweed-munching sea urchins in check; gray wolves and sharks are responsible for similar “trophic cascades” in boreal forests and coral reefs, where they keep the populations of their smaller herbaceous prey in balance.

And in North America, where white settlers all but wiped out the more than 30 million bison that once roamed the prairies, just 2 percent of that animal’s one-time numbers remain, confined to about 1 percent of its historical range. Because grazing bison help grasslands retain carbon in the soil, restoring herds across even a small fraction of the landscape—less than 16 percent of a handful of prairies where human conflict would be minimal—could help those ecosystems store an additional 595 megatons of CO2 annually, the study found. That’s more than 10 percent of all the CO2 emitted by the United States in 2021.

“Using wild animal conservation explicitly to enhance carbon capture and storage is known as ‘animating the carbon cycle,’” the study’s authors write—and it demands a new way of thinking about conserved spaces as “dynamic landscapes.” It’s well understood that protecting nature as a climate solution can have the ancillary benefit of enhancing biodiversity, for example, but it turns out the relationship works both ways: Improving animal biodiversity can also enhance natural climate solutions. “It requires protecting and restoring the ability of animal species to reach ecologically meaningful densities so that as they move and interact with each other they can fulfill their functional roles across landscapes and seascapes.”

Failing to protect wildlife, meanwhile, can limit or even reverse an ecosystem’s carbon-storing potential. Overfishing of predatory fish in the coastal waters of the Northeastern United States, for example, led to an explosion of saltmarsh crabs, whose voracious appetite for seagrasses ravaged intertidal salt marshes, triggering their demise. Salt marshes are carbon supersinks that absorb and store up to 10 times as much carbon as a mature tropical rainforest. But when they die off, the resulting tidal erosion releases hundreds of years’ worth of stored sediment carbon, and a powerful carbon sponge disappears, along with all its future potential for CO2 capture.

Keeping Systemsin Tune

For animal populations to recover their historical numbers and species diversity, they need large swaths of functionally intact ecosystems—which currently comprise just 2.8 percent of global land area. But “with the right enabling conditions, animal populations can rebound rapidly,” the authors write, with a measure of hope.

“If you give nature a chance to reestablish itself, it’s really, really efficient at doing so,” Levitt agrees, noting that many of the U.S. National Forests were once abandoned landscapes denuded of their timber. Now those swaths of forest are essential tools for absorbing atmospheric carbon. “Not only do the trees sequester carbon, but the soil, the animals, the insect life, and the mycorrhizal networks under the ground, they’re all sequestering carbon, and they all depend on a healthy chain of trophic networks,” Levitt says. “So there is utility, even related to the survival of our species, in having wild animals on open space. It’s not just beautiful, it keeps the carbon cycle in tune.”

As a resource hub connecting private and civic conservation groups across cultural and political boundaries, Levitt says ILCN has an important role to play in supporting the establishment of the types of linked, protected environments that promote greater biodiversity. “You really need large, interconnected, protected spaces to get to truly rich ecosystems,” he says. “And what networks can do is make land conservation contagious sociologically—meaning, if your next-door neighbor has conserved his property, you’re more likely to do the same thing.” ILCN also supports the global 30×30 effort, an agreement among more than 190 countries to work toward protecting 30 percent of the world’s land and oceans by 2030.

Expanding the range of intact ecosystems to restore and protect animal populations will require people and wildlife to share space in more dynamic “coexistence landscapes,” the authors add. “This involves seeking ways for wild animals and humans to coexist across landscapes and seascapes, rather than separating people from nature, as has been a common practice in proposals to apportion spaces for biodiversity and carbon storage.”

While the study’s authors acknowledge the challenge of such a cultural shift, they also note, with some urgency, that the opportunity is too great to squander. “We are losing populations of many animal species just as we are discovering how much they functionally impact carbon capture and storage.”

Jon Gorey is a staff writer for the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy.

Lead image:Bison grazing in Yellowstone National Park.Credit:panugans via iStock/Getty Images Plus.