By Julia Tilton for The Daily Yonder.
Broadcast version by Mark Richardson for Oregon News Service for the Public News Service/Daily Yonder Collaboration

When Oregon’s 2024 fire season ended in late October, over 1.9 million acres had burned across the state – an area larger than Delaware. For Tyler McCarty, district manager at the Coos Forest Protective Association (CFPA), in the coastal southwest part of the state, fires today are a “night and day difference” from what they were twenty years ago. 

McCarty spent more than two decades with the Oregon Department of Forestry before starting his current position in rural Coos County, where he also commands one of the state’s incident management teams that responds to large fires and other natural disasters. He started his career right out of high school as an entry level firefighter, and has been fighting fires since 2000.

“When I first started, a two or three thousand acre fire was a big fire,” McCarty told the Daily Yonder. “One of the fires that my incident management team was on this year was 180,000 acres.”

As the Oregon fire season trends longer and fires burn larger, McCarty and others who work with Oregon’s remaining few forest protective associations are grappling with questions about how they will retain personnel and secure enough funding to fight the fires of the future.

“You need more people to manage a 180,000 acre fire versus a 6,000 acre fire, which our system is kind of built on,” McCarty said. “Right now we’re operating in a system with a funding model that doesn’t support the fires that we’re seeing today.”

A Century of Community-Based Forest Protection

The first iteration of the forest protective association in Coos County was organized in 1910. Two years later, in 1912, the Douglas Forest Protective Association (DFPA) formed in the next county over. In those days, the goal was fewer fires and a sense of shared responsibility among those who owned and logged land in Oregon’s forests. 

Nowadays, the state of Oregon mandates that private forest landowners – many of whom are in the timber industry – have fire protection. Membership in a forest protective association like the one McCarty leads is one way to meet that requirement. 

The state of Oregon provides about 50% of the funding for these associations, according to Patrick Skrip, the district manager at DFPA. The other 50% comes from private and public landowners, such as the Bureau of Land Management and Bureau of Indian Affairs. Currently, Oregon has three forest protective associations that operate with this or a similar funding model. 

To the east, Idaho has its own version of community-based forest protection. Called timber protective associations, the state’s two organizations have operated in some form since the early 1900s. At the edge of the Payette National Forest in McCall, Idaho, the Southern Idaho Timber Protective Association protects over half a million acres including private land, state-owned land, and portions of federally-owned land and national forests. In northern Idaho, the Clearwater-Potlatch Timber Protective Association protects nearly one million acres owned by private landowners and state and federal agencies. 

As in Idaho, Oregon’s forest protective associations provide fire suppression and prevention services rooted in community partnership. There are no similar protective associations anywhere else in the country. 

“It’s a system that’s been in place for over a hundred years, and we believe that the best answers come locally,” Skrip told the Daily Yonder.

This local approach is exemplified by the resources shared between private landowners and their forest protective associations. Ken Canon, the president of the board of DFPA, said it is common practice for landowners to lend firefighting teams their timber equipment like excavators and dozers during a fire.

“The nature of DFPA and the way it’s set up is that they not only value the resource that the landowners own, but they also value the very, very close relationships they have with the landowners,” Canon said.

Canon is a retired attorney who has lived in rural Oregon for most of his life, and in Douglas County for over two decades. The 282 acre parcel of land he owns is part of the 1.6 million acres DFPA manages. Mostly forested, the area makes up some of the most productive timberlands in the lower forty-eight, Skrip told the Daily Yonder. It is also a vital part of the local economy. 

In the summer, this same land can pose a significant fire risk. But shutting down timber production, even temporarily, also means shutting down an income stream for local landowners. As a district fire warden, Skrip is one of the people with authority to close the woods for logging activity. It is not a responsibility he takes lightly.

“Those are tough decisions, and I’m very mindful,” Skrip said. “They impact our operator community and our mills, and those are mortgages that people have to pay.”

When Skrip has had to make those tough calls, the larger private landowners have generally supported the decision, Canon said. Many landowners – Canon included – take their own measures when it comes to fire prevention. In Coos County, McCarty said private landowners do the same, from making evacuation plans to ensuring their homes are as defensible for firefighters as possible. 

Even with the close cooperation between landowners and their forest protective associations, the increase in bigger fires burning at the same time means resources are stretched thin.

Firefighting Challenges

Ken Canon has a 120º vista from his property, which sits atop a small mountain surrounded on two sides by forest owned by the federal Bureau of Land Management. That land has not been managed in any way for years, Canon said, partly because of efforts to protect the spotted owl that date back to the 1990s. Today, the land is heavily forested as a result.

“It’s pretty dense, and the denser the fire, the more intense they are,” Canon said.

To mitigate against a future fire on the federal lands jumping to his property, Canon has taken to creating a boundary between his property and the federally-owned neighboring land. He said he has taken out the undergrowth on his side of the property line and left the old-growth trees with space between them.

Forest management is just one part of the story when it comes to the kinds of fire blazing in Oregon today. Dense forests like the one bordering Canon’s property are filled with fuels that sustain fires. On the landscape’s other extreme, burn scars from previous fires that have experienced some regrowth also provide what Skrip calls “light and flashy fuel” for fires to consume quickly as they advance. 

Climate change is also upsetting conventional methods for fire management. Warmer-than-average temperatures and heat waves during the summer season dry out fuels. Combine this with the state’s current megadrought conditions, which are drier than any other period in the past thousand years, and there is a new host of challenges for fire prevention and suppression efforts. 

“In this era of fire, we’ve seen more acres burned in our district in the last 10 years than in the last hundred years combined,” Skrip said. The fire regime is also marching to new lengths, Skrip said, with burning happening more frequently north of Roseburg and in the foothills of the Cascades. 

Adam Sinkey, the North Unit Forester for DFPA, started firefighting at seventeen, and has worked his way up the ranks since the early 2000s. During the first half of his career at DFPA, Sinkey said there was one big fire beyond what the district could handle. That was in 2004, and Sinkey said the district’s next big fire after that was in 2013. Now, Sinkey said, those big fires have become commonplace.

“We’ve had one in the district or multiple in the district it seems like every year, or every other year, ever since 2013,” Sinkey said. 

Larger and more severe fires strain a system where there are only so many resources to go around. Fires also carry a significant financial burden and put a heavy physical and mental demand on firefighters. McCarty said his team spent 50 days out in the field this past summer. Other teams were out for as long as 60 days.

“That’s a lot of days sleeping in a tent during the summertime, sleeping in the dirt,” McCarty said. Asking firefighters to be away from their families for months on end while working some of the toughest seasons the state has seen risks high rates of burnout. And while both CFPA and DFPA offer wintertime work in the form of co-ops to retain summer employees, the associations still face year-over-year retention challenges.

Sinkey is one firefighter who built his career in part thanks to DFPA’s winter co-op programs. When, after college, he realized he wanted to make firefighting his full-time job, he stayed on throughout the year. Sinkey’s co-op work ranged from supporting fuel reduction in Douglas County – much like what Canon does each year on his own property – to short stints with the Oregon Department of Transportation operating snowplows on state highway mountain passes. Today, Sinkey said around 40 of DFPA’s 100 summertime employees stick around for the winter co-op program. 

“Not only are we reducing heavy fuel loads around people’s homes, but it also allows us to retain good folks and good firefighters throughout the years,” Sinkey said. 

Still, Skrip and McCarty agreed they could do with even more full-time employees as today’s fires demand additional resources. Year-round employees allow forest protective associations to retain their leadership on the ground. Ultimately, Sinkey said, it’s “boots on the ground” that put out fires. 

But shifting the hiring model to have the majority of employees be permanent would require increased funding at the state level. 

Finding a New Funding Model

After the catastrophic 2020 Labor Day Fires destroyed more than 1 million acres over the course of a few days in Southern Oregon, 2021 ushered in a series of conversations among the public and the state government about how to better fund firefighting efforts across the state. 

In 2024, a large portion of the 1.9 million acres burned were in Eastern Oregon, a predominantly rural region. Canon said he expects there will be talk about the cost of those fires – a staggering $317.5 million across the state – in the 2025 legislative session.

For private landowners and the forest protective associations that provide for them, the price tag is a reminder of the burden that falls on rural communities.

Private landowners who are members of their local forest protective associations pay for their coverage by the acre. Prices have gone up across the board, McCarty said, to the point where fire protection is no longer affordable, particularly for ranchers and grazers whose land generates less profit than timber.

A more holistic approach to funding would include more investment from urban folks, Canon and McCarty said. Already, every Oregonian pays into a general fund that accounts for 50% of the funding that is dispersed to forest protective associations like in Coos and Douglas counties. But a new era of fire demands more financial resources. Canon and McCarty said those cannot come from rural landowners alone, especially when the fires affect everyone.

One idea is to impose a tax on camping equipment or cars, since both are connected to fires and their common causes: fires set from recreation and malfunctions with catalytic converters. Another idea is to raise the state’s income tax to cover the growing costs of fire protection in the state. A task force was organized by Oregon’s governor earlier this year to look at future possibilities for fire funding. Their findings are due before the legislative session begins in February 2025. 

Canon said he wants to see more participation from urban areas, where he said the effects of fire are only growing more apparent.

“What we’ve seen in the last 10 years is it’s not fun going to the Shakespearean Festival in Ashland in choking smoke,” he said. “It’s not just a discomfort, but it’s a health risk.”


Julia Tilton wrote this article for The Daily Yonder.


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By Nina Misuraca Ignaczak for Planet Detroit.
Broadcast version by Chrystal Blair for Michigan News Connection for the Planet Detroit-Public News Service Collaboration.

Darwin Baas surveys Kent County’s landfill from the cab of a county truck, watching the steady arrival of waste-hauling vehicles dumping drywall, sofas, home clean-outs, and bagged leftovers tumbling out by the ton. An average of 800 of these trucks arrive every day. The South Kent Landfill — just outside Grand Rapids — is now about 95% full.

“Everything up here is going to try to kill you,” he tells visitors, gesturing toward the trash compactors and bulldozers weaving between soft spots of shifting debris. But it’s not just the machinery that makes this place dangerous — it’s the system itself, designed to make waste disappear with maximum convenience and minimum cost.

Baas, director of Kent County’s Department of Public Works, has spent the last 11 years trying to bend that system in a new direction. Under his leadership, Kent County has voluntarily captured methane from its landfill, continued to operate Michigan’s only municipal waste-to-energy incinerator, and proposed an ambitious Sustainable Business Park to divert food and yard waste, recover recyclables, and incubate circular economy businesses. 

But most of the county’s 600,000 tons of annual municipal solid waste still ends up here.

Kent County is among a minority of counties in Michigan managing waste through a publicly operated system. The vast majority of landfills statewide — 49 of 60 — are privately owned and profit-driven, further reinforcing the incentive to bury. Waste Management owns and operates dozens of landfills across Michigan. Baas sees this as a structural barrier to meaningful change.

“We need public-private partnerships,” he said. “The investments that need to be made are long-term — that’s not something the private sector is going to do on its own.”

The challenge Baas faces isn’t just operational — it’s systemic. As Michigan works to meet its climate goals, one of the most potent sources of greenhouse gas emissions is hiding in plain sight: landfills.

When food, yard waste, and other organic materials are buried, they decompose without oxygen and produce methane — a greenhouse gas that traps more than 80 times as much heat as carbon dioxide over a 20-year period. Though less visible than smokestacks or tailpipes, landfills are among the state’s largest sources of methane emissions, trailing only the fossil fuel sector.

Michigan recently overhauled its solid waste law, in part to address methane leaks. But even with new rules on the books, economic incentives still favor the cheapest option: burying waste. 

Baas sees this as a core flaw in how Michigan manages its garbage — and a missed opportunity. In Kent County, he’s built an integrated system that prioritizes material recovery, energy generation, and composting over landfilling.

However, those systems are more expensive upfront and require initial and ongoing investment, which means aligning public infrastructure, private capital and long-term planning in ways Michigan’s current system doesn’t support.

At the heart of the issue is a tension between innovation and inertia — between new solutions and a regulatory and economic system still structured around cheap disposal. Michigan has the opportunity to lead on waste recovery, Baas argues, but doing so will require more than technical upgrades. It will demand a fundamental rethinking of how the state handles waste — and who bears the burden.

A new regulatory push

Michigan overhauled its solid waste law in 2022, in part to address methane leaks. The updated Part 115 requires all landfills — regardless of age or size — to self-monitor methane emissions and fix leaks through patching or installing gas collection systems if they exceed thresholds. New technologies, including satellite mapping and drones, offer more precise ways to detect emissions than traditional walkover surveys — but adoption remains slow.

Sniffer Robotics, an Ann Arbor-based company, developed the only EPA-approved drone for landfill methane detection. Its technology, already in use at Arbor Hills Landfill, can locate leaks faster and more accurately than older methods. Yet despite promising results, cost barriers and procurement hurdles have limited uptake across the state.

Michigan’s new rules also impose faster compliance timelines: sites must correct surface emissions within 90 days or begin designing a full gas collection system. Currently, Michigan landfills use a mix of active and passive gas systems — active systems vacuum methane to flares or energy generators. In contrast, passive systems may vent it directly into the air. Sites without active collection may eventually be forced to upgrade.

Tim Unseld, a solid waste engineer with the Department of Environment, Great Lakes, and Energy (EGLE), said two landfills without gas systems have already detected surface emissions and made repairs. But those fixes may not last. “Once enough landfill gas is generated, it will follow the path of least resistance to escape,” he said. Ongoing repairs can become costly — pushing operators toward installing full recovery systems, particularly if they can sell the captured methane as energy.

Environmental advocates argue the reforms don’t go far enough. “We’re the sixth-largest producer of landfill methane emissions, even though we’re only the 10th or 11th most populous state,” said Mike Garfield, executive director of the Ecology Center. “The basic reason is simple: We’ve made it too easy and too cheap to landfill waste.”

Garfield wants the state to adopt enforceable best practices across the board — including tighter flare controls, real-time monitoring, and mandatory adoption of tools like Sniffer’s — and points to the 2022 Arbor Hills consent judgment as a model.

Arbor Hills, owned by GFL Environmental, is the largest landfill in the state in terms of the amount of waste in place, according to EPA. It has faced years of complaints and violations tied to odor, gas migration, and leachate issues. So far, however, EGLE has not moved to apply those stricter terms statewide.

“The Part 115 amendments of 2023 include what EGLE considers best practices,” said agency spokesperson Josef Greenberg, adding that the state’s current focus is on implementation.

The economics of food waste disposal

Food waste is the largest single component of Michigan’s municipal waste stream by weight. Yet efforts to keep it out of landfills face a steep uphill climb — in large part because the system is built to reward the opposite.

Disposal fees are typically based on weight, creating a strong financial incentive for landfills owners to accept heavier materials like food waste. “This is really carbon-rich material — it generates methane, and they can use that methane to drive biogas-based processes,” Desirée Plata, an environmental engineer at MIT.

It’s a perverse incentive, she noted, especially as Michigan aims to reduce methane emissions. Instead of rewarding diversion, the current system reinforces disposal. “We’re paying for disposal by the ton, not by environmental outcome,” she said. According to EPA data, 35 out of 60 landfills in Michigan — nearly 60% — have landfill gas-to-energy projects. 

That tension sits at the heart of Baas’s frustration. He’s spent years trying to reorient the local waste system around recovery. “I’ve been told I’m an oddity in the waste industry,” Baas said. “Most people don’t see the system this way.”

Waste recovery adds expense and faces adoption challenges, said Debora Johnston with Waste Management. “Capturing landfill gas generates revenue to help operators keep disposal costs down, helps protect our environment, and creates a renewable energy source for our local community,” she said.

“But separating out organics like food waste is expensive.” Indeed, the estimated cost for Kent County to meet the needs of a community of 640,000 to process 400,000 tons of mixed waste would exceed $400 million.

Plata said one of the most effective actions municipalities can take today is to fund composting. “Every municipality on the planet should be funding compost programs,” she said. “It’s one of the easiest things we can do to fight climate change — and it works.”

But Johnston points out the challenge of getting people to change their ways.

“Most communities are finding participation in recycling programs to have plateaued,” Johnston said. “And new organics collection and drop-off sites face many of the same challenges.”

That’s why Baas sees single-stream processing — separating out organics like food waste and recoverable items like recyclables and metals after pickup — as the path forward.

Despite setbacks, including the withdrawal of a private-sector partner, Kent County is moving forward with its Sustainable Business Park — a proposed 250-acre campus on county-owned farmland next to the nearly full South Kent Landfill.

The county has made a deliberate decision not to site a new landfill there and instead repurpose the land for recovery infrastructure that could process food and yard waste — which has been banned from landfills in Michigan since 1993.

“We’re past the point of building another landfill,” Baas said. “We’re trying to do something different.” Still, he acknowledges the economics won’t shift without public investment and new rules. 

“We’ve determined that the highest, best use for these organics was mission critical,” he said. “But unless you change policy and infrastructure to make it go somewhere else, food waste will keep going to landfills — the lowest hanging fruit economically.”


Nina Misuraca Ignaczak wrote this article for Planet Detroit.


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Wyomingites are split on what is causing climate change, but 86% of residents in the state agree it is happening, according to a new survey.

Kristen Landreville, a researcher at the University of Wyoming, surveyed a group of state residents and found 39% think climate change is caused by humans and 47% think it is not. Causes aside, more than 80% of respondents said their communities should plan for shifting water resources.

"Whether it's local community officials, Wyoming state legislators, Wyoming governor, we see high numbers of people saying, 'We want to do more to adapt to the changing water resources in our state,'" Landreville reported.

Landreville added most people are worried about future water threats. Fewer than half of respondents said their local area is already feeling the effects of changing water resources but about 70% think the same areas could be affected in the future.

The survey also found major misconceptions about public opinion. While eight of 10 respondents believe communities should plan for changes to water resources, only half believe their community feels the same way.

"That gap of perception can create this kind of 'spiral of silence' where people don't think that it's safe to share their opinions," Landreville explained. "I think it's important for us to try to make people feel more open to share those thoughts, because that's how we get the ball rolling in terms of action, is we need to be OK to talk about it."

Despite the gap in perception, more than half of Wyomingites are optimistic the state can overcome future challenges surrounding water and related hazards.


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By Jessica Scott-Reid for Sentient.
Broadcast version by Nadia Ramlagan for West Virginia News Service reporting for the Sentient-Public News Service Collaboration

When it comes to tackling climate change and industrial animal agriculture, a long-standing debate continues to divide advocates - is it better to focus on individual dietary shifts, or demand systemic change? Over the last decade or so, environmental and animal welfare organizations have grappled with how to combine individual behavior change with a broader push for collective action. Is it more effective to urge consumers to eat less meat, or to target meat and dairy companies to transition toward plant-based alternatives? Are individual shopping choices more impactful, or should we prioritize boycotts and pressure campaigns through grassroots activism?

A new report from the World Resource Institute reveals that both strategies can - and in fact must - work together. To combat climate change, the report finds, collective change and individual action require a joint effort.

"This research shows that people really can't do it alone," Mindy Hernandez, one of the authors of the WRI report, tells Sentient. "They need help in order to realize the very significant emissions reductions that are possible." Rather than getting caught up in the idea that "'corporations need to do something, or nothing matters,' systems-level players, specifically policy and industry actors, have a massive role to play." At the same time, Hernandez adds, "that does not give individuals a free pass."

The Surprising Origins of the 'Personal Carbon Footprint'

The idea of a "personal carbon footprint" didn't come from climate scientists or environmental advocates - it actually came from Big Oil, as a means of placing the onus on us. In 2004, British Petroleum (BP) introduced the carbon calculator, reframing the climate crisis as a matter of personal responsibility. The message was simple: Don't look at us. Look at yourself.

We're still grappling with the legacy of that messaging. A little more than 20 years later, global emissions continue to rise yet conversations around food and climate tend to be framed in terms of individual choices - both the effective ones like eating less meat and the not-so-effective ones for climate emissions, like buying local, "climate-friendly," "regenerative" or organic.

Meanwhile, the beef industry continues to pump out emissions, with little political will to tackle these emissions in a meaningful way.

Impact of Diet on the Planet

Around a third of global greenhouse gas emissions come from food, and most of those food-related emissions are driven by meat, especially beef. Americans and other Global North countries must eat less meat and shift to more plant-forward diets, the research suggests. "Plant-based foods - such as fruits and vegetables, whole grains, beans, peas, nuts, and lentils - generally use less energy, land, and water, and have lower greenhouse gas intensities than animal-based foods," according to the United Nations.

WRI's research also finds that "pro-climate behavior changes" are enough, potentially, to "theoretically cancel out all the greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions an average person produces each year - specifically among high-income, high-emitting populations." One of those climate-crucial behaviors, the research reveals, is cutting back on meat and dairy - especially beef and lamb.

Organic or regenerative food have various merits, but these do not include a reduction in climate emissions for beef, because organic and regenerative cattle ranching requires more land, and land has a climate emissions cost. Ultimately, none of these personal actions come close to the environmental impact of shifting away from meat and other animal-sourced products. "Full veganism can save nearly 1 ton of CO2 annually, about a sixth of the average global citizen's total emissions. But even reducing meat intake captures 40% of that impact," the report states.

Why Individual Change Is Not Enough

The WRI research also makes a larger point: focusing solely on individual behavior is not sufficient on its own. Without systemic change, we unlock just a fraction - about 10 percent - of our true climate action potential.

The other 90 percent, according to WRI, "stays locked away, dependent on governments, businesses and our own collective action to make sustainable choices more accessible for everyone. (Case in point: It's much easier to go carless if your city has good public transit.)"

Consider a student working to decrease their individual climate impact by eating less meat, WRI's Hernandez suggests. A systemic action the student could take would be to advocate for the school to adopt Meat Free Mondays or WRI's Cool Food Pledge, a program that helps organizations reduce the climate impact of their food offerings by shifting to plant-rich menus.

"Suddenly it's really easy for that student to keep their commitment to eating less meat," says Hernandez, and the collective emissions of the larger student body also then decreases.

The key is to have climate action, at both individual and systemic levels, working in unison. "Systemic pressure creates enabling conditions, but individuals need to complete the loop with our daily choices. It's a two-way street," the WRI researchers write. "Bike lanes need cyclists, plant-based options need people to consume them." And when more of us adopt these behaviors, "we send critical market signals that businesses and governments respond to with more investment."

Taking Action During Difficult Times

As the current administration continues to roll back environmental protections, it's a crucial time for both individual and collective action, Lauren Ornelas, founder of the nonprofit Food Empowerment Project, tells Sentient. "We can't say 'I can rely on the government to pass regulations that are good for the environment or that are good for the welfare of animals,' or 'I can rely on my policymakers to do those things.' It's kind of up to us," she says, "and this is the best time to acknowledge that in every aspect [where] we actually have power."

For those who care about food system impacts, that power can be found in what we choose to eat. "Food choices are always empowering," says Ornelas. So is taking part in a broader collective action, she adds, "to make sure that we are joining our voices with others to demand change."

And what could this look like? "Focus on the one thing that you think you can do in your household," Hernandez says." And then, think about what is the one systems-level thing you can do," like joining a local environmental or food justice group. Shifting diets away from meat and dairy may not solve the climate crisis alone, but eating less meat can be one empowering individual choice that can be made that much stronger by collective action.


Jessica Scott-Reid wrote this article for Sentient.


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