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Yahoo
17-03-2025
- General
- Yahoo
What It's Like to Live in a Small Town Polluted by a Cryptomine
The Finger Lakes region of New York is known for its green forests, limestone cliffs, miles of wineries, and, of course, the 11 uniquely shaped lakes said to have been formed, in Native American legend, by the hand of the Great Spirit. The area is a refuge from the state's bustling lower half, and driving through it is quiet and serene—that is, until you reach the northwest shores of Seneca Lake, where you'll start to hear a low humming sound. 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.'
Yahoo
12-02-2025
- General
- Yahoo
A new day in the Dawnland
Stewart HuntingtonICT MILLINOCKET, Maine – Mount Katahdin is one of Maine's crown jewels. The centerpiece of Baxter State Park, its summit is the highest point in the state and the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. But for thousands of years it has also been much more: a sacred place to the Wabanaki people where earth and sky converge and the secular and the divine connect. It is the birthplace of the Great Spirit. Today, the territory is also Ground Zero for a groundbreaking collaboration between Native leaders and Western conservation groups centering Aboriginal values, knowledge and priorities in statewide land protection practices — and amassing resources behind the effort. The project's centerpiece is the purchase — and planned return to Penobscot Nation stewardship — of 31,000 acres near Katahdin. SUPPORT INDIGENOUS JOURNALISM. 'When Indigenous people are at the forefront, are in the leadership, when our governance is mobilized, that's actually producing the most profound conservation outcomes,' said Darren Ranco, a Penobscot citizen and scholar who sits on the Wabanaki Commission on Land and Stewardship, the driving force behind the land return partnership. The commission includes representatives from the federally recognized Wabanaki tribes in Maine and brings a unified voice to discussions with the traditional Western conservation community to prioritize parcels of land for purchase and return. 'There's amazing things that we're doing here,' said Ralph Dana, a Passamaquoddy member of the commission. On the other end of the conference table sits First Light, a consortium of conservation organizations that share an understanding that promoting Aboriginal stewardship of land and resources is fundamentally sound conservation practice. Reaching that conclusion has meant shelving the tools of traditional conservation such as easements and legal proscriptions against development. First Light's goal? Putting land back under Native stewardship. Period. 'First Light represents a huge shift for the conservation community,' said Ranco, a Harvard-trained anthropologist who is a professor of Native studies at the University of Maine. 'They're able to join our collective work and not … want to take credit for it, but really support what is a set of common values across Indigenous [communities].' The shift — and the growing partnership between the two worlds — did not spring up overnight. In First Light's early days, beginning in 2017, it encountered a hurdle that took years to overcome: a lack of trust. 'Unfortunately, we come from a place where we can't trust because things were taken away from us,' said Shannon Hill, a Mi'kmac Nation citizen who sits on the land and stewardship commission. Hill recounted her early days on the panel when she couldn't accept at face value that her Western counterparts wanted to buy land and … give it to Indians. 'I was like, 'Well, where are the strings?' You know, it's like, there's got to be something else. What's the bottom line here? You just don't give away stuff like that. Especially to us,' she said. 'Nobody ever gives us stuff anymore and it is usually the opposite way.' But over time, the two sides have grown together into a sturdy alliance. 'First Light has been incredible,' Hill said. 'They have really bridged the conservationists and the private funders with the Wabanaki people in a way so that we can both slowly trust each other.' The roots of Hill's turnaround are not entirely ephemeral. There are also the tangible outcomes of the collaberation. In December, First Light closed on — and returned to the Mi'kmaqs — a 103-acre property abutting the tribe's reservation in Littleton, Maine. The property includes wetlands and woods full of traditional medicines and a small lake, providing the tribe its first unfettered water access. 'This is a big deal,' said Mills. 'We're really hoping to utilize this as a place to put a summer camp for the youth to go down and to canoe and kayak and fish. … This is going to be a game-changer in our history.' And maybe beyond. The Mi'kmaq land and a 1,300-acre parcel First Light community bought and returned to the Houlton Band of Maliseet Indians in December — and eight other Landback projects in the pipeline — attest to the maturation of the cooperative model driven by the Wabanaki commission. But it's the work on the huge parcel of land near Mount Katahdin that speaks to the collaboration's transformational power. 'This can be a really good example and set a great precedent for future land return projects to come, whether it's in Maine or across the nation,' said Anne Read, the Maine land protection manager for the Trust for Public Land. In 2022 the trust bought the sprawling parcel from a timber investment outfit for $32 million. It is now raising the money — along with the tribe — to retire the debt taken on to buy the land. The end goal is to return the land to the Penobscot Nation – with no strings attached. So far the partners have raised more than $11 million and when the project is done and the land is back in Penobscot hands, the result will be the largest land return between a U.S.-based nonprofit and a tribal nation in American history. 'We're going to look back and the history books are going to talk about us, because this is such a major movement where we're reclaiming land and bringing land back to our people,' said Hill. And, in the case of the Katahdin land, not just any land. Sacred land. 'I think the return represents the core of our culture,' said Ranco. 'The quantity is big. It's also big in terms of its meaning.' The parcel is known to the Penobscot as Wáhsehtək and includes long stretches of the East Branch of the Penobscot River. It's a place that, according to Penobscot language teacher Gabrial Paul, is central to the Wabanaki people, or People of the Dawn or Dawnland. 'The place where we are now holds all our stories,' he told ICT, standing in a clearing in the woods that offered a view over Lake Millinocket to Mount Katahdin, 'And the land beneath us we relate to as our mother.' To Ranco it is home. 'It's where our clans have been hunting for thousands of years,' he said. And maybe, said Chuck Loring, the Penobscot Nation's director of natural resources, for thousands of years more. 'The land is very important for us to be able to practice traditional lifeways and make sure that we're able to harvest subsistence species such as moose, deer, brook trout, other fish,' he said, while driving up a dirt road that crosses the Wáhsehtək parcel and ends at the Wabanaki Welcome Center at the Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument. Loring turned off on a side road that led to a small pond. Walking around, he explained the area highlighted everything the property had to offer: mixed forest of brown ash, spruce, pine, maple and birch; cool clear streams; and still water for bird and beaver habitat. The land is not yet in Penobscot hands, 'but I'm getting calls from tribal members asking if they can go hunting,' Loring said. A personal bonus? 'My four-year-old daughter loves it out here,' he said with a grin. No one in the First Light group or the Wabanaki Commission on Land and Stewardship is counting chickens – or looking past the successes in front of them. But neither are they bashful about eyeing the potential spread of their experiment. 'I'm a scholar, so for me it's like the scholarship is actually supporting this,' Ranco said. 'It's saying, when Indigenous people are at the forefront, are in the leadership, our governance is mobilized, that's actually producing the most profound conservation outcomes around the world. We're really just … scratching the surface of something that is even more transformational.' The potential for change lies within — and beyond — Native communities. 'We have done Native collaboration work for the past many years since we started in the '90s,' said Read from the Trust for Public Land. 'So this is a priority for us. But I think on this scale, 31,000 acres is definitely historic. Land Return is starting to become a larger priority within our organization and becoming more and more a part of how we implement our mission.' Brett Ciccotelli from First Light went a step further. 'A big part of what we see with First Light work is that it can expand, not as a recipe for how this can be done elsewhere, but for an example that shows there are ways where the conservation community and the Indigenous communities can share common interests and common goals and work together,' Ciccotelli said. The Wabanaki Commission on Land and Stewardship's Dana said the impact could go far beyond Maine. 'We can be an example and can be a template for this kind of work throughout the country, throughout North America and maybe even worldwide,' Dana said. Our stories are worth telling. Our stories are worth sharing. Our stories are worth your support. Contribute today to help ICT carry out its critical mission. Sign up for ICT's free newsletter.
