Cookies help us run our site more efficiently.

By clicking “Accept”, you agree to the storing of cookies on your device to enhance site navigation, analyze site usage, and assist in our marketing efforts. View our Privacy Policy for more information or to customize your cookie preferences.

Oil refinery closures leave workers searching for a job that ‘just doesn’t exist’

News Feed
Wednesday, October 8, 2025

In summary For the refinery workers being laid off — most of whom lack a college degree — it’s unlikely they’ll find another job that pays as well, despite recent efforts by the state to help. Wilfredo Cruz went to the doctor in October of last year to have his brain scanned because he was experiencing vertigo — a dangerous condition when you’re a refinery worker like Cruz and your job entails climbing 200-foot towers and fixing heavy machinery.  While he waited at the doctor’s office, he picked up his phone and felt a moment of panic, seeing 100 unread text messages in the last hour.  The Phillips 66 refinery complex in Los Angeles had just said that it was going to close, and Cruz learned in that moment that he would eventually lose his job, along with nearly 1,000 other employees and contractors.  “It was a big shock, a gut punch,” said Cruz, who thinks his last day will be sometime in April. Workers say layoff notices will begin to go out in the next few months.  It’s just one of a handful of refineries that have closed or that intend to close in the coming months. For the workers — most of whom lack a college degree — it’s unlikely they’ll find another job that pays as well, despite recent efforts by the state to help. Though the Trump administration signed legislation creating billions of dollars in tax cuts for oil and gas companies, it’s not going to save these jobs or offer the workers any money to train for new ones.  “You have people earning between $80,000 to $200,000 a year, and almost everyone is a high school graduate and that’s it,” said Cruz. “To go out and look for another job that’s even somewhat comparable, it just doesn’t exist.”  When he isn’t at the refinery, Cruz is wearing a plain black shirt, shorts, and New Balance sneakers — anything that’s easy to clean if his 2-year old son throws food at him, he said. His vertigo is better these days, almost a year after the refinery said it would close, but he now has to find a job so he can support his family and pay his mortgage. The best bet, he said, is to go back to school and start a new career in cybersecurity. Thousands of jobs lost California has about 100,000 workers in the fossil fuel industry, according to an August report by the Public Policy Institute of California. That’s about the population of a small city, such as Merced or Redding. As the state continues its transition to renewable energy, many of those jobs may disappear — and some already have. Refineries have been closing all across the U.S. in recent years, but California has been hit hard, especially in Contra Costa County, Solano County and parts of southern Los Angeles, near Long Beach. First it was the Marathon refinery in Contra Costa County in 2020, which put hundreds of people out of work before the plant converted to renewable fuels with a fraction of the former workforce. Then Phillips 66 began shifting one of its Contra Costa County refineries to renewables and closed an affiliated plant on the Central Coast. A Valero refinery in Solano County is also expected to close in the next few months, leading to more layoffs. Publicly, oil companies have given vague justifications for the closures, though oil industry advocates, such as the Western States Petroleum Association, blame the state’s increased regulation and its renewable energy transition. Environmental groups point to the decrease in oil demand as more Californians turn to electric vehicles.  With thousands of jobs at stake, Gov. Gavin Newsom and the Democratic-led state Legislature this summer tried to strike a deal with Valero to avoid the closure of its Solano County refinery. Those conversations are still “ongoing,” said Daniel Villaseñor, the deputy director of communications for the governor.  What the state has offered so far is a $30 million pot of money, which refinery workers can use to train for new jobs. The money went out to four different workforce organizations last February, and they have until 2027 to distribute it to workers in various ways, such as through scholarships.   First: Workers cross a street as smoke billows from a fire at the Martinez Refinery Company in Martinez in Contra Costa County on Feb. 1, 2025. Last: A worker stands atop a tank car that carries liquefied petroleum gas at the Marathon Martinez Refinery on April 27, 2020. Photos by Jose Carlos Fajardo, Bay Area News Group The United Steelworkers union, which represents many of the Phillips 66 refinery workers, received about a third of the money and recruited Cruz to help find eligible workers at his job. Some of his colleagues are trying to become truck drivers, emergency medical technicians, or radiologists, but the state money rarely covers all the training expenses, he said.  In his spare time, Cruz is enrolled in an online, year-long certificate program in cybersecurity at UC San Diego and is using the state money to cover the $4,000 tuition. He said he wants a remote job, something that would allow him to spend more time with his son.  The steelworkers union has pushed Newsom for much more, ideally “hundreds of millions of dollars per year” to help retrain the refinery workers it represents, said Mike Smith, the national bargaining chair for the union. The governor has yet to make any new promises.  Six-figure salary, no degree required The average work day at a refinery might entail crawling into small spaces, withstanding searing heat, or operating heavy machinery with precision. And it can be dangerous: In 2006, the roof of a storage tank collapsed, killing one person and injuring four others at the Phillips 66 refinery complex in Los Angeles, which was then owned by an earlier iteration of the company.   Twelve-hour shifts are the norm, including many night shifts, and overtime is common. Nearby residents complain that the Phillips 66 facilities have a foul smell and that they pump cancer-causing chemicals into the air, creating health risks for the entire community. Workers are required to wear full-body fire retardant uniforms each day because fires are a constant risk, such as last week, when an explosion rocked a Chevron refinery in El Segundo. There was no major damage. Flames and smoke from a large fire rises from the Chevron refinery in El Segundo on Oct. 2, 2025. Photo by Daniel Cole, Reuters Though the work can be physically demanding, the rewards are plentiful. Union workers at the Phillips 66 refinery complex make about $115,000 a year, plus a pension and an 8% match on 401k contributions, said Smith.  Together, the Phillips 66 refineries in Los Angeles and the Valero refinery in Solano County produce about 17% of the state’s gas. Without these facilities, Californians could see higher prices at the pump, according to an independent analysis by the federal government. Laurie Wallace, a self-described artist, never wanted to work in oil and gas, but the money was a big draw, she said. For years, she was working as many as three different jobs, saving up money for punk and ska concerts while flipping burgers at In-N-Out, helping customers at Ace Hardware, or working shifts at a local cafe. Her husband at the time learned about a training program for refinery workers. He said he was going to apply and when she said she was interested, he told her she would never get in.  “I took the test and got the better score,” Wallace said. “I don’t do well with people telling me not to do something.” In the nearly 18 years since that exam, she’s worked at the Phillips 66 refinery complex in Los Angeles, handling the heavy machinery that transports California’s oil and gas. Wallace often earns over $100,000, especially with overtime, allowing her to achieve what many might consider the American Dream: a four-bedroom house in the Long Beach suburbs with an affordable mortgage and family vacations every year, including cruises to Mexico and trips to Las Vegas.  She’ll likely see a pay cut in any future job. In a 2023 study by the UC Berkeley Labor Center, UC Irvine professor Virginia Parks helped survey those who had been laid off by the Marathon oil refinery in Contra Costa County in 2020. She found that roughly a quarter were unemployed or no longer looking for work over a year after losing their jobs. Some workers found opportunities at other oil refineries, though they made less money because they lacked seniority or a union. Others found jobs at utility companies or chemical treatment plants, and a few started working in health care or retail.  “I don’t think (refinery workers) need long training programs but they do need some sort of reskilling,” said Parks, who wants the state to provide workers more financial help. She’s especially interested in state grants that give workers income support while they search for a skilled job. “Otherwise they’re just going to find whatever (job) they can.” Her study found that workers who did find a job after getting laid off made about $38 an hour — $12 less than before.  Lots of experience but few ways to prove it Since the layoffs at the Phillips 66 refinery complex will happen slowly over the next few months, Wallace still has a job for now. Her department is responsible for receiving and shipping the oil and gas that arrives at the Port of Los Angeles, work that is so essential that she thinks she’ll be one of the last people laid off, potentially in 2027. Over the years, she’s driven the trains that transport tons of oil and gas, operated cranes to carry pieces of pipelines and climbed on top of the massive fuel storage tanks that line the 110 Freeway. Often, she said she worked six or even seven days in a row. Laurie Wallace at the end of her overnight shift in front of the Phillips 66 refinery in Wilmington, Los Angeles, on Oct. 1, 2025. Photo by Stella Kalinina for CalMatters In April, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and got a modified schedule. Now she works night shifts and only two or three days in a row. After finishing her radiation therapy around 2 p.m., she changes out of her usual attire, a punk T-shirt and jeans, and gets into her work uniform. She then has to get through Los Angeles traffic, bypass the plant’s two layers of security, and travel across the refinery, which takes up multiple city blocks, or about 650 acres. Her shift begins at 4:30 p.m., where she spends 12 hours in a room, alone, under fluorescent lights, actively monitoring 16 different computer screens for changes in pressure or chemistry.  After so many years, staying alert during a night shift is second nature, she said with a laugh. “I’m a little high strung. I have no problem staying awake.”  The stakes are high. If she isn’t paying attention and a machine fails or a tank has the wrong pressure, fuel leaks can occur. In 2014, a hole burst in an underground pipeline near the refinery, pouring 1,200 gallons of oil into a residential street. Although Wallace has used many cranes over the years, she doesn’t have a crane operator’s license. In fact, all of the training that she’s done happens on-site, and her employer isn’t required to track it or give her any credential, such as a license or certificate, that could transfer to another job. After the Marathon refinery in Contra Costa County closed, former workers struggled to substantiate their skills when looking for new jobs, the UC Berkeley Labor survey found.  Drawing directly on the study, and with support from the steelworkers union, longtime labor activist and state Sen. María Elena Durazo, a Los Angeles Democrat, proposed a bill this year that would require employers to provide their workers with proof of any on-the-job training or education. The governor has until Oct. 12 to sign or veto the bill. It’s only “a first step” though, said Parks, a co-author of the study. Long-term, she said refinery workers should have the option to acquire independent certificates or credentials, such as a crane operator license, that prove their skills and don’t rely on an employer at all. “It’s not ideal but it’s temporary”  So far, only a fraction of the oil and gas workers who are eligible for state support have actually received it.  “We just started enrolling members,” said Rosi Romo, who coordinates the grant program on behalf of the steelworkers union. Though the steelworkers union received the money last March, only about 100 people have participated so far, said Romo, most of them in Southern California. She said the program can fund 650 scholarships, offering up to $15,000 in tuition for each worker  In Kern County, where the oil industry is a major employer, the local job centers received over $11 million from the state, which they’ve used to help nearly 370 former oil and gas workers retrain in new careers, including trucking and nursing. The job centers have enough money to serve around 750 people, said Danette Williams, who works in marketing for the centers, known as the Employers’ Training Resource. Unlike the steelworkers union, which is only giving out scholarships, Williams said the Employers’ Training Resource is also offering to reimburse 50% of wages during the first 480 hours of the workers’ new jobs. Romo said she wasn’t aware that was possible under the union’s contract with the state, but if it is, she said she’d try to offer the same benefit. The other organizations who received the grant money did not respond to CalMatters’ questions.  The Phillips 66 refinery in Wilmington, on Sept. 30, 2025. Photo by Stella Kalinina for CalMatters Romo, along with other representatives from the steelworkers union, said the work schedule at the Phillips 66 refinery complex is one reason why workers have yet to use most of the money. As of August, about a quarter of union employees have already left the facility for other opportunities, said Smith, the national bargaining chair for the union. The remaining employees are left working overtime.  Once layoffs begin in the coming months, Romo and Smith said they expect an uptick in the number of workers taking advantage of the scholarship money. Phillips 66 did not respond to multiple requests for comment about its overtime policies or other ways it may be supporting workers’ job transitions.  Cruz said he’s working six days a week now, 12 hours each day. To make progress on his cybersecurity course at UC San Diego, he tries to listen to lectures and audiobooks during his commute or while eating lunch or dinner during his two, 30-minute breaks. After he puts his son to sleep around 9 p.m., he has a few hours to study, though he has to wake up at 5 a.m. to make it to his shift on time. “It’s not ideal but it’s temporary,” he said. Wallace has a slight advantage, since she started taking online classes in 2020 to complete her associate degree. She’s still one class short, but she hasn’t had the time to finish it. Between her radiation therapy and the 12-hour night shifts, she said it’s unlikely she’ll be able to study for at least another year while she works with the skeleton crew that’s closing the refinery. If she had time, she said she would finish her associate degree and use the state training grant to help offset the cost of a bachelor’s degree. But because the state tuition grants expire in 2027, it’s quite possible she won’t be able to use the tuition money at all.

For the refinery workers being laid off — most of whom lack a college degree — it’s unlikely they’ll find another job that pays as well, despite recent efforts by the state to help.

A wide view of a refinery location on a clear day with various structures, including distillation columns, as smoke is released into the air. The refinery can be seen from a body of water, in the foreground of the frame, surrounded by reed and other vegetation.

In summary

For the refinery workers being laid off — most of whom lack a college degree — it’s unlikely they’ll find another job that pays as well, despite recent efforts by the state to help.

Wilfredo Cruz went to the doctor in October of last year to have his brain scanned because he was experiencing vertigo — a dangerous condition when you’re a refinery worker like Cruz and your job entails climbing 200-foot towers and fixing heavy machinery. 

While he waited at the doctor’s office, he picked up his phone and felt a moment of panic, seeing 100 unread text messages in the last hour. 

The Phillips 66 refinery complex in Los Angeles had just said that it was going to close, and Cruz learned in that moment that he would eventually lose his job, along with nearly 1,000 other employees and contractors. 

“It was a big shock, a gut punch,” said Cruz, who thinks his last day will be sometime in April. Workers say layoff notices will begin to go out in the next few months. 

It’s just one of a handful of refineries that have closed or that intend to close in the coming months. For the workers — most of whom lack a college degree — it’s unlikely they’ll find another job that pays as well, despite recent efforts by the state to help. Though the Trump administration signed legislation creating billions of dollars in tax cuts for oil and gas companies, it’s not going to save these jobs or offer the workers any money to train for new ones. 

“You have people earning between $80,000 to $200,000 a year, and almost everyone is a high school graduate and that’s it,” said Cruz. “To go out and look for another job that’s even somewhat comparable, it just doesn’t exist.” 

When he isn’t at the refinery, Cruz is wearing a plain black shirt, shorts, and New Balance sneakers — anything that’s easy to clean if his 2-year old son throws food at him, he said. His vertigo is better these days, almost a year after the refinery said it would close, but he now has to find a job so he can support his family and pay his mortgage. The best bet, he said, is to go back to school and start a new career in cybersecurity.

Thousands of jobs lost

California has about 100,000 workers in the fossil fuel industry, according to an August report by the Public Policy Institute of California. That’s about the population of a small city, such as Merced or Redding. As the state continues its transition to renewable energy, many of those jobs may disappear — and some already have.

Refineries have been closing all across the U.S. in recent years, but California has been hit hard, especially in Contra Costa County, Solano County and parts of southern Los Angeles, near Long Beach. First it was the Marathon refinery in Contra Costa County in 2020, which put hundreds of people out of work before the plant converted to renewable fuels with a fraction of the former workforce. Then Phillips 66 began shifting one of its Contra Costa County refineries to renewables and closed an affiliated plant on the Central Coast. A Valero refinery in Solano County is also expected to close in the next few months, leading to more layoffs.

Publicly, oil companies have given vague justifications for the closures, though oil industry advocates, such as the Western States Petroleum Association, blame the state’s increased regulation and its renewable energy transition. Environmental groups point to the decrease in oil demand as more Californians turn to electric vehicles. 

With thousands of jobs at stake, Gov. Gavin Newsom and the Democratic-led state Legislature this summer tried to strike a deal with Valero to avoid the closure of its Solano County refinery. Those conversations are still “ongoing,” said Daniel Villaseñor, the deputy director of communications for the governor. 

What the state has offered so far is a $30 million pot of money, which refinery workers can use to train for new jobs. The money went out to four different workforce organizations last February, and they have until 2027 to distribute it to workers in various ways, such as through scholarships.  

The United Steelworkers union, which represents many of the Phillips 66 refinery workers, received about a third of the money and recruited Cruz to help find eligible workers at his job. Some of his colleagues are trying to become truck drivers, emergency medical technicians, or radiologists, but the state money rarely covers all the training expenses, he said. 

In his spare time, Cruz is enrolled in an online, year-long certificate program in cybersecurity at UC San Diego and is using the state money to cover the $4,000 tuition. He said he wants a remote job, something that would allow him to spend more time with his son. 

The steelworkers union has pushed Newsom for much more, ideally “hundreds of millions of dollars per year” to help retrain the refinery workers it represents, said Mike Smith, the national bargaining chair for the union. The governor has yet to make any new promises. 

Six-figure salary, no degree required

The average work day at a refinery might entail crawling into small spaces, withstanding searing heat, or operating heavy machinery with precision. And it can be dangerous: In 2006, the roof of a storage tank collapsed, killing one person and injuring four others at the Phillips 66 refinery complex in Los Angeles, which was then owned by an earlier iteration of the company.  

Twelve-hour shifts are the norm, including many night shifts, and overtime is common. Nearby residents complain that the Phillips 66 facilities have a foul smell and that they pump cancer-causing chemicals into the air, creating health risks for the entire community. Workers are required to wear full-body fire retardant uniforms each day because fires are a constant risk, such as last week, when an explosion rocked a Chevron refinery in El Segundo. There was no major damage.

Clouds of smoke and flames illuminate the night sky during a fire at a refinery location.
Flames and smoke from a large fire rises from the Chevron refinery in El Segundo on Oct. 2, 2025. Photo by Daniel Cole, Reuters

Though the work can be physically demanding, the rewards are plentiful. Union workers at the Phillips 66 refinery complex make about $115,000 a year, plus a pension and an 8% match on 401k contributions, said Smith. 

Together, the Phillips 66 refineries in Los Angeles and the Valero refinery in Solano County produce about 17% of the state’s gas. Without these facilities, Californians could see higher prices at the pump, according to an independent analysis by the federal government.

Laurie Wallace, a self-described artist, never wanted to work in oil and gas, but the money was a big draw, she said. For years, she was working as many as three different jobs, saving up money for punk and ska concerts while flipping burgers at In-N-Out, helping customers at Ace Hardware, or working shifts at a local cafe. Her husband at the time learned about a training program for refinery workers. He said he was going to apply and when she said she was interested, he told her she would never get in. 

“I took the test and got the better score,” Wallace said. “I don’t do well with people telling me not to do something.”

In the nearly 18 years since that exam, she’s worked at the Phillips 66 refinery complex in Los Angeles, handling the heavy machinery that transports California’s oil and gas. Wallace often earns over $100,000, especially with overtime, allowing her to achieve what many might consider the American Dream: a four-bedroom house in the Long Beach suburbs with an affordable mortgage and family vacations every year, including cruises to Mexico and trips to Las Vegas. 

She’ll likely see a pay cut in any future job. In a 2023 study by the UC Berkeley Labor Center, UC Irvine professor Virginia Parks helped survey those who had been laid off by the Marathon oil refinery in Contra Costa County in 2020. She found that roughly a quarter were unemployed or no longer looking for work over a year after losing their jobs. Some workers found opportunities at other oil refineries, though they made less money because they lacked seniority or a union. Others found jobs at utility companies or chemical treatment plants, and a few started working in health care or retail. 

“I don’t think (refinery workers) need long training programs but they do need some sort of reskilling,” said Parks, who wants the state to provide workers more financial help. She’s especially interested in state grants that give workers income support while they search for a skilled job. “Otherwise they’re just going to find whatever (job) they can.”

Her study found that workers who did find a job after getting laid off made about $38 an hour — $12 less than before. 

Lots of experience but few ways to prove it

Since the layoffs at the Phillips 66 refinery complex will happen slowly over the next few months, Wallace still has a job for now. Her department is responsible for receiving and shipping the oil and gas that arrives at the Port of Los Angeles, work that is so essential that she thinks she’ll be one of the last people laid off, potentially in 2027.

Over the years, she’s driven the trains that transport tons of oil and gas, operated cranes to carry pieces of pipelines and climbed on top of the massive fuel storage tanks that line the 110 Freeway. Often, she said she worked six or even seven days in a row.

A person — wearing a black hat, black shirt that reads “PBS is punk” and red flannel pants — stands at the top of a flight of blue stairs as they rest their left elbow on the rail. Blurred lights from a nearby refinery can be seen in the background.
Laurie Wallace at the end of her overnight shift in front of the Phillips 66 refinery in Wilmington, Los Angeles, on Oct. 1, 2025. Photo by Stella Kalinina for CalMatters

In April, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and got a modified schedule. Now she works night shifts and only two or three days in a row. After finishing her radiation therapy around 2 p.m., she changes out of her usual attire, a punk T-shirt and jeans, and gets into her work uniform. She then has to get through Los Angeles traffic, bypass the plant’s two layers of security, and travel across the refinery, which takes up multiple city blocks, or about 650 acres. Her shift begins at 4:30 p.m., where she spends 12 hours in a room, alone, under fluorescent lights, actively monitoring 16 different computer screens for changes in pressure or chemistry. 

After so many years, staying alert during a night shift is second nature, she said with a laugh. “I’m a little high strung. I have no problem staying awake.” 

The stakes are high. If she isn’t paying attention and a machine fails or a tank has the wrong pressure, fuel leaks can occur. In 2014, a hole burst in an underground pipeline near the refinery, pouring 1,200 gallons of oil into a residential street.

Although Wallace has used many cranes over the years, she doesn’t have a crane operator’s license. In fact, all of the training that she’s done happens on-site, and her employer isn’t required to track it or give her any credential, such as a license or certificate, that could transfer to another job. After the Marathon refinery in Contra Costa County closed, former workers struggled to substantiate their skills when looking for new jobs, the UC Berkeley Labor survey found. 

Drawing directly on the study, and with support from the steelworkers union, longtime labor activist and state Sen. María Elena Durazo, a Los Angeles Democrat, proposed a bill this year that would require employers to provide their workers with proof of any on-the-job training or education. The governor has until Oct. 12 to sign or veto the bill.

It’s only “a first step” though, said Parks, a co-author of the study. Long-term, she said refinery workers should have the option to acquire independent certificates or credentials, such as a crane operator license, that prove their skills and don’t rely on an employer at all.

“It’s not ideal but it’s temporary” 

So far, only a fraction of the oil and gas workers who are eligible for state support have actually received it. 

“We just started enrolling members,” said Rosi Romo, who coordinates the grant program on behalf of the steelworkers union.

Though the steelworkers union received the money last March, only about 100 people have participated so far, said Romo, most of them in Southern California. She said the program can fund 650 scholarships, offering up to $15,000 in tuition for each worker 

In Kern County, where the oil industry is a major employer, the local job centers received over $11 million from the state, which they’ve used to help nearly 370 former oil and gas workers retrain in new careers, including trucking and nursing. The job centers have enough money to serve around 750 people, said Danette Williams, who works in marketing for the centers, known as the Employers’ Training Resource.

Unlike the steelworkers union, which is only giving out scholarships, Williams said the Employers’ Training Resource is also offering to reimburse 50% of wages during the first 480 hours of the workers’ new jobs. Romo said she wasn’t aware that was possible under the union’s contract with the state, but if it is, she said she’d try to offer the same benefit.

The other organizations who received the grant money did not respond to CalMatters’ questions. 

A wide view of a refinery location during sunset with various structures, including distillation columns, as smoke is released into the air.
The Phillips 66 refinery in Wilmington, on Sept. 30, 2025. Photo by Stella Kalinina for CalMatters

Romo, along with other representatives from the steelworkers union, said the work schedule at the Phillips 66 refinery complex is one reason why workers have yet to use most of the money. As of August, about a quarter of union employees have already left the facility for other opportunities, said Smith, the national bargaining chair for the union. The remaining employees are left working overtime. 

Once layoffs begin in the coming months, Romo and Smith said they expect an uptick in the number of workers taking advantage of the scholarship money.

Phillips 66 did not respond to multiple requests for comment about its overtime policies or other ways it may be supporting workers’ job transitions. 

Cruz said he’s working six days a week now, 12 hours each day. To make progress on his cybersecurity course at UC San Diego, he tries to listen to lectures and audiobooks during his commute or while eating lunch or dinner during his two, 30-minute breaks. After he puts his son to sleep around 9 p.m., he has a few hours to study, though he has to wake up at 5 a.m. to make it to his shift on time. “It’s not ideal but it’s temporary,” he said.

Wallace has a slight advantage, since she started taking online classes in 2020 to complete her associate degree. She’s still one class short, but she hasn’t had the time to finish it. Between her radiation therapy and the 12-hour night shifts, she said it’s unlikely she’ll be able to study for at least another year while she works with the skeleton crew that’s closing the refinery.

If she had time, she said she would finish her associate degree and use the state training grant to help offset the cost of a bachelor’s degree. But because the state tuition grants expire in 2027, it’s quite possible she won’t be able to use the tuition money at all.

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

Is AI being shoved down your throat at work? Here’s how to fight back.

Your Mileage May Vary is an advice column offering you a unique framework for thinking through your moral dilemmas. It’s based on value pluralism, the idea that each of us has multiple values that are equally valid but that often conflict with each other. To submit a question, fill out this anonymous form. Here’s this week’s question from a […]

Is it possible to fight against the integration of AI in the workplace? Your Mileage May Vary is an advice column offering you a unique framework for thinking through your moral dilemmas. It’s based on value pluralism, the idea that each of us has multiple values that are equally valid but that often conflict with each other. To submit a question, fill out this anonymous form. Here’s this week’s question from a reader, condensed and edited for clarity. I’m an AI engineer working at a medium-sized ad agency, mostly on non-generative machine learning models (think ad performance prediction, not ad creation). Lately, it feels like people, specifically senior and mid-level managers who do not have engineering experience, are pushing the adoption and development of various AI tools. Honestly, it feels like an unthinking melee. I consider myself a conscientious objector to the use of AI, especially generative AI; I’m not fully opposed to it, but I constantly ask who actually benefits from the application of AI and what its financial, human, and environmental costs are beyond what is right in front of our noses. Yet, as a rank-and-file employee, I find myself with no real avenue to relay those concerns to people who have actual power to decide. Worse, I feel that even voicing such concerns, admittedly running against the almost blind optimism that I assume affects most marketing companies, is turning me into a pariah in my own workplace. So my question is this: Considering the difficulty of finding good jobs in AI, is it “worth it” trying to encourage critical AI use in my company, or should I tone it down if only to keep paying the bills? Dear Conscientious Objector, You’re definitely not alone in hating the uncritical rollout of generative AI. Lots of people hate it, from artists, to coders, to students. I bet there are people in your own company who hate it, too. But they’re not speaking up — and, of course, there’s a reason for that: They’re afraid to lose their jobs. Honestly, it’s a fair concern. And it’s the reason why I’m not going to advise you to stick your neck out and fight this crusade alone. If you as an individual object to your company’s AI use, you become legible to the company as a “problem” employee. There could be consequences to that, and I don’t want to see you lose your paycheck.  But I also don’t want to see you lose your moral integrity. You’re absolutely right to constantly ask who actually benefits from the unthinking application of AI and whether the benefits outweigh the costs.  So, I think you should fight for what you believe in — but fight as part of a collective. The real question here is not, “Should you voice your concerns about AI or stay quiet?” It’s, “How can you build solidarity with others who want to be part of a resistance movement with you?” Teaming up is both safer for you as an employee and more likely to have an impact. “The most important thing an individual can do is be somewhat less of an individual,” the environmentalist Bill McKibben once said. “Join together with others in movements large enough to have some chance at changing those political and economic ground rules that keep us locked on this current path.” Now, you know what word I’m about to say next, right? Unionize. If your workplace can be organized, that’ll be a key strategy for allowing you to fight AI policies you disagree with. If you need a bit of inspiration, look at what some labor unions have already achieved — from the Writers Guild of America, which won important protections around AI for Hollywood writers, to the Service Employees International Union, which negotiated with Pennsylvania’s governor to create a worker board overseeing the implementation of generative AI in government services. Meanwhile, this year saw thousands of nurses marching in the streets as National Nurses United pushed for the right to determine how AI does and doesn’t get used in patient interactions. “There’s a whole range of different examples where unions have been able to really be on the front foot in setting the terms for how AI gets used — and whether it gets used at all,” Sarah Myers West, co-executive director of the AI Now Institute, told me recently. If it’s too hard to get a union off the ground at your workplace, there are plenty of organizations you can join forces with. Check out the Algorithmic Justice League or Fight for the Future, which push for equitable and accountable tech. There are also grassroots groups like Stop Gen AI, which aims to organize both a resistance movement and a mutual aid program to help those who’ve lost work due to the AI rollout. You can also consider hyperlocal efforts, which have the benefit of creating community. One of the big ways those are showing up right now is in the fight against the massive buildout of energy-hungry data centers meant to power the AI boom.  “It’s where we have seen many people fighting back in their communities — and winning,” Myers West told me. “They’re fighting on behalf of their own communities, and working collectively and strategically to say, ‘We’re being handed a really raw deal here. And if you [the companies] are going to accrue all the benefits from this technology, you need to be accountable to the people on whom it’s being used.’” Already, local activists have blocked or delayed $64 billion worth of data center projects across the US, according to a study by Data Center Watch, a project run by AI research firm 10a Labs. Yes, some of those data centers may eventually get built anyway. Yes, fighting the uncritical adoption of AI can sometimes feel like you’re up against an undefeatable behemoth. But it helps to preempt discouragement if you take a step back to think about what it really looks like when social change is happening. In a new book, Somebody Should Do Something, three philosophers — Michael Brownstein, Alex Madva, and Daniel Kelly — show how anyone can help create social change. The key, they argue, is to realize that when we join forces with others, our actions can lead to butterfly effects:  Minor actions can set off cascades that lead, in a surprisingly short time, to major structural outcomes. This reflects a general feature of complex systems. Causal effects in such systems don’t always build on each other in a smooth or continuous way. Sometimes they build nonlinearly, allowing seemingly small events to produce disproportionately large changes.  The authors explain that, because society is a complex system, your actions aren’t a meaningless “drop in the bucket.” Adding water to a bucket is linear; each drop has equal impact. Complex systems behave more like heating water: Not every degree has the same effect, and the shift from 99°C to 100°C crosses a tipping point that triggers a phase change.  We all know the boiling point of water, but we don’t know the tipping point for changes in the social world. That means it’s going to be hard for you to tell, at any given moment, how close you are to creating a cascade of change. But that doesn’t mean change is not happening.  According to Harvard political scientist Erica Chenoweth’s research, if you want to achieve systemic social change, you need to mobilize 3.5 percent of the population around your cause. Though we have not yet seen AI-related protests on that scale, we do have data indicating the potential for a broad base. A full 50 percent of Americans are more concerned than excited about the rise of AI in daily life, according to a recent survey from the Pew Research Center. And 73 percent support robust regulation of AI, according to the Future of Life Institute.  So, even though you might feel alone in your workplace, there are people out there who share your concerns. Find your teammates. Come up with a positive vision for the future of tech. Then, fight for the future you want. Bonus: What I’m reading Microsoft’s announcement that it wants to build “humanist superintelligence” caught my eye. Whether you think that’s an oxymoron or not, I take it as a sign that at least some of the powerful players hear us when we say we want AI that solves real concrete problems for real flesh-and-blood people — not some fanciful AI god.  The Economist article “Meet the real screen addicts: the elderly” is so spot-on. When it comes to digital media, everyone is always worrying about The Youth, but I think not enough research has been devoted to the elderly, who are often positively glued to their devices.  Hallelujah, some AI researchers are finally adopting a pragmatic approach to the whole, “Can AI be conscious?” debate! I’ve long suspected that “conscious” is a pragmatic tool we use as a way of saying, “This thing should be in our moral circle,” so whether AI is conscious isn’t something we’ll discover — it’s something we’ll decide. 

Yurok tribal attorney chronicles family’s fight to save the Klamath River and a way of life

"Treat the earth, not as a resource, but as a relative," said Ashland resident Amy Bowers Cordalis, who has written a memoir about her family's generations-long efforts for the river that now flows freely.

As a University of Oregon student focused on politics and the environment, Amy Bowers Cordalis had every right to feel defeated in 2002 when she returned home and saw evidence of the largest salmon kill in the Klamath River.The lifelong fisherwoman and member of the Yurok Tribe learned the cause was avoidable: A federal order diverted water just as salmon were spawning. For generations, destructive dams, logging, mining and development had already impacted the ecosystem of the Klamath River, which once had the third largest salmon runs in all of the lower continental United States. Cordalis, then 22, decided to change course while she was in her boat, surveying the depth of the salmon die off.Now 45, the Ashland attorney, activist and environmental defender serves on the front lines of conservation. As lead lawyer for the Yurok Tribe, she was present at the signing of the agreement that in 2024 resulted in the Klamath River flowing freely from southern Oregon to Northern California for the first time in a century.The dismantling of four hydroelectric dams that had impacted ancestral lands, altered the ecology, degraded the water quality and disrupted once-prolific salmon runs is considered the world’s largest dam removal project.A month after the last dam was demolished, thousands of salmon, a cornerstone species for overall ecological health, began repopulating. “The salmon have come home,” Cordalis said. “We are starting to move back into balance.”In her just-released memoir, “The Water Remembers: My Indigenous Family’s Fight to Save a River and a Way of Life,” Cordalis tells the story of her family’s multigenerational struggle to protect the Klamath River and their legal successes to preserve the Yurok people’s sustainable relationship with nature. In 1973, her great-uncle Aawok Raymond Mattz forced the landmark Supreme Court case reaffirming the Yurok Tribe’s rights to land, water, fish and sovereignty. Cordalis devotes a chapter of her memoir to her great-grandmother Geneva’s protests in the 1970s, inspired by the Civil Rights movement, to end the Salmon Wars, the government’s crackdowns on tribal fishing rights.In 2019, Cordalis led the effort for the Yurok people to declare personhood rights for the Klamath River. For the first time, a North American river has legal right to flourish, free from human-caused climate change impacts and contamination.She also worked for the Yurok people to recover 73 square miles along the eastern side of the lower Klamath River, now known as Blue Creek Salmon Sanctuary and Yurok Tribal Community Forest.The area, logged for a century, was acquired over time by the environmental nonprofit Western Rivers Conservancy for $56 million. The transfer to the Yurok people in June is the largest single “land back” deal in California history.Cordalis continues to litigate to protect the rights of Indigenous people and the natural and cultural resources that are part of their identity and sovereignty. That includes salmon. She still works to save coho salmon, a listed Endangered Species Act species on the Klamath River. Through her former work as Yurok general counsel and an attorney at the Native American Rights Fund, and since 2020 as the executive director of the Ridges to Riffles Indigenous Conservation Group, Cordalis’ message is clear: Respect the earth. Listen to the rivers, protect the land.Treat the earth, Cordalis said, not as a resource, but as a relative. Changing courseAmy Bowers Cordalis and her siblings gillnet fishing at Brooks Riffle, Klamath River, 2023Little, Brown and CompanyIn 2002, Cordalis spent her summer break from college interning for Yurok Fisheries Department near her family’s ancestral home in the Northern California village of Rek-Woi.That September, she witnessed the salmon kill. Water diverted upstream to farmers and ranchers by federal orders had lowered the river flows, increased the water temperature and allowed diseases to spread to spawning salmon.Cordalis saw the salmon kill as ecocide, the end of a way of life for the Yurok people and destruction of their principles of respect, responsibility and reciprocity with all of creation. She vowed to fight through the courts, as her family had in the past. She earned a law degree at the University of Denver’s Sturm College of Law and became the Yurok Tribe’s general counsel.In 2020, she and other representatives of Native American communities with historic ties to the Klamath River faced the owner of the four hydroelectric dams: Berkshire Hathaway, one of the biggest and best known U.S. conglomerates.Its subsidiary, Berkshire Hathaway Energy, owns PacifiCorp, which operated the four Klamath River dams.The Indigenous-led coalition told the energy holding company’s executives they would never stop fighting for the river’s restoration. The meeting took place at Blue Creek, one of the most important tributaries on the Lower Klamath River and a salmon sanctuary with spiritual significance, recently returned to the Yurok Tribe.The coalition handed the executives a document that outlined the key terms and conditions of their proposed agreement. They talked about their proposal and then let the river speak for itself, according to Cordalis.The next business day, both parties were in discussion. In the end, the $550 million agreement to dismantle the aging dams cost less than it would to upgrade them to meet modern environmental standards.Cordalis said that the dam removal, one of the largest nature-based solution projects in the world thus far, can be replicated for environmental and economic gain.“When we choose to work together toward sustainability, we can create different outcomes that are better for the planet, better for people,” Cordalis said. “We don’t have to accept that the only path to prosperity is industrializing nature,” she said. “We can adjust our practices, find nature-based solutions” and continue to enjoy a modern lifestyle, while working to heal nature.This is a historic time, she said.“We are at a tipping point and what we do matters,” she said. Clean air and water, and natural, nutritious food are needed for life to survive.Ripple effects Cordalis’ work and motivations are captured in the 2024 Patagonia Films documentary, “Undammed: Amy Bowers Cordalis and the fight to free the Klamath,” which plays on a screen inside the Yurok Country Visitor Center in downtown Klamath, a small coastal city in California.Cordalis has been recognized by various groups for her involvement with the largest river restoration project in history. She received the United Nation’s highest environmental honor, UN Champion of the Earth, and was named 2024 Time magazine’s 100 most influential climate leaders. In October, she was announced as one of 10 change makers in the 20th L’Oreal Paris Women of Worth philanthropic program.The $25,000 award, given for her climate action work that fuses law, policy and Indigenous knowledge, will help Ridges to Riffles Indigenous Conservation Group, the nonprofit she co-founded in 2022 with Karuk Tribal member Molli Myers, continue to work on life-changing restoration projects. “The L’Oreal Paris Woman of Worth award is a tremendous opportunity because it will uplift our work and expand our partnerships,” Cordalis said. “The power of being in partnership, collaborating and combining resources and efforts, expands and strengthens the scope of all of our work.”She said one of her greatest joys is hearing about people restoring nature in their community and the worldwide “ripple effects” of those efforts.Cordalis titled her book “The Water Remembers” because the river and people remember the salmon. “We have ancestral knowledge about what it was like to live on a healthy planet,” she said. When the Klamath River’s ecosystem started collapsing, “that put us into this culture of scarcity,” she said. “Rebuilding ecosystem resiliency lets us recover from the colonial period and move toward a culture of abundance.”Today, tribal members are restoring the Klamath River’s almost 400 miles of historic salmon spawning habitat. Revegetation efforts include hand planting native seeds, trees, shrubs and grasses. “When we rebuild salmon runs, we help the ocean, the river, humans and all the creatures who are dependent upon the salmon,” Cordalis said.She writes in her book that the Yurok people are observing the river healing by spending time on it, listening to it.“And when we start using nature-based solutions to restore ecosystems those solutions work their magic,” she said, “and the salmon come home in a blink of an eye.”If you purchase a product or register for an account through a link on our site, we may receive compensation. By using this site, you consent to our User Agreement and agree that your clicks, interactions, and personal information may be collected, recorded, and/or stored by us and social media and other third-party partners in accordance with our Privacy Policy.

COP30 has big plans to save the rainforest. Indigenous activists say it’s not enough

“We need the government to recognize our climate authority and our role as guardians of biodiversity.”

On Friday, at least 100 Indigenous protestors blocked the entrance to the 30th Annual United Nations Climate Change Conference, or COP30, in Belém, Brazil. The action comes on the heels of an action earlier this week when hundreds of Indigenous peoples marched into the conference, clashing with security, and pushing their way through metal detectors while calling on negotiators to protect their lands. These actions brought Indigenous voices to the front steps of this year’s global climate summit — where discussions now, and historically, have generally excluded Indigenous peoples and perspectives. World leaders have attempted to acknowledge this omission: Brazil’s president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva said Indigenous voices should “inspire” COP30, and the host country announced two new plans to protect tropical forests and enshrine Indigenous people’s land rights. But demonstrations like this week’s show even these measures are designed with little input from those affected, garnering criticism. Preserving the Amazon rainforest is critical to mitigating climate change and protecting biodiversity. How this is done is one of the key issues being raised at COP30. Upon the kickoff of the conference, Brazil announced the Tropical Forests Forever Facility, or TFFF, part of a plan to create new financial incentives to protect tropical forest lands in as many as 74 countries, including its own.  The Tropical Forests Forever Facility has been touted as one of Brazil’s new marquee policies for combating the climate crisis. It also potentially represents an opportunity for Brazil to position itself as a leader on environmental conservation and Indigenous rights. The country has had a historically poor track record on rainforest conservation: By some estimates, 13 percent of the original Amazon forest has been lost to deforestation. In Brazil, much of that happens because of industrial agriculture — specifically, cattle ranching and soy production. Research has shown 70 percent of Amazon land cleared is used for cattle pastures. Brazil is the world’s lead exporter of beef and soy, with China as its top consumer for both products.  The TFFF marks an attempt to flip the economics of extractive industry — by paying governments every year their deforestation rate is 0.5 percent or lower. It also attempts to highlight the role Indigenous communities already play in stewarding these lands, although critics say it does not go far enough on either goal.  Under the TFFF, which will be hosted by the World Bank, Brazil seeks to raise $25 billion in investments from other countries as well as philanthropic organizations — and then take that money and grow it four-fold in the bond market. The goal is to create a $125 billion investment fund to be used to reward governments for preserving their standing tropical forest lands. One condition of receiving this funding is that governments must then pass on 20 percent to Indigenous people and local communities. Security personnel clash with Indigenous people and students as they storm the venue during COP30 in Belem, Para State, Brazil, on November 11, 2025. Olga Leiria / AFP via Getty Images The idea underlying the fund is that the TFFF could make leaving tropical forests alone more financially lucrative than tearing them down. In the global climate finance market, there aren’t currently any mechanisms that value “tropical forests and rainforests as the global public good that they are,” said Toerris Jaeger, director of the Rainforest Foundation Norway. These ecosystems “need to be maintained and maintained standing and that is what TFFF does,” he added. But critics say that TFFF merely represents another attempt to tie the value of these critical ecosystems to financial markets. “You cannot put a price on a conserved forest because life cannot be measured, and the Amazon is life for the thousands of beings who inhabit it and depend on it to exist,” said Toya Manchineri, an Indigenous leader from the Manchineri people of Brazil. Manchineri is also the general coordinator of the Coordination of Indigenous Organizations of the Brazilian Amazon. He added that setting aside 20 percent of TFFF funds for Indigenous communities is a good start, but that figure could be much higher.  Other COP30 attendees have criticized the plan for trying to fight the profit-driven industries that lead to deforestation with a profit motive. “The TFFF isn’t a climate proposal, but it’s another false solution to the planetary crises of biodiversity loss, forest loss, and climate collapse,” said Mary Lou Malig, policy director of the Global Forest Coalition. “It’s another way to profit off the problems that these same actors like the big banks and powerful governments and corporations actually created.”  But the performance of the TFFF is contingent on market fluctuations, risk, and the global economy’s health each year. How much governments — and Indigenous peoples — receive each year depends on how well the market does that year.  Manchineri added that the global climate policy to protect tropical forests should do more to recognize the role that Indigenous peoples play in defending it from illegal land grabs that drive deforestation. These communities “will continue to protect” the rainforest, said Manchineri, “with or without a fund. But we need the government to recognize our climate authority and our role as guardians of biodiversity.”  Prior to COP30, Brazil and nine other tropical countries joined the Intergovernmental Land Tenure Commitment, or ILTC, a global initiative to recognize Indigenous land tenure and rights to defend against deforestation and provide a potential backstop on the ground to support efforts like the TFFF. According to Juan Carlos Jintiach, the executive secretary of the Global Alliance of Territorial Communities, this commitment and the accompanying $1.8 billion Forest and Land Tenure Pledge that will support these land recognition efforts are “most welcome.” However, meaningful progress among participating countries entails establishing monitoring instruments that account for and ensure Indigenous peoples see the funds and see their rights recognized.  “We cannot have climate adaptation, climate mitigation, or climate justice without territorial land rights and the recognition and demarcation of indigenous territory,” said Zimyl Adler, a senior policy advocate on forests, land, and climate finance at Friends of the Earth U.S.  But evidence of that recognition is scarce. Under the Paris Agreement, signatory states are required to submit climate action plans called Nationally Determined Contributions, or NDCs. A recent report from global experts that reviewed NDCs from 85 countries found that only 20 of those countries referenced the rights of Indigenous peoples and that only five mentioned Free, Prior, and Informed Consent — an international consultation principle that allows Indigenous Peoples to provide, withhold, or withdraw their consent at any time in projects that impact their communities or territories.  “It was a real missed opportunity to strengthen those commitments to land rights and tenure,” said Kate Dooley, a researcher at the University of Melbourne and an author of the Land Gap report.  As the conference will continue for another week, the protests have raised questions about the distinction between climate talks and action, and whether this year’s COP will translate into the latter for Indigenous communities who see deforestation and weak land tenure rights as immediate threats to their lives and homes.  “We don’t eat money. We want our territory free,” said Cacique Gilson, a Tupinmbá leader who participated in one protest. “But the business of oil exploration, mineral exploitation, and logging continues.”  This story was originally published by Grist with the headline COP30 has big plans to save the rainforest. Indigenous activists say it’s not enough on Nov 14, 2025.

This massive power line was supposed to help Oregon residents. Now it'll likely serve a data center

The 300-mile B2H transmission project was approved to benefit hundreds of thousands of Oregon residents but will now will likely serve a data center

The Oregon Public Utility Commission has reaffirmed its approval of a nearly 300-mile electrical transmission line that’s set to run from Idaho and carry power across five Oregon counties – despite concerns it will primarily serve a private data center rather than the public.The commission on Thursday declined to rescind a certificate that authorizes Idaho Power, the developer and co-owner of the Boardman-to-Hemingway project – B2H for short – to seize private land via eminent domain. Regulators maintained the line remains in the public interest. The decision came in response to a petition filed this summer by the nonprofit Stop B2H Coalition and its co-chair, Irene Gilbert, a retired government employee who has challenged the project for years over its impact on Oregon’s rural landscapes.The petition said the certificate should be revoked because PacifiCorp, the transmission line’s co-owner, suddenly switched plans and told regulators this spring it no longer intends to sell power from the line to Oregon customers but rather to a private industrial user. The utility has declined to confirm the customer is a data center. But the power-hungry facilities have been expanding rapidly in Eastern Oregon, and few other businesses demand the amount of energy the new transmission line would carry. Gilbert and her coalition argued on Thursday that the change in plans constitutes “the abuse of eminent domain” and that “fundamental public purpose has been abandoned for private gain.” The commission had issued the certificate in 2023 because PacifiCorp – which owns 55% of the Boardman-to-Hemingway transmission line – had demonstrated the line would serve its 805,000 customers – including the 620,000 customers in Oregon, most of them on the west side of the state. It would also boost the utility’s transmission capacity between its eastern and western service regions, which encompass six states.The utility had previously told regulators that the line would decrease customer costs by about $1.7 billion through 2042 by allowing it to move more power with greater efficiency.This spring, however, the utility suddenly announced it had changed course. It told regulators it would not be able to send the power west to its Oregon customers because it was unable to procure firm transmission rights from the Bonneville Power Administration due to delays in that agency’s transmission development process. Instead, it said it would sell the power to an industrial customer. “Allowing a project justified for broad public benefit to proceed primarily for the private commercial gain of a single corporation fundamentally undermines Oregon’s constitutional requirements for eminent domain,” said Jim Kreider, an environmental activist from La Grande who co-chairs the coalition with Gilbert. “This is an unjustified taking of public property under private pretenses.” What’s more, Kreider and Gilbert said, PacifiCorp knew it would not be able to serve Oregon customers with power from the line months before it applied for the certificate from state regulators. They said BPA had notified PacifiCorp in October 2022 about the delays, yet the company failed to disclose that information to regulators and applied for the certificate claiming the line would benefit hundreds of thousands of residents. Other advocacy groups – including the Sierra Club, Mobilizing Climate Action Together, Renewable Northwest and the Northwest Energy Coalition – that support grid expansion in the region to advance the state’s climate goals told regulators they were also frustrated that the B2H line may not be used as it was intended and justified by the state-issued certificate. The line, ​​now under construction after two decades of reviews and lawsuits, will be among the largest and one of the few transmission projects built in the Pacific Northwest in recent years – despite a severe shortage of transmission capacity in the region and a growing backlog of renewable energy projects waiting to connect to the grid. The groups maintain that the certificate was premised upon the transmission line’s “broad public benefits, not the needs of a single private entity.” Allowing PacifiCorp to change course would “violate the spirit and legal framework under which the line was approved by this commission,” Alex Houston, an attorney with the Green Energy Institute who represents the groups, told commissioners. It would also “harm Oregon customers and set a dangerous precedent wherein the justifications supporting issuance of a certificate may summarily be disregarded once the utility gets approval,” he said. Instead of revoking the certificate, Houston asked the commission to enforce it, including by issuing financial penalties of up to $10,000 for each day PacifiCorp fails to comply. The commission did not take up the suggestion. Commissioners said the line was still needed, that the shift in use was part of the planning process, and that the line might still serve more Oregon customers in the future. “A transmission line is built with one vision in mind, and as the world evolves, it gets used in a multitude of ways across the timeframe that it’s on the landscape,” said commission chair Letha Tawney. Kim Herb, the agency’s utility strategy and planning manager, admitted that staff were concerned with PacifiCorp’s lack of transparency, but said that didn’t justify revoking the certificate. The company’s change of plans isn’t conclusive, she added, and “serving even one large customer may still meet the statutory standard for public use.”In addition, Herb said, Idaho Power had shown the need for additional transmission capacity to serve its electricity load and maintain grid reliability, which satisfied the line’s public use criteria. Idaho Power serves only about 20,000 Oregon customers. Those customers live in a part of the state that has seen neither growth in the number of residents nor an increase in their energy demand, aside from the data centers moving in. Gilbert argued the utilities have inflated the energy need and that data center operators might opt for local or on-site energy solutions—such as microgrids capable of operating independently from the traditional grid—rather than relying on costly transmission lines and enduring long interconnection delays. Data centers have already adopted or proposed similar strategies in other states, including battery storage, natural gas turbines and even small modular nuclear reactors.If that were to happen, residential customers would be stuck paying for the cost of B2H, she said. “It’s basically setting up a situation where it’s questionable whether the projections regarding the number of large users are actually going to occur. So who will end up paying for these are the residents” Gilbert said. Idaho Power launched construction on the B2H line this summer, cutting several access roads and laying foundations for 100 of the 1,200-plus transmission towers planned in Morrow and Malheur counties. The plan to finish the line in 2027 is still on track. Jocelyn Pease, an attorney who represents Idaho Power, told commissioners the utility has obtained 95% of the access rights to begin construction. PacifiCorp attorney Zach Rogala said the utility might still serve Oregon customers “if we’re successful in securing transmission rights in the future.”If you purchase a product or register for an account through a link on our site, we may receive compensation. By using this site, you consent to our User Agreement and agree that your clicks, interactions, and personal information may be collected, recorded, and/or stored by us and social media and other third-party partners in accordance with our Privacy Policy.

A Flotilla Kicks off the People's Summit for Activists at UN Climate Talks

As United Nation climate talks get underway in Belem, a different kind of conference is kicking off: the People’s Summit, a gathering of activists, organizers, environmentalists and Indigenous groups from around the world

BELEM, Brazil (AP) — As United Nations climate talks rolled on Wednesday at the elaborate new venues built for the summit, many of the activists eager to shape the talks took to the water.Carried by scores of boats large and small, a vast group whooped and laughed, smiled and wept. Some splashed canoe paddles through the bay where a northern section of the Amazon rainforest meets the Atlantic Ocean. Others hugged old friends. They pressed their foreheads together or held hands or stood solemnly in moments of prayer and reflection.They were there to celebrate a community from around the world at a gathering of activists, organizers, environmentalists and Indigenous groups, outside the halls where world leaders are discussing climate change for the next two weeks. Their joy came after a brief but tense moment the night before when protesters broke through security barricades at the main conference venue, slightly injuring two security guards, according to the U.N.Many emphasized the importance of making the voice of the people heard after years of these talks being held in countries where civil society is not free to demonstrate.“The Amazon for us is the space of life,” said Jhajayra Machoa, an A'l Kofan First Nation of Ecuador member of A Wisdom Keepers Delegation, who helped paddle one of the canoes. “We carry the feeling and emotions of everything lived in this place, and what we want is to remember. Remember where we are from and where we’re going and what we want." Pressing world leaders to keep those who suffer most in mind The people who are attending the Conference of the Parties, or COP30, have a wide range of hopes for the outcome. This year is different than in past years, because leaders aren't expected to sign one big agreement at the end of it; instead, organizers and analysts have said it's about getting specifics to execute on past promises to act on climate change. “When we’re bridging what’s happening in the mind, when we talk about policy, we need to bridge to the heart, and touch our spirit when we do the work,” said Whaia, another member of A Wisdom Keepers Delegation, a Ngāti Kahungunu woman from New Zealand. “It takes both arms, both branches of the tree to really be strong, to be able to find our resilience in this space.” Activists welcome greater freedom to speak out The ability to express thoughts and feelings freely is a welcome respite for many arriving in Brazil after several years of these talks being held in countries where governments imposed limitations on free speech and demonstrations. The evolution that needs to happen for the world to take action is "not in the halls of the U.N. COP, but it’s in the streets and it is with our people,” said Jacob Johns, an Akimel O'Otham and Hopi member of A Wisdom Keepers Delegation who witnessed the security breach. Now is the time to come together, respect each other and reevaluate the systems that govern the planet, said Pooven Moodley of the Earthrise Collective, which brings together activists from different traditions. For him, the canoes seen in Wednesday's gathering are a metaphor for the situation the world is in with climate change.“The current canoe we’re in is falling apart, it’s leaking, people are being pushed over, and ultimately we’re heading for a massive waterfall. So the question is, what do we do, because we’re in that reality,” Moodley said. “We have to continue to defend the territories and the ecosystems that we can, but while we do that, we launch a new canoe.”The Associated Press’ climate and environmental coverage receives financial support from multiple private foundations. AP is solely responsible for all content. Find AP’s standards for working with philanthropies, a list of supporters and funded coverage areas at AP.org.Copyright 2025 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Photos You Should See – Oct. 2025

Suggested Viewing

Join us to forge
a sustainable future

Our team is always growing.
Become a partner, volunteer, sponsor, or intern today.
Let us know how you would like to get involved!

CONTACT US

sign up for our mailing list to stay informed on the latest films and environmental headlines.

Subscribers receive a free day pass for streaming Cinema Verde.
Thank you! Your submission has been received!
Oops! Something went wrong while submitting the form.