What It's Like to Live in a Small Town Polluted by a Cryptomine
Right next to the town of Dresden, New York, lies Greenidge Generation, a power plant turned bitcoin mine that operates 24/7 and emitted more than 400,000 tons of carbon dioxide in 2024, in an otherwise immaculate region known for its agriculture and tourism. Local environmental advocacy groups have been engaged in a never-ending lawsuit with the cryptomine over its air pollution, which they claim isn't consistent with New York's 2019 climate law, the Climate Leadership and Community Protection Act, or CLCPA. The CLCPA commits the state to 100 percent zero-emission electricity by 2040 and to being entirely off fossil fuels by 2050.
'We have deep ties to the region, and I've always considered it the one constant I've ever had in an otherwise pretty tumultuous life, which is why I feel so strongly about protecting it,' said Seneca Lake resident Yvonne Taylor, who is a member of Seneca Lake Guardian, one of the groups represented in the lawsuit.
The Finger Lakes is just one of many regions across the country that have been impacted by nearby bitcoin mines. In Granbury, Texas, residents are suing Marathon Digital Holdings, alleging that noise pollution from its bitcoin mine is causing hearing loss, migraines, and vertigo. In Montana, cryptomining is extending the life of a coal-fired power plant as greenhouse gases continue to rise in one of the state's poorest counties. In Pennsylvania, an environmental group is suing a bitcoin mine for allegedly burning waste coal and old tires to power its operations, polluting the region with harmful chemicals. Nationwide, bitcoin mines—the majority of which are powered by dirty fossil fuels—use 2 percent of the country's electricity and, according to one recent estimate, may be consuming as much water per year as the city of Washington, D.C.
Under President Donald Trump, who has promised to make the United States the 'crypto capital of the planet,' bitcoin's impact on the climate and communities may only grow. In the 2024 election, the cryptocurrency industry spent millions lobbying in support of Trump and other pro-crypto politicians, simultaneously ousting some of Washington's strongest crypto hard-liners. Bolstered by millions from investors, Trump has become a champion for the decentralized currency he previously called a 'scam,' vowing to ensure all remaining bitcoin will be 'made in the USA.' On March 6, the president signed an executive order to establish a Strategic Bitcoin Reserve, creating a government-owned stockpile of bitcoin that can be released in times of crisis.
The guardrails are down. Whereas Joe Biden and his administration favored more aggressive oversight of the industry—vetoing a number of crypto-friendly bills, proposing a strict cryptomining tax, and ordering the government to examine the risks of digital currency—Trump and some 300 members of Congress welcome crypto, particularly bitcoin, with open arms. All signs point to an influx of mines in the coming years.
'I think this is gonna mean increased impacts on local communities that we've seen across the country,' Mandy DeRoche, the deputy managing attorney at the Clean Energy Program at Earthjustice, said of Trump's election.
Bitcoin is a particular type of cryptocurrency known as 'proof of work,' or PoW, that is incredibly energy intensive to produce. To access bitcoin, miners use thousands of individual computers, known as rigs, that race to solve complex puzzles required to receive new coins. Rigs operate 24/7 and require a massive amount of electricity and water to operate, as well as industrial-size fans to stay cool. Thousands of fans going at once is loud, to put it lightly.
In 2020, Cyndie Roberson and her husband bought their dream cabin on the Hiwassee River in Cherokee County, North Carolina. Like the Finger Lakes, Cherokee County is a picturesque, serene region filled with vast forests and lakes, a refuge Roberson had always dreamed of settling in. But just a year after she moved, she and her neighbors began to hear what sounded like a plane sitting on a tarmac waiting for take off. 'It's like a jet engine that never leaves,' Roberson said. 'It is a low-frequency hum, and that low frequency, I've learned, is far more irritating to human beings. It does something inside your brain.'
A growing body of research shows that chronic noise triggers a number of reactions in the brain and body, which can lead to increased risks of cardiovascular disease. Roberson and her neighbors eventually discovered the noise was coming from a bitcoin mine owned by the California-based company PrimeBlock, in the nearby town of Murphy. She says they weren't aware the mine was starting up but were immediately affected by it.
Forced to endure the tangible impacts of a volatile digital currency that benefits just a handful of crypto magnates, Roberson and her neighbors educated themselves on bitcoin and fought to shut down PrimeBlock's operation. Roberson co-founded the advocacy group Cherokee County Citizens Against Crypto Mining, spoke at public hearings, and compiled more than 3,000 signatures for a petition to ban cryptomines in the area. Her interactions with the company's employees were limited but memorable.
She recalled one interaction with a PrimeBlock employee. 'We're going to use seven times more power than that Walmart does. Heck, we might even use more than the whole county,' Roberson recalled him saying. PrimeBlock did not respond to multiple requests for comment for this story.
In North Carolina, there are few reporting requirements for cryptomines, and PrimeBlock isn't a publicly traded company, so there is little data on its energy use and emissions. Nationwide, however, bitcoin mines used an estimated 70 terawatt-hours of electricity in 2023—more than the state of New Jersey used that year, according to a report from the Department of Energy. It's a particularly concerning stat given that, amid the accelerating climate crisis, electricity demand is rising for the first time in 20 years and our existing grid is vastly underprepared.
Cherokee County Citizens Against Crypto Mining's advocacy efforts eventually led to a ban on all new cryptomines in Murphy, North Carolina, where PrimeBlock is located. It was a huge win for the future of the county, but existing mines like PrimeBlock were permitted to keep operating.
Driven by stress, Roberson eventually sold her dream cabin in North Carolina, as did the five other co-founders of the group. 'We are the fortunate ones, because we can flee,' Roberson said.
In 2021, the U.S. saw a digital gold rush after China, previously the world's largest producer of crypto, banned cryptomining in 2021. Miners are particularly drawn to regions like Texas and Georgia in the South and upstate New York in the Northeast, where there is plenty of space and cheap energy access. In just a few years, America's global cryptomine share went from 3.5 percent to 38 percent—far from Trump's 100 percent goal but enough to produce 1.5 million tons of CO2 annually.
Bitcoin miners often enter communities with the same age-old tale as other polluting industries: the promise of jobs, economic prosperity, and a renewed sense of purpose for the area. But a lot of bitcoin mines are fully automated, and the facilities themselves staff few people other than the odd security guard or administrative aide.
Taylor in Seneca Lake says her interactions with Greenidge Generation have been exhausting. The organization she's part of, Seneca Lake Guardian, has been in a turbulent legal battle with the company.
In June 2022, the New York Department of Environmental Conservation, or DEC, denied Greenidge's application to renew its air permit under the Clean Air Act Title V, considering 'the dramatic increase in greenhouse gas emissions from the facility since the passage of the Climate Act.' The denial was upheld twice after Greenidge appealed the decision.
'Rather than solely providing energy to the state's electricity grid, the power plant now primarily provides energy behind-the-meter to support the demands of Greenidge's energy-intensive proof of work cryptocurrency mining operations,' the DEC said in a statement at the time.
In August 2024, Greenidge filed a lawsuit against the DEC in the State Supreme Court of Yates County, alleging the agency 'weaponized' the CLCPA to deny its air permit. The environmental law group Earthjustice won a motion to intervene in the case on behalf of the local environmental groups, including Seneca Lake Guardian.
The Yates County judge ruled that the DEC does in fact have the power to deny air permits to operations inconsistent with the CLCPA, but that the agency's ruling must be supported by justified analysis, allowing Greenidge to return to the DEC and present further evidence in defense of its operations.
'The Climate Act did not give DEC the power to rewrite a statute and unilaterally decide for themselves the value of working-class New Yorkers' jobs,' Greenidge Generation president Dale Irwin said in an email statement to The New Republic. 'When actual judges review the issues—not advocacy groups—the facts and law actually govern, and our record is clear: we comply with state and federal law. They unlawfully tried to bring about a virtue-signaling result: to shut down a facility with no material impact on reaching statewide climate goals, and one that actually offered significant emissions mitigation that the state flatly ignored. Our facility shows this region can create future-focused jobs and economic activity, fully consistent with the Climate Act's aims.'
Greenidge filed an emergency request to delay the DEC hearing, which Earthjustice opposed. The case is ongoing, but Greenidge is permitted to operate as long as the DEC hearing remains delayed.
'It has been absolutely exhausting and infuriating to deal with a company that refuses to accept the law and continues to fight,' Taylor said. 'As long as they've got the money to keep delaying, they can continue operating and continuing to harm not only our community but our climate statewide.'
Just two hours from Seneca Lake, an almost identical case is unfolding in North Tonawanda, New York. In 2021, a Canadian cryptomining company, Digihost Technology, bought an old peaking power plant and turned it into a bitcoin mine just a mile from the center of town. Digihost's presentation to residents and the town council was nothing new: It promised jobs and economic benefits. One local official said turning away Digihost would be 'like saying no to Google,' recalled Deb Gondek, who lives near the cryptomine.
The mine has led to increased electricity costs for residents, local air pollution, and never-ending noise that forces some residents to wear headphones day and night. Earthjustice is intervening on similar grounds (that the sale of the peaker plant is inconsistent with CLCPA targets), but this case will likely face a similar cycle of never-ending appeals. Digihost did not respond to requests for comment for this story.
On January 23, Trump passed an executive order 'to support the responsible growth and use of digital assets, blockchain technology, and related technologies across all sectors of the economy,' which includes the ability to mine cryptocurrency without prosecution.
Some states have already passed the Blockchain Basics Act, a bill introduced by the dark money, pro-crypto group the Satoshi Action Fund, which has connections to the Koch Network and the Heritage Foundation, The Lever reported last month. The bill essentially strips the ability of local authorities and the public utilities commission to regulate cryptomining—a vital tool communities have in protecting themselves when federal regulation is weak.
The Strategic Bitcoin Reserve Trump has now ordered is another Satoshi Action Fund–backed idea. As The Lever pointed out, the reserve helps legitimize bitcoin and could ultimately lead to a massive price boost at the expense of taxpayers and the climate. State bitcoin reserves have also been proposed in Ohio, Florida, Alabama, North Dakota, and others.
Given all the pro-crypto actions the Trump administration has already taken, Gondek of North Tonawanda says local action and widespread education matters more than ever. 'We can't expect protection from the federal government. We're going to protect ourselves,' she said.
Roberson, who is now advocating against cryptomines in her new home of Gilmer County, Georgia, agrees, and says she hopes that the political divide doesn't prevent communities from working together on what she calls an 'absolutely nonpartisan' issue. 'Nationally, it's going to get worse,' she said. 'But in our hometowns and our counties, maybe in our states, we can change things.'
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Los Angeles Times
3 days ago
- Los Angeles Times
When the going gets tough for L.A., our city rallies like no other
Los Angeles has portals to its future sprinkled across the city: Silicon Beach. Hollywood. Public schools. The ruins of Pacific Palisades. What goes on inside at City Hall and the Hall of Administration. But why go to those obvious choices when trying to figure out which way L.A. is going when the best answer is right in front of Platinum Showgirls LA? I parked next to the downtown gentleman's club on a recent weekday morning to do just that. A hulking security guard stood outside the entrance, the 101 Freeway buzzing nearby. So were the street vendors setting up for another day of business, damn the migra agents driving in and out of the Metropolitan Detention Center just up Commercial Street. But I wasn't there for the sights or sounds — or what was going on inside Platinum Showgirls. I was there to scour the sidewalk for a plaque dedicated to a tree. For centuries, a six-story-tall sycamore stood near this slice of land and saw empires come and go. Indigenous people from across Southern California and beyond gathered under its shade for special councils and to meet with its caretakers, the residents of the village of Yaanga. It was an awe-inspiring sight for the pobladores who came from Mexico in 1789 and set up El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles in the name of the Spanish crown. The sycamore — now bearing the name El Aliso — appears as a towering black splotch in the first known photo of Los Angeles, shot in the early 1860s when the city was in the process of turning from a Mexican village into an American town. When El Aliso was finally chopped down in 1895, felled by brewery owners who inadvertently killed the giant after cutting off too many limbs and paving over its roots, residents took chips from it as a memento mori of sorts. But El Aliso never truly died. It lived on in the history books but especially in the memory of the descendants of the people who had seen the sycamore grow from a seed to a giant. In 2019, members of the Kizh-Gabrieleño Band of Mission Indians were present as representatives from the city of Los Angeles laid a bronze plaque on the sidewalk at the northeast corner of Commercial and Vignes streets — in the shadow of what was then a different strip club — to commemorate El Aliso. 'While its physical presence is gone,' the plaque stated, 'the oral history handed down through the generations has kept its beauty and story alive in the Kizh people.' I was looking to read those words for myself, to touch them and the etching of El Aliso that hovered above the dedication. To take inspiration from this fundamental part of L.A.'s past in hopes of divining its future. But when I finally figured out where the plaque was supposed to be, I found a shallow slot strewn with trash and the remnants of the adhesive that once kept the plaque in its place. Leave it to 2025 for thieves to make off with a memorial to L.A.'s mother tree. The fires. The raids. Housing inequality. Homelessness. Cost of living. Trump's never-ending war against L.A. anything. Is the Big One around the corner? Probably. Nothing seems to be going right in Lost Angeles right now. Trump says it. Too many residents feel it. Too many former Angelenos scream it. How can one possibly even think about a better future when the present is so bad? How can one even think about any future when the current outlook seems so bleak? But as I walked back to my car, an answer occurred to me that I wasn't expecting to be so hopeful. Before I joined The Times in 2019, I never had any real interest or investment in L.A. Oh, I visited family and friends and paid some attention to the political scene from my native Anaheim. Went to UCLA for graduate school, haunted the Sunset Strip and Thai Town for rock en español shows in my cub reporter days. But L.A. was just … L.A. Huge. Cool. Really diverse. But special? No more so than any other great world city. I never felt the metropolis up the 5 to be a den of grossness like too many of my fellow Orange Countians still think it is. It also never called to me as a promised land like it did to my creative O.C. friends, either. I generally rooted for L.A., but its future meant nothing to me. My opinion obviously changed as I began to cover it as a columnist starting in 2020 and tried to commit the layout and vibe of the city to my mind. One of the first things that struck me in a way I never anticipated was how precarious everyone felt their lives to be. Oh, I had read enough Joan Didion, Mike Davis, Nathaneal West and other writers to not be too surprised by this. But seeing it manifested was something else, and it made a lot of things about the city finally click. From the Westside to the Eastside, from Wilmington through South L.A. and all the way to the San Fernando Valley, I met person after person who acted and lived as if what they had scraped for themselves was at risk of disappearing in an instant, in the most disastrous fashion imaginable. I initially thought this betrayed an insecurity in the Angeleno soul, but then I realized it was something worse. If anyone's L.A. dream could crumble at any moment, that meant you had to defend it at any cost — and especially at the expense of everyone else. The more I talked to people and studied L.A. history, the more this outsider felt that the idea of fighting for the dream was what created a famously segregated city that too often erupts, whether electorally or otherwise. In an era where stratification is worse than ever and the federal government has declared war on various fronts — legal, psychological, financial — the L.A. of the past can't be the guiding light for the L.A. of the future. The city might have grown and operated as 19 suburbs in search of a metropolis — as Aldous Huxley infamously wrote — through most of the 20th century, but it's time to act like a united front if we're going to successfully navigate the rest of the 21st. And the rallying cry should be what we're going through right now, what L.A. has weathered again and again: Disaster. Because when the going gets tough for L.A., the city rallies like only it can. Americans should see this resilience and the subsequent spur of creativity and hope as a blueprint on how to fight back and not just survive, but thrive better than ever. Nothing has proved this more than our current year, with two catastrophes that would have buckled, if not outright destroyed, other cities. The Palisades and Eaton fires in January were infernos of biblical dimensions. People died, houses were incinerated, neighborhoods were eradicated. The suffering will continue for years, if not decades. Residents know their past can never be recaptured — and yet they continue to rebuild for whatever's next. Angelenos could've stayed to themselves in the aftermath, but they chose not to. They choose not to. The rest of L.A. has stood up to help survivors through financial donations and clothing and food drives and benefits that continue and whatever folks in the Palisades and Altadena need. At one of the city's darkest hours, Los Angeles shone brighter than ever. I write this columna during a long deportation summer unleashed on L.A. and beyond by a native son of Santa Monica in what amounts to a racist revanchist snit. Even a generation ago, large swaths of L.A. would have been cheering on the raids. But today's L.A. isn't having it. As with the fires, fundraisers and mutual aid societies and neighborhood watch groups have sprouted. The city, from Mayor Karen Bass to street vendors, knows that it's up against an Orwellian apparatus that wants us to collapse — and that L.A. will win. Because L.A. always wins. We might not know how the victory will look, but we know it'll happen. See how I use 'we'? Because while I plan to forever live in Orange County, I want to be a part of this future L.A. — an area, a people that teaches the rest of the United States how we'll triumph as calamities of all types seem to crash down on this country with increasing regularity. All of the stories and columns in this package are about that, from housing to fires, disasters to palm trees, transportation to climate change and beyond. No one thinks it's going to be easy — if anything, it's probably going to be harder than ever. But everyone expects victory. The miracle of L.A. has gone too far for it to fail. Which takes me back to El Aliso. I haven't read anything about the theft of its plaque, so I'm not sure when it happened. But people will read this and be upset. People will do something to mark El Aliso's existence in front of a gentleman's club near the 101 Freeway once more. That means El Aliso will continue to live — maybe as a plaque, maybe as a hologram, maybe as something even grander. It can't die, because that means we will. It must live, because that means so will the rest of us. L.A. is frequently seen as a place of destruction, where the past is bulldozed and forgotten and then trivialized and romanticized. But the Native American tribes that the Spaniards tried to eradicate are still here. The Latinos that Manifest Destiny tried to vanquish are now nearly half of the population of this most American of cities. L.A. will survive whatever happens next. We will figure it out. We always do. There's no other way. There's no other option.
Yahoo
5 days ago
- Yahoo
Medical community heartbroken after fatal plane crash on Navajo Nation
Deadly Plane Crash Arizona ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. (AP) — Federal investigators on Wednesday were trying to piece together what caused a medical transport plane to crash on the Navajo Nation in northern Arizona, killing the four people on board and leaving the medical community in neighboring New Mexico heartbroken. The two pilots, flight nurse and paramedic who were onboard were based out of Albuquerque and had worked with hospitals throughout the area. While authorities had yet to release their names, colleagues and friends shared condolences and prayers on social media. Many shared details about the crew's dedication to patients and the incredible void left by the tragedy. The crew was on its way to pick up a patient from the federal Indian Health Service hospital in Chinle when the plane crashed near the airport there, Navajo authorities said. The plan was to return to Albuquerque. The Beechcraft King Air 300 was owned by CSI Aviation, which said in a statement it was devastated and that the four were more than just colleagues. 'Their courage, care, and dedication will never be forgotten,' the company said. 'Our hearts are with their families, friends, and loved ones.' According to CSI Aviation's website, the nationally accredited carrier never had an accident or incident and never had any FAA sanctions. It provides medical flights in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado and South Dakota. Medical transports by air from the Navajo Nation are common because most hospitals are small and do not offer advanced or trauma care. The Chinle airport is one of a handful of airports that the tribe owns and operates on the vast 27,000-square-mile (70,000-square-kilometer) reservation that stretches into Arizona, New Mexico and Utah — the largest land base of any Native American tribe. Aviation safety consultant Jeff Guzzetti, who is a former NTSB and FAA crash investigator, said it is difficult to say what caused this crash in a remote area like Chinle because so few details are readily available. The high altitude of Chinle, which sits just over 5,500 feet above sea level, and the high temperatures Tuesday around 95 degrees can make it harder for a plane to get the lift it needs to fly. But Guzzetti said that is usually more of an issue at takeoff — rather than landing — and this kind of Beechcraft Super King Air plane has plenty of power with its twin turboprop engines. The plane also shouldn't have been overweight because it had already burned off fuel during its flight and hadn't yet picked up the patient. At the time the plane was trying to land, the wind was gusting up to 28 knots, which could have made landing difficult at the Chinle airport, which has a narrow, 60-foot-wide runway. 'Gusting crosswinds to 28 knots can make things a little bit challenging,' Guzzetti said. 'The winds might have been an issue.' Aside from examining the wreckage, NTSB investigators will be reviewing flight data, any air traffic control communications, aircraft maintenance records and weather conditions at the time as they try to determine what caused the crash. Investigators have recovered the cockpit voice recorder and will send it to NTSB headquarters in Washington for analysis. ___ AP Transportation Writer Josh Funk reported from Omaha, Nebraska.


Fast Company
6 days ago
- Fast Company
August full moon tonight? The ‘Sturgeon Moon' is coming: Here's when to see it—and what it means for the Perseid meteor shower
There's something fishy going on in the sky this week, but don't worry—it doesn't smell like when your coworker heats up their leftover tilapia in the communal microwave. Instead, it's a feast for the eyes: The full moon will be on display this Saturday, August 9. This moon is also known as the Sturgeon Moon. Let's bait our hooks with the meaning behind this name, as well as some aquatic facts, before we catch the knowledge of how best to see it. (There's even some night-time drama.) Why is August's full moon called the Sturgeon Moon? Over time each full moon picked up cute nicknames which were popularized by The Old Farmer's Almanac. These monikers were influenced by Native American, colonial, and European cultures. The Sturgeon Full Moon is inspired by the abundance of the giant lake sturgeon in the Great Lakes and Lake Champlain during the month of August which was a major food source for the Native American tribes in the regions. Sadly, overfishing and environmental issues have greatly decreased the numbers of these freshwater fish. Are lake sturgeons still threatened? Thankfully conservation efforts such as stocking programs and restoring habitat connections have increased the number of these prehistoric looking creatures. In 2024 the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service concluded they did not need to be listed under the Endangered Species Act. Despite its name, lake sturgeons can be found from the Hudson Bay to the Mississippi River. They eat small invertebrates, like crayfish, snails, and leeches. These fish are known for their ability to live long and prosperous lives. Males can reach 55 years old and females have been recorded at 150 years old. During those long years, lake sturgeons can reach six and a half feet and 200 pounds. It is easy to see why Native American tribes valued them as a food source. What is the best time to see the August 2025 full moon? To see the full moon the sturgeon inspired, you might have to stay up late or get up early. It reaches peak illumination on Saturday, August 9, at 3:55 a.m. ET. If losing out on sleep isn't your jam, it will appear full on Friday night to the naked eye. What else is going on in the sky this month? The light from the Sturgeon Full Moon will actually interfere with another celestial phenomenon. The Perseid Meteor Shower began on July 14 and will continue until September 1. This annual summer event occurs when the Earth travels through the debris of Comet Swift-Tuttle. Its peak comes on August 12-13 which means the moon will still be pretty bright, washing out some of the fainter meteors according to NASA. Because of this the space agency suggests holding out for the Geminids meteor shower instead which occurs in December. So this August, let's hear it for the Sturgeon moon, even if it upstages the meteors.