Latest news with #DarrellEhrlick
Yahoo
29-05-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
NorthWestern Energy rates are out of control
Barb Emineth of Laurel speaks about NorthWestern's proposal to put a natural-gas power plant in that town. (Photo by Darrell Ehrlick of the Daily Montanan). Yikes. NorthWestern Energy has just outrageously imposed a 16.8% increase in electric rates for us captive customers without regulatory approval. This occurred before the June 9 hearing of the Public Service Commission where an 8.3% increase had originally been proposed. But, you may recall, NorthWestern received an increase of 28% a year-and-a-half ago. What is going on? Are we Montanans being unfairly exploited? To answer this question, let us examine incentives and responsibilities. NorthWestern Energy, a descendent of Montana Power, is a monopoly. With respect to the distribution of electricity and gas, it seems appropriate for only one energy corporation to be a provider. Otherwise, we might be beset by the chaotic mess of poles, wires, and pipes of competing companies. But with no competition, a monopoly can charge exorbitant fees, public welfare be damned. To protect the more than 400,000 customers of NorthWestern Energy from predatory charges, the publicly-elected members of the PSC are legally granted the authority to approve or disapprove utility rates and what are essentially profit margins ('return on equity' is the technical name, but corporate profits are what's truly at play). Hence NorthWestern, a large investor-owned corporation, has the incentive to increase profits while the PSC, a governmental agency, has the responsibility of protecting public welfare. Let's first examine who profits economically from the income NorthWestern is able to generate. The primary beneficiaries are corporate shareholders, most of whom do not live in Montana. The PSC has traditionally granted the utility profits of about 10% annually. What, 10%? Some large corporations, such as successful supermarket chains, are happy to receive a 1 to 3% yearly profit. Outsiders, rather than Montana citizens and our small businesses, are the beneficiaries of the current arrangement. (Large corporations and institutions are able to negotiate lower rates from NorthWestern.) Further beneficiaries of profits are the corporate executives, most of whom reside in Sioux Falls, the corporate headquarters. It must be great to be Brian Bird, the CEO of NorthWestern. He earns about $2400 per hour. NorthWestern might claim that his compensation is in line with other energy CEOs, but that seems more like an indictment of unjust wealth distribution than a valid argument for such compensation NorthWestern, with its army of lawyers, engineers, and public relations persons, seems like Goliath in relation to the PSC as David. To the PSC's credit, last year it applied a 7.24% decrease in the interim residential rates NorthWestern charged. But when the rates Montanans now pay are compared with the rates customers in other Western states pay, it is clear the PSC needs to do more to protect Montanans from outsourcing our wealth. For 800 kilowatts of power each month, Idaho Power charges customers $70. NorthWestern has charged $107, but with its imposed increase it will be $125. NorthWestern's incentive to increase profits for shareholders encourages it to engage in expensive projects of expansion with little regard for prudent spending or even proper approval. A new rate increase would pass on to us consumers the costs of building and operating the Laurel methane-fired plant, brazenly constructed even when violating zoning laws and without approval of the PSC. Its guaranteed profit means that NorthWestern ratepayers must cover all of the utility's expenses, even those spent on unwise and unapproved projects. We, not they, shoulder the risks. The PSC can restore balance by holding NorthWestern to reasonable standards with fair rates for everyday Montanans. The PSC will hold a public hearing in Helena on June 9 to discuss how to respond to Northwestern's requested rate increases. PSC members need to deny these unjust rate hikes and thereby reduce NorthWestern's exorbitant 10.8% return on equity (profit). Granting an increase in rates legitimates NorthWestern's arrogant and risky actions that benefit shareholders but further stress local families and small businesses. Ratepayers and the PSC must stand up to this out-of-control monopoly. Walt Gulick is a Montana State University Billings professor emeritus, NorthWestern Energy ratepayer, and Northern Plains Resource Council member.
Yahoo
22-04-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Mental health resources often ignored in rural, ranching Montana
Montana roads. This is a portion of Montana Highway 253 between Terry and Circle, Montana (Photo by Darrell Ehrlick for the Daily Montanan). There has been a lot of focus on mental health issues in Montana during the past few years, specifically aimed toward marginalized groups like the LGTBQ community and indigenous peoples. And for good reason. But one statistic that might surprise people is that a high percentage of the suicides in Montana occur in the farming and ranching community, among middle-aged men. Courtney Kibblewhite grew up in Huntley, where her grandparents owned a ranch, but her father also worked at the Northern Ag Network, the radio station founded by former Sen. Conrad Burns in 1975. Courtney's father started working there just out of college, and he eventually bought the business, which is now family run. Courtney is now the vice president of the corporation. But her family was always involved in the ranch, and it is still in the family, now run by Courtney's brother, so she knows the culture well. And it is because of that connection, as well as her position at the radio station, that Courtney decided to find a way to bring more focus to the mental health issues that face the agricultural community in Montana. Courtney's journey back to Montana and the radio station was a circuitous one that included going to college at Northwestern University in Chicago, followed by a couple of years in Uganda, and a year studying yoga in India. She met her husband Jonny, who is Welsh, in Thailand. But it was a difficult year even before these adventures that first inspired her to leave Montana, when she and her parents decided that a change of scenery might be beneficial. Some of Courtney's cousins, who lived on a ranch near Birney, had attended a boarding school in Maryland and liked it there, so Courtney packed her bags and moved to Maryland, which turned out to be a very good experience. 'It wasn't as if they provided me with any mental health resources, but I think it was just good for me to get out of my own head for a while. There were girls from all over the world at this school, so it was a great atmosphere,' she said. It was that early awareness of mental health issues that inspired Courtney's interest in the topic, which has led to the creation of Beyond the Weather, a program designed to provide help for farmers and ranchers who are dealing with depression or anxiety, or any other number of mental health issues. It has long been an established fact that Montana ranks in the top five in suicide, every year, and like so many families in Montana, Courtney's family has a story about that, where one of her relatives was missing for several days, and neighbors went to investigate, only to discover that he had shot his wife and two kids before taking his own life. Sadly, it's not an uncommon story in our state, and because of that, Courtney and several of her colleagues decided to record interviews with farmers and ranchers around the state who have faced mental health issues and gotten help for them. About the same time that Courtney began to explore this idea, the Montana Department of Agriculture received some American Rescue Fund dollars, as did every state in the union, that were to be directed toward 'agriculture stress.' The Department of Agriculture utilized that money to fund three different approaches. If a rural community brought in a speaker to talk about mental health issues, the department would fund that. They also put $500,000 into a free counseling program for farmers and ranchers, through Frontier Psychiatry. And the third was Courtney's project to help promote the counseling program, but also to create these videos that would combat the stigma that is so prevalent among rural Montanans about getting help. The department wanted Courtney and her team to come up with a different name for their program, in order to avoid scaring people away with the mental-health label, which is how they came up with 'Beyond the Weather,' which obviously refers to the fact that conversation in rural communities so often revolves around the weather. Like most Montana families, Courtney's family struggled with having conversations about emotional topics, as evidenced by the fact that she didn't even know about this horrific family tragedy for years, nor did she know that her grandfather's second wife had once been married to one of his ranch hands. 'It gave me a whole new perspective on my grandfather when I learned the story of his brother killing his family and himself, because when you go through something like that, and you live in a place where those kinds of things are discussed, it's only natural that you would look for comfort somehow, either through drinking, or like he did, with someone else's wife. The way that this kind of trauma affects so many families in Montana just doesn't go away.' Beyond the Weather features interviews with several ranchers and their spouses about issues of grief, stress, loss of a loved one, and depression, and as one young rancher, Travis Stuber, states so honestly, 'I'm not a touchy feely guy, so this doesn't come naturally to me, but I also know that as ranchers and farmers, the stigma around this stuff is weakness, and that's the last thing we want to show is weakness. So I had to learn that it's OK to be affected by loss. I lost my best friend and my mother in the past few years, and as my counselor pointed out when I said I was struggling with the loss of my mom, hey, that's OK. Think about your mom and don't bottle that up and throw it away.' Not long after the COVID pandemic, a survey done by local law enforcement showed a huge spike in incidents of domestic violence in Montana, with an especially troubling rise in reports where one family member tried to strangle another. The isolation of ranching and farming, along with the stigma attached to asking for help, has long been a deterrent toward Montanas getting help for whatever mental health issues they are battling. So if you or someone you know is in that position, please visit the website for Beyond the Weather and check out the opportunity for free counseling, at
Yahoo
10-04-2025
- Yahoo
From vigilantes to judges: What Montana's past teaches us about justice today
A sign on a livery and stable in Virginia City noting where the vigilantes met to discuss how to apprehend road agents (Photo by Darrell Ehrlick of the Daily Montanan). Montana has always been a place that values freedom and self-reliance. But our early history shows what happens when justice is left to those acting outside the law. In the 1860s, before Montana was even a territory, rough mining camps like Bannack and Virginia City were plagued by theft and violence. With no real courts or law enforcement, desperate citizens turned to vigilante justice—self-appointed committees who held mock trials and issued swift punishments, often by hanging. These Montana Vigilantes formed to bring order to chaos. Between 1863 and 1865, they hanged dozens of alleged criminals, including Bannack's elected sheriff, Henry Plummer, who was suspected of leading a ruthless gang of road agents. While some say the vigilantes brought safety to the camps, they operated far beyond the boundaries of due process or constitutional rights. That dramatic history serves as a cautionary tale. True justice requires more than good intentions—it requires a fair, impartial, and functioning judiciary whose orders are respected not only by the citizens but also by the other branches of government. That is what separates a just society from mob rule. Today, Montana's legal system looks nothing like it did in the vigilante era. Judges are trained professionals, bound by the rule of law and guided by legal precedent. And while high-profile Supreme Court cases get the headlines, most justice in Montana happens quietly in small-town courthouses. Last year nearly 57,000 new cases were filed in Montana's district courts alone. Roughly 700 cases ever make it to the Montana Supreme Court. The rest are resolved by district and local judges—judges who help regular Montanans through real-life problems. They preside over divorces and custody disputes, ensuring parenting plans are fair and that children are protected. They help sort out estates, wills, and inheritances after the death of a loved one. They settle property line disagreements and water rights claims that affect livelihoods. They resolve disputes between business partners and interpret contracts that went sideways. They even protect intellectual property like trademarks and patents that power small businesses and entrepreneurs. In short, our judges aren't just legal experts—they're guides who help us resolve our most complicated and emotionally charged conflicts. Their work is the backbone of an orderly society. But access to justice doesn't just depend on laws—it depends on people. We need enough judges to handle the growing caseloads across the state. Unfortunately, some parts of Montana are struggling to keep up. Yellowstone County, in particular, has seen case numbers climb steadily, leading to delays that hurt families, businesses, and communities. That's why we supported Gov. Greg Gianforte's budget proposal to add three new district court judges in Yellowstone County. This isn't about helping lawyers—it's about helping people. It's about ensuring that regular Montanans can get their day in court without waiting months or years for resolution. Because justice delayed is justice denied. We've seen what happens when people feel like they can't rely on the courts. As U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts noted in his 2024 year-end report on the federal judiciary, threats against federal judges have tripled in the last decade. And just last month in Helena, a woman was shot and killed after threatening courthouse staff and a judge. If we want to keep our state safe, fair, and free, we must protect our legal system. That means defending judicial independence. It means being informed about judicial elections. And it means recognizing that the law isn't an abstract concept—it's a promise. A promise that no matter who you are, where you live, or what you're going through, you can resolve your dispute in a courtroom—not in the street. We've come a long way from the vigilante days. Let's make sure we never go back.
Yahoo
05-04-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
Beer and wine delivery soon to be legal in Montana as Governor signs HB 211
Illustration by Darrell Ehrlick of the Daily Montanan. Wine and beer will be available for delivery on Jan. 1, 2026 following the passage and signing of House Bill 211 on Thursday. The legislation, brought by Rep. Katie Zolnikov, R-Billings, creates a new third-party license which allows off-premises licensees the ability to utilize a delivery licensee and its drivers to deliver beer and table wine. During a Senate hearing on Feb. 18, Zolnikov said the bill was three years in the making. 'I'm pretty confident that we have thought of every situation imaginable for alcohol delivery,' Zolnikov said during the hearing. There are very specific stipulations for delivery in the bill and drivers will be asked to use, 'identification scanning software technology or an alternative approved by the department' to verify a recipient's age. Delivery drivers will have to go through a responsible server program, be at least 21 years of age and are not allowed to deliver to obviously intoxicated people. Drivers cannot deliver to campuses and cannot have a felony, unless they have had their driving rights restored. They also cannot have a DUI charge in the last seven years. Alcohol must be in a cargo area of the vehicle and out of the reach of the driver. There's even a stipulation for bicycle delivery. 'I don't know if there'll be many deliveries by bicycle,' Zolnikov said in the Senate hearing, 'But I like to know that all of our bases are covered, just in case. Maybe in Missoula.' The delivery industry celebrated the legislation. 'By signing this bill, Governor Gianforte is putting local business, delivery workers, and customers first,' said Anna Powell, a senior manager for DoorDash in a statement. 'We are pleased to see that beer and wine delivery will soon be available via Montana grocery stores, and we look forward to offering safe and responsible delivery throughout the state.' In statistics provided by DoorDash, the number of U.S. merchants selling alcohol on the app increased by 37% over the course of 2023. Drivers earned, on average, nearly 20% more on deliveries with alcohol compared with deliveries without, according to the company. 'Across America, we've seen that safe alcohol delivery opens opportunities for businesses and delivery drivers to thrive, and consumers to have more choices at their fingertips,' Powell said in a statement. 'This new law will make life easier for consumers and offer merchants and drivers a greater opportunity to thrive.'
Yahoo
26-03-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
As the President invokes Alien Enemies Act, a museum is dedicated to sharing the stories
One of the guard towers that dotted the Heart Mountain camp in Wyoming. In the distance, a brick smokestack can be seen. It is one of the few other parts of the camp that still remain. It was part of the hospital and infirmiry there. (Photo by Darrell Ehrlick of the Daily Montanan) HEART MOUNTAIN, Wyoming — The last time a U.S. President invoked the Alien Enemies Act, Heart Mountain happened. Almost over night, a remote yet beautiful square mile of land deep within the nation's interior became the third largest city in Wyoming, populated by people who were rounded up in raids and sent packing, hemmed in by guard towers and floodlights. Hysteria, patriotism and racism — all things the U.S. government later acknowledged — allowed President Franklin Delano Roosevelt to invoke the act after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and then an executive order that allowed federal, state and local authorities to round up anyone of Japanese descent living on the West coast and send them to camps like Heart Mountain. Though two-thirds of the people were American citizens of Japanese-American descent, their homes and business were lost, and they survived Wyoming's rugged weather with whatever they could cram into a suitcase. Current U.S. President Donald J. Trump recently invoked the act, which was passed in 1798, revoking protection status for Venezuelan immigrants who were living here legally, declaring a multi-national drug cartel to be running gangs in America. The presidential action is now tied up in a host of court action, including whether residents who were here legally can have their status revoked without due process, and whether the executive branch can invoke the act when not at war or without approval of Congress. Heart Mountain, run by the nonpartisan Heart Mountain Foundation, is just a dozen miles from the Montana border, created from Roosevelt's order. The museum points out that the camps happened under a Democratic president, while apologies and reparations came from Republicans. It's not silent about what happened at the camp, nor what it could mean that the same acts and policies are being resurrected today, even if used in a different context. 'We need to acknowledge that it's not about responding to Donald Trump,' Heart Mountain Executive Director Aura Sunada Newlin said on a recent tour. 'Immigration policy is something our country has struggled with for a long time. We have not treated immigrants with a lot of humanity.' She said places and museums like Heart Mountain help 'humanize history' so that people understand something abstract — like political policies — and how it affects people in America and their families. 'We have to be willing to discuss these challenging issues,' she said. In 1812, when the Alien Enemies Act was first used, the concern was for British sympathizers. In 1918, as many as 6,500 Germans suspected of being alien enemies were rounded up. And, during World War II the act was invoked to round-up and imprison citizens and foreign nationals alike who shared a common Japanese heritage. Heart Mountain, an out-of-sight place, has a few scattered buildings that stand as a reminder of what happened the last time a president invoked the power to round up people based on nationality or race. Heart Mountain was so hastily constructed that the 'green lumber' used for military style barracks hadn't fully dried. By the time it cured in the wind-blown high mountain region, about a dozen miles from the Montana border, gaps in the barracks could span a half-inch, leading to the joke that the camps had both hot and cold-running dust. Residents who were used to warmer coastal climates weren't quite prepared for the harsh winters or the pounding summer sun. Heart Mountain became the largest 'camps' of the Wartime Relocation Administration, which rounded up first- and second-generation immigrants from the west coast states and sent them deep into the Rocky Mountain interior near Powell, Wyoming. At its height, more than 11,000 residents lost their homes, businesses and even pets in the name of national security. Another detention camp was located in Missoula, a camp that was created even before Roosevelt's executive order. In an official apology issued by the U.S. government decades later, the federal government admitted the reason for the camps wasn't safety, security or even threats of espionage, instead it was racism and political incompetence that created the camps that dotted the American interior. Such camps had been contemplated for years by then, by leaders such as Roosevelt. White Americans had regarded their Japanese-American counterparts in places like California and Oregon with suspicion for their growing prosperity, and willingness to take jobs others weren't. When World War II ended by dropping devastating bombs on Imperial Japan, the camps disbanded and residents were forced to resume their lives, often feeling shame about the three-year hiatus that ripped some families apart. Today, not many of the buildings from the original Heart Mountain site remain. A few barracks and the towering smokestack from the hospital and infirmary rise to challenge the summit of Heart Mountain. Ironically, most of the barracks that were built were displaced themselves, sold for $1 each to returning soldiers who needed homes after the end of World War II. Those barracks are still parts of homesteads, farms and ranches today. The town site that included schools, a newspaper, mess halls and a furniture manufacturing building has returned to a field not unlike the others that surround it. Down the hill, close to a guard tower with razor wire that is still standing, a Smithsonian-affiliated museum tells stories about hysteria, racism, distrust and families who were traumatized after being rounded up and relocated. Executive Director Sunada Newlin doesn't just know the history of this place because she's studied it — she's lived with it her whole life, even though she was born decades after the camp closed. Her grandparents were some the residents, even though they had lived in Wyoming, coming first to work as railroad laborers and miners. Still, her family was placed there, and in a display that highlights some of camp's residents' military service during World War II are items from her grandfather's time in the U.S. Army. He was serving his country while his family was incarcerated. And, in another twist of historical irony, a unit of Japanese-American soldiers fighting in Europe would help liberate the German Nazi concentration camp of Dachau, while family members in America were imprisoned. The museum and its legacy includes the Simpson-Mineta Institute, names for recently deceased former Wyoming Sen. Alan K. Simpson and Norman Mineta, who became lifelong friends after meeting each other as youth in Boy Scouts — Simpson a ranch kid from the area, and Mineta one of those incarcerated there. Despite the political differences, Simpson was a Republican and Mineta a Democrat, they came together to form a friendship and ongoing dialogue about solutions. The Institute is looking to continue that legacy of dialogue, and Sunada Newlin said that's one of the ways that Heart Mountain can become something more than a place to chronicle inhumanity. However, the lasting effects of an immigration policy nearly 80 years ago still reverberate. Every summer, Heart Mountain hosts a 'pilgrimage' where families and the descendants of families come back to remember what happened, as well as work through the aftermath, which left many families devastated and broken, losing a lifetime of work and property. 'We've moved away from reminding people that two-thirds of the people who came here were American citizens because the fact is that we shouldn't have done this to anyone,' Sunada Newlin said. 'Just because some weren't citizens doesn't mean it was right.' Sunada Newlin said that learning more and understanding about generational trauma has been helpful. For many of the camp's incarcerees, their time in Wyoming wasn't discussed, but that doesn't mean the families weren't affected. Children, many born at Heart Mountain, were encouraged to assimilate, abandon any Japanese traditions, and work even harder to fit into American society. Those effects still ripple, she said, even as the latest generation of Japanese-Americans seems ready to claim proudly its history, converting their family's history and ties to the camps as a point of pride rather than shame. 'This place of pain and loss, we're relearning that part of our history and there's a lot of healing that needs to be done,' Sunada Newlin said. She said part of that pain comes from not doing anything wrong, yet being punished. 'The message was: You're dangerous,' Sunada Newlin said. 'And in the Japanese culture, you're not supposed to do anything that would bring shame upon your culture or family.' She said that most of the incarcerees believed the best way to demonstrate their patriotism was through compliance, largely 'for the sake of their children.' However, Heart Mountain's history — nearly 14,000 people would call it home for some of the war's duration — includes the largest number of draft resisters from any Japanese camp. Those resistors became a unique challenge for the government: They said they were willing to serve in the United States military as long as their rights and property were restored. The purpose of the museum and preserving the space isn't just to commemorate an ignoble part of the country's history, rather the aftermath and how it affects its citizens. Sunada Newlin said that the perception that Japanese-Americans who had be incarcerated just resumed their lives is only somewhat true, even though Japanese-Americans have also become a sort of 'model minority.' 'That idea itself has become real toxic,' Sunada Newlin said. The idea that thousands of people returned to a normal life belies the number of suicides, addiction and broken families that resulted. She said it's also about connecting with other fractured communities. Newlin said the irony of Heart Mountain is that it became significant to Japanese-Americans, even as it holds a different significance for the Apsaalooke (Crow) people who consider the mountain sacred, but were displaced by European settlers. That's why Heart Mountain also holds regular ceremonies with Native leaders, including smudging to honor the place that holds deep connections to very different cultural groups. 'A lot of our response when people come to see this place is: I didn't know about it,' Sunada Newlin said. 'Adults are horrified because they didn't know America did this. It's also interesting because when school-age kids come here, they get it instantly. They understand picking on groups, on bullying.' One of the many historical displays that seems to have an outsized effect on students is stories of Japanese-Americans having to leave their pets behind. 'To push the negative stuff under the carpet is why most people don't know we exist,' Sunada Newlin said. 'We have to talk about the hard things in the past so we don't do this again.' She said some who come to the museum feel anger, others shame, and some even get defensive, citing the horrific treatment of American soldiers by Imperial Japan during the Bataan Death March. 'Guilt is not a very productive approach. The only way to address what went wrong is to empower the next generation to do something different,' Sunada Newlin said. 'It would be sad if this is nothing more than gathering stories. This is a place to find hope for the future, and that future is bringing together communities that wouldn't necessarily come together.' For example, recently the center sponsored a friendship and week-long experience for youth members of the Apsaalooke tribe and descendants of Heart Mountain to spend time camping and learning about each other's culture. Sunada Newlin said they had more in common than they realized. 'It gave them a cause they could own,' she said of the younger generation. Sunada Newlin and her staff also hope that taking the first step — seeing a museum dedicated to the poor, illegal treatment of citizens by the U.S. government, will give visitors courage to tackle other difficult issues. 'We want to be the place where we're inviting people to have constructive dialogue about very difficult subjects,' Sunada Newlin said. That could range from race, immigration and national security. 'If they were problems that are easily fixed, we would have fixed them a long time ago,' Sunada Newlin said. Still, as a person whose own family is deeply tied to Heart Mountain, and even as she has led the organization for three years, she was shocked to hear many of the past justifications and plans that led to Heart Mountain be used for a new generation, as migrants are being deported, detained and rounded-up. 'It's troubling to me personally and for our foundation,' she said. 'It's not necessarily surprising or new. The level is new. The truth is that there's always been a danger, and so we want to educate as widely as we can.' As many different visitors that come through doors react, there is one thing that neither Newlin or assistant director Rebecca McKinley, haven't heard. 'No one has said, 'This could never happen again,'' McKinley said.
