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US Forest Service failing to protect old growth trees from logging, critics say

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Thursday, August 1, 2024

They are the ancient giants of America – towering trunks of sequoias or beech or ash that started to sprout in some cases before the age of the Roman empire, with the few survivors of a frenzy of settler logging now appreciated as crucial allies in an era of climate and biodiversity crises.Joe Biden has vowed to protect these “cherished” remnants of old growth forest, as well as the next generation of mature forests, directing his government to draw up new plans to conserve the ecological powerhouses that enable US forests to soak up about 10% of the country’s carbon emissions, as well as provide a vital crucible for clean water and wildlife.Little Rock Pond Shelter in Green Mountain national forest, Vermont. Photograph: Leon Werdinger/AlamyYet, the US Forest Service has not included mature trees in this new plan, which also includes loopholes conservationists say allow ongoing felling of trees that are hundreds of years old. The Forest Service, responsible for 154 national forests and nearly 25m acres (10m hectares) of old growth trees in the US, has also largely declined to conduct required reviews of multiple logging projects amid a stampede of tree cutting that threatens the oldest, richest trees before any new curtailments are imposed.“The largest logging projects I’ve ever seen are targeting the last, best remaining old growth trees left in the country,” said Chad Hanson, a forest ecologist and co-founder of the John Muir Project.Hanson said the Forest Service had failed to properly follow the president’s directive, instead allowing logging that imperils the remaining trove of the US’s long-lived, untouched trees.“We have a rogue agency in the Forest Service that is trying to benefit the logging industry before reforms take place,” he said. “The situation is rampant as far as I can tell and it risks squandering a once-in-a-generation opportunity to protect these incredible forests.”The Forest Service – which has defended its approach – approved 31 logging projects covering 116,460 acres of old growth forests just between December and April, a recent agency report states. A further 18 planned cutting projects within old growth forests are being considered.In all, dozens of major logging projects are being advanced across the US, including the felling of 130,000 acres of old growth forest, an area roughly equivalent to the size of Chicago, in Plumas national forest in California; a plan to cut 95,000 acres in the Yaak River Valley in Montana that contains 600-year-old larch trees; and a program called the Telephone Gap project that aims to hack away a portion of ancient forest in Vermont that is 90% old growth and mature trees.Many of these plans have been granted approval since Biden’s executive order in April 2022 that demanded his agencies take action to protect the most storied, grandest trees in the US. The overall amount of logging in national forests has surged 24% during Biden’s term, despite him committing, along with 144 other world leaders, to reverse deforestation by 2030.The Forest Service has rejected the suggestion that it is allowing the timber industry to plunder older trees, pointing to reduced cutting rates compared with previous decades and a service policy to “protect, maintain and improve old growth forest conditions”. It also defended its policy on reviewing, saying all projects that fell under the scope of the mature and old growth requirement were looked at.Critics, though, see an agency pushing through a rush of logging before outdated practices are overturned. “It’s insane, there’s just no justification for this,” said Hanson, who is part of a legal effort to prevent logging amid giant sequoias, a project ostensibly to protect a species that only grows in a 60-mile band along California’s Sierra Nevada. “Why would we log giant sequoias of any size? It’s just crazy.”A red sequoia tree reaches for the sky alongside other trees. Photograph: Edu Borja/Getty ImagesIn response, environmentalists have launched legal action to stymie logging from New Hampshire to California, while tree-sitting protesters have occupied targeted woodland in Oregon. Scores of scientists have written to Biden warning that the outgoing president’s climate legacy is at risk and lamenting that “we have lost too many of those living witnesses of the past.” The “timber wars”, a fierce 1970s struggle over the future of forests that helped preserve the last fragments of old growth, appear to be rekindling, 50 years on.“If the Biden administration wants this process to be something more than a greenwashing exercise, then it must put stronger pressure on the Forest Service,” said Zack Porter, executive director of Standing Trees, a Vermont conservation group. “Biden needs to intervene to live up to his climate goals, because at the moment this process is going off the rails.”There are trees standing in America far older than the country itself. Perhaps the most famous of these, the gargantuan giant sequoias of California, can surpass the grizzled age of 3,000 years as they grow to a towering 300ft tall and slowly layer a bulk of several hundred tons, making them one of the oldest, as well as largest, organisms on Earth.A bristlecone pine, also in California, is thought to be even more ancient, clocking in at around 4,800 years old. Other species in the US range in the hundreds of years old, having survived in plunging ravines or remote mountaintops from the ravages of axe and chainsaw.Such timeworn trees were long seen as worthless. “They were viewed as old and decrepit and valuable for logging, not much else,” said Jim Furnish, a former deputy chief of the Forest Service, which was established in 1905 and has long had strong ties to the timber industry.“If you cut down the older trees, you then get younger forests that can provide timber quickly,” Furnish said. “That was the rationale, which has left us with very little old growth.”In recent decades, however, scientists have amassed evidence that older trees are treasure troves of life. They draw up and then expel moisture into the surrounding air like a sort of biotic pump, essentially creating their own weather systems, filtering water (national forests provide a fifth of the US’s clean water supply) and offering homes in craggy hollows to a panoply of wildlife.As they grow, the trees’ bark thickens, making them and the surrounding forest more resistant to fire. A network of fungi helps spread a bounty of water and nutrients to the forest community. When these trees, having mopped up huge doses of carbon dioxide, eventually die, the toppled trunks regenerate soil, nourishing trees and animals around them.“Their value is just off the charts,” said Dominick DellaSala, a veteran forest researcher. “You cut down a tree like that and you destroy habitat and lose 80% of that stored carbon into the atmosphere, more carbon than is lost from a fire. There’s just no reason to do it.”A rethink on old growth followed a bitter battle over the imperiled northern spotted owl in the Pacific north-west, with millions of acres of the bird’s favored aged forest habitat ultimately set aside from cutting in 1994. The Forest Service points to a nationwide decline in logging since this time, with the agency considering wildfires, insect infestations and the climate crisis to now be the greatest threats to US forests.Still, there has been an uptick in logging since Biden became president in 2021, with the Forest Service removing 2.94bn board ft (7.27m cubic metres)of timber from national forests last year, enough to fill more than 1.25m logging trucks, according to advocacy group calculations on agency data. The Forest Service still works towards “timber targets” that, it recently told Congress, it could increase with more resources and speedier environmental reviews.The agency has a deep-rooted mindset of muscular “management” of forests rather than just letting them grow, according to DellaSala. “They will always argue for chainsaws and bulldozers, no matter what the issue is,” he said. There is plenty that could still be cut, too – just a quarter of the 112m acres of old growth and mature forests on Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management land is protected, DellaSala’s research has calculated.skip past newsletter promotionThe planet's most important stories. Get all the week's environment news - the good, the bad and the essentialPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. For more information see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionForests had long been selectively cut or burned by Native Americans but the arrival of European settlers kickstarted the widespread razing of trees for timber and farmland, to the extent that a mere 5% of original forest, scattered in small patches of trees, is left across the country. In the eastern US, barely 1% remains.The Biden effort to stem losses of old growth trees, therefore, ignited optimism that a major turning point had arrived. “We have lost so much, there is such a deficit that we are recovering from,” said Sarah Adloo, executive director of the Old Growth Forest Network. “So just hearing the words ‘old growth’ from the president’s mouth was really wonderful.”Biden ordered the Forest Service and the BLM, which collectively manage forests spanning about 250m acres, an estate about double the size of Spain, to conduct the first inventories of remaining old growth and mature forest and set about updating individual forest plans to curb their loss. “These forests are an essential partner in tackling climate change,” insisted Ali Zaidi, a senior White House climate adviser.The timber industry, long used to procuring valuable wood from some of the largest, and therefore usually oldest, trees on public land, reacted with dismay. “We are extremely concerned about the disruption this unprecedented approach will have on urgently needed management efforts,” said Bill Imbergamo, head of the Federal Forest Resource Coalition, an industry group, citing the imperative, disputed by many scientists outside industry or government, to actively cut or “thin” forests to prevent insect outbreaks, or to reduce wildfire risk.But environmentalists also saw flaws. There is no universal definition of old growth – some scientists class it as trees that have reached about 120 years in age – but there is agreement that mature trees, of about 80 years in age, must be protected to ensure more old growth in the future. The Forest Service plan, presented in December and recently updated with a draft environmental assessment, does not include mature trees, however, despite them covering more than double the area, about 68m acres, of old growth, according to the agency’s inventory of its managed land.“If you allow mature trees to be cut, you get no additional old growth,” Porter said. The Forest Service plan, which is on track to be finalized in January, also allows the felling of old growth trees for purported environmental reasons, which could be used to justify further logging that many scientists say actually worsens fire and pests.“It’s clear to me that the Forest Service is intent on promoting a new era of destructive commercial logging in old growth forests on public lands, while trying to deceptively spin it as wildfire management, forest health and community protection,” said Hanson. “Why isn’t President Biden telling the Forest Service no, and insisting that mature and old growth forests be fully protected from logging, as hundreds of scientists have urged?”In December, Chris French, the deputy head of the Forest Service, did send an agency-wide memo requiring all logging projects that include old growth forests to be reviewed and approved by service leadership before proceeding.However, when the Guardian asked the Forest Service about the status of 29 contentious logging projects across the US, the agency confirmed only five had been reviewed, with many rejected for assessment because of a supposed lack of old growth, or because the projects had started before the memo, even though such a constraint was not stipulated in the original edict.A Forest Service spokesperson said mature forests were not included in the plan because climate change “introduces a lot of uncertainty” as to where older forests can survive. “The goal is not to manage all mature forest as future old-growth forest,” he said. “In some cases, places that are currently forests will no longer be forests. In others, the plants and animals will change dramatically. So, a strict preservation approach might not work.”The spokesperson added that the service was “clearly harvesting much less timber” than it was in the period up to around 1990, when policies started to shift towards ecological needs and logging focused more on younger, plantation-based, trees.He also denied that reviews of old growth logging projects were being overlooked by service leadership, or sidestepped by local forest managers. “All projects that fall within the scope of the mature and old growth requirement are reviewed,” the spokesperson said. “Forest projects are reviewed by both the regional and national offices, so it is unlikely that forests could ignore the direction.”On a recent, steamy late-spring day, Porter led a small group through a section of the Green Mountain national forest, a 400,000-acre slice of rich northern hardwood forest in Vermont, a rare splash of older trees in a region denuded of original forest. Black bears, moose and beavers are found in this place, which has a touch of the prehistoric about it, with its gurgling streams, ferns and moss-covered boulders.“These are big, big trees for the eastern US, there’s nothing much like this left,” said John Roe, a retired forest ecologist, as he surveyed the soaring stands of maple, ash and birch. “This sort of forest is of global importance.” The trees have rebounded since the US civil war era, when farmers abandoned the area. Give these trees another 160 years, Roe said, and you will see the sort of complex, intact forest there was before European arrival.Many of these trees won’t get the chance to do so – the Forest Service is considering a logging program, called Telephone Gap, that will hew about 12,000 acres, an area slightly smaller than Manhattan, containing mostly mature trees with some old growth. “My worry is we foolishly sacrifice more than a century of recovery here,” said Porter.If you trudge deeper into the heart of this national forest you get to a lake called the North Pond, an idyllic spot favored by beavers and fringed by slopes of trees, many that have never been cleaved. Clamber over some rocks and slippery moss into these stands and you can find sentinels that have stood amid this scene for timescales that leave the modern world behind.Roe holds a tape measure to the bark of a grand yellow birch – 39in in diameter, probably 300 or so years old. A tree that was overlooking this lake, passing the seasons, before George Washington was born. “This is a monster,” Roe said, gawping up at the tree.In March, Porter got an email from the district ranger overseeing the planned logging project, stating that there was “no need” for the plan to be sent to Forest Service leadership for a review as it would not disturb what the forest managers define to be true old growth, which is this tiny amount of pre-colonial woodland left behind.

Biden’s efforts to save mature trees are not getting enough Forest Service support, according to some conservationistsThey are the ancient giants of America – towering trunks of sequoias or beech or ash that started to sprout in some cases before the age of the Roman empire, with the few survivors of a frenzy of settler logging now appreciated as crucial allies in an era of climate and biodiversity crises.Joe Biden has vowed to protect these “cherished” remnants of old growth forest, as well as the next generation of mature forests, directing his government to draw up new plans to conserve the ecological powerhouses that enable US forests to soak up about 10% of the country’s carbon emissions, as well as provide a vital crucible for clean water and wildlife. Continue reading...

They are the ancient giants of America – towering trunks of sequoias or beech or ash that started to sprout in some cases before the age of the Roman empire, with the few survivors of a frenzy of settler logging now appreciated as crucial allies in an era of climate and biodiversity crises.

Joe Biden has vowed to protect these “cherished” remnants of old growth forest, as well as the next generation of mature forests, directing his government to draw up new plans to conserve the ecological powerhouses that enable US forests to soak up about 10% of the country’s carbon emissions, as well as provide a vital crucible for clean water and wildlife.

Little Rock Pond Shelter in Green Mountain national forest, Vermont. Photograph: Leon Werdinger/Alamy

Yet, the US Forest Service has not included mature trees in this new plan, which also includes loopholes conservationists say allow ongoing felling of trees that are hundreds of years old. The Forest Service, responsible for 154 national forests and nearly 25m acres (10m hectares) of old growth trees in the US, has also largely declined to conduct required reviews of multiple logging projects amid a stampede of tree cutting that threatens the oldest, richest trees before any new curtailments are imposed.

“The largest logging projects I’ve ever seen are targeting the last, best remaining old growth trees left in the country,” said Chad Hanson, a forest ecologist and co-founder of the John Muir Project.

Hanson said the Forest Service had failed to properly follow the president’s directive, instead allowing logging that imperils the remaining trove of the US’s long-lived, untouched trees.

“We have a rogue agency in the Forest Service that is trying to benefit the logging industry before reforms take place,” he said. “The situation is rampant as far as I can tell and it risks squandering a once-in-a-generation opportunity to protect these incredible forests.”

The Forest Service – which has defended its approach – approved 31 logging projects covering 116,460 acres of old growth forests just between December and April, a recent agency report states. A further 18 planned cutting projects within old growth forests are being considered.

In all, dozens of major logging projects are being advanced across the US, including the felling of 130,000 acres of old growth forest, an area roughly equivalent to the size of Chicago, in Plumas national forest in California; a plan to cut 95,000 acres in the Yaak River Valley in Montana that contains 600-year-old larch trees; and a program called the Telephone Gap project that aims to hack away a portion of ancient forest in Vermont that is 90% old growth and mature trees.

Many of these plans have been granted approval since Biden’s executive order in April 2022 that demanded his agencies take action to protect the most storied, grandest trees in the US. The overall amount of logging in national forests has surged 24% during Biden’s term, despite him committing, along with 144 other world leaders, to reverse deforestation by 2030.

The Forest Service has rejected the suggestion that it is allowing the timber industry to plunder older trees, pointing to reduced cutting rates compared with previous decades and a service policy to “protect, maintain and improve old growth forest conditions”. It also defended its policy on reviewing, saying all projects that fell under the scope of the mature and old growth requirement were looked at.

Critics, though, see an agency pushing through a rush of logging before outdated practices are overturned. “It’s insane, there’s just no justification for this,” said Hanson, who is part of a legal effort to prevent logging amid giant sequoias, a project ostensibly to protect a species that only grows in a 60-mile band along California’s Sierra Nevada. “Why would we log giant sequoias of any size? It’s just crazy.”

A red sequoia tree reaches for the sky alongside other trees. Photograph: Edu Borja/Getty Images

In response, environmentalists have launched legal action to stymie logging from New Hampshire to California, while tree-sitting protesters have occupied targeted woodland in Oregon. Scores of scientists have written to Biden warning that the outgoing president’s climate legacy is at risk and lamenting that “we have lost too many of those living witnesses of the past.” The “timber wars”, a fierce 1970s struggle over the future of forests that helped preserve the last fragments of old growth, appear to be rekindling, 50 years on.

“If the Biden administration wants this process to be something more than a greenwashing exercise, then it must put stronger pressure on the Forest Service,” said Zack Porter, executive director of Standing Trees, a Vermont conservation group. “Biden needs to intervene to live up to his climate goals, because at the moment this process is going off the rails.”

There are trees standing in America far older than the country itself. Perhaps the most famous of these, the gargantuan giant sequoias of California, can surpass the grizzled age of 3,000 years as they grow to a towering 300ft tall and slowly layer a bulk of several hundred tons, making them one of the oldest, as well as largest, organisms on Earth.

A bristlecone pine, also in California, is thought to be even more ancient, clocking in at around 4,800 years old. Other species in the US range in the hundreds of years old, having survived in plunging ravines or remote mountaintops from the ravages of axe and chainsaw.

Such timeworn trees were long seen as worthless. “They were viewed as old and decrepit and valuable for logging, not much else,” said Jim Furnish, a former deputy chief of the Forest Service, which was established in 1905 and has long had strong ties to the timber industry.

“If you cut down the older trees, you then get younger forests that can provide timber quickly,” Furnish said. “That was the rationale, which has left us with very little old growth.”

In recent decades, however, scientists have amassed evidence that older trees are treasure troves of life. They draw up and then expel moisture into the surrounding air like a sort of biotic pump, essentially creating their own weather systems, filtering water (national forests provide a fifth of the US’s clean water supply) and offering homes in craggy hollows to a panoply of wildlife.

As they grow, the trees’ bark thickens, making them and the surrounding forest more resistant to fire. A network of fungi helps spread a bounty of water and nutrients to the forest community. When these trees, having mopped up huge doses of carbon dioxide, eventually die, the toppled trunks regenerate soil, nourishing trees and animals around them.

“Their value is just off the charts,” said Dominick DellaSala, a veteran forest researcher. “You cut down a tree like that and you destroy habitat and lose 80% of that stored carbon into the atmosphere, more carbon than is lost from a fire. There’s just no reason to do it.”

A rethink on old growth followed a bitter battle over the imperiled northern spotted owl in the Pacific north-west, with millions of acres of the bird’s favored aged forest habitat ultimately set aside from cutting in 1994. The Forest Service points to a nationwide decline in logging since this time, with the agency considering wildfires, insect infestations and the climate crisis to now be the greatest threats to US forests.

Still, there has been an uptick in logging since Biden became president in 2021, with the Forest Service removing 2.94bn board ft (7.27m cubic metres)of timber from national forests last year, enough to fill more than 1.25m logging trucks, according to advocacy group calculations on agency data. The Forest Service still works towards “timber targets” that, it recently told Congress, it could increase with more resources and speedier environmental reviews.

The agency has a deep-rooted mindset of muscular “management” of forests rather than just letting them grow, according to DellaSala. “They will always argue for chainsaws and bulldozers, no matter what the issue is,” he said. There is plenty that could still be cut, too – just a quarter of the 112m acres of old growth and mature forests on Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management land is protected, DellaSala’s research has calculated.

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Forests had long been selectively cut or burned by Native Americans but the arrival of European settlers kickstarted the widespread razing of trees for timber and farmland, to the extent that a mere 5% of original forest, scattered in small patches of trees, is left across the country. In the eastern US, barely 1% remains.

The Biden effort to stem losses of old growth trees, therefore, ignited optimism that a major turning point had arrived. “We have lost so much, there is such a deficit that we are recovering from,” said Sarah Adloo, executive director of the Old Growth Forest Network. “So just hearing the words ‘old growth’ from the president’s mouth was really wonderful.”

Biden ordered the Forest Service and the BLM, which collectively manage forests spanning about 250m acres, an estate about double the size of Spain, to conduct the first inventories of remaining old growth and mature forest and set about updating individual forest plans to curb their loss. “These forests are an essential partner in tackling climate change,” insisted Ali Zaidi, a senior White House climate adviser.

The timber industry, long used to procuring valuable wood from some of the largest, and therefore usually oldest, trees on public land, reacted with dismay. “We are extremely concerned about the disruption this unprecedented approach will have on urgently needed management efforts,” said Bill Imbergamo, head of the Federal Forest Resource Coalition, an industry group, citing the imperative, disputed by many scientists outside industry or government, to actively cut or “thin” forests to prevent insect outbreaks, or to reduce wildfire risk.

But environmentalists also saw flaws. There is no universal definition of old growth – some scientists class it as trees that have reached about 120 years in age – but there is agreement that mature trees, of about 80 years in age, must be protected to ensure more old growth in the future. The Forest Service plan, presented in December and recently updated with a draft environmental assessment, does not include mature trees, however, despite them covering more than double the area, about 68m acres, of old growth, according to the agency’s inventory of its managed land.

“If you allow mature trees to be cut, you get no additional old growth,” Porter said. The Forest Service plan, which is on track to be finalized in January, also allows the felling of old growth trees for purported environmental reasons, which could be used to justify further logging that many scientists say actually worsens fire and pests.

“It’s clear to me that the Forest Service is intent on promoting a new era of destructive commercial logging in old growth forests on public lands, while trying to deceptively spin it as wildfire management, forest health and community protection,” said Hanson. “Why isn’t President Biden telling the Forest Service no, and insisting that mature and old growth forests be fully protected from logging, as hundreds of scientists have urged?”

In December, Chris French, the deputy head of the Forest Service, did send an agency-wide memo requiring all logging projects that include old growth forests to be reviewed and approved by service leadership before proceeding.

However, when the Guardian asked the Forest Service about the status of 29 contentious logging projects across the US, the agency confirmed only five had been reviewed, with many rejected for assessment because of a supposed lack of old growth, or because the projects had started before the memo, even though such a constraint was not stipulated in the original edict.

A Forest Service spokesperson said mature forests were not included in the plan because climate change “introduces a lot of uncertainty” as to where older forests can survive. “The goal is not to manage all mature forest as future old-growth forest,” he said. “In some cases, places that are currently forests will no longer be forests. In others, the plants and animals will change dramatically. So, a strict preservation approach might not work.”

The spokesperson added that the service was “clearly harvesting much less timber” than it was in the period up to around 1990, when policies started to shift towards ecological needs and logging focused more on younger, plantation-based, trees.

He also denied that reviews of old growth logging projects were being overlooked by service leadership, or sidestepped by local forest managers. “All projects that fall within the scope of the mature and old growth requirement are reviewed,” the spokesperson said. “Forest projects are reviewed by both the regional and national offices, so it is unlikely that forests could ignore the direction.”

On a recent, steamy late-spring day, Porter led a small group through a section of the Green Mountain national forest, a 400,000-acre slice of rich northern hardwood forest in Vermont, a rare splash of older trees in a region denuded of original forest. Black bears, moose and beavers are found in this place, which has a touch of the prehistoric about it, with its gurgling streams, ferns and moss-covered boulders.

“These are big, big trees for the eastern US, there’s nothing much like this left,” said John Roe, a retired forest ecologist, as he surveyed the soaring stands of maple, ash and birch. “This sort of forest is of global importance.” The trees have rebounded since the US civil war era, when farmers abandoned the area. Give these trees another 160 years, Roe said, and you will see the sort of complex, intact forest there was before European arrival.

Many of these trees won’t get the chance to do so – the Forest Service is considering a logging program, called Telephone Gap, that will hew about 12,000 acres, an area slightly smaller than Manhattan, containing mostly mature trees with some old growth. “My worry is we foolishly sacrifice more than a century of recovery here,” said Porter.

If you trudge deeper into the heart of this national forest you get to a lake called the North Pond, an idyllic spot favored by beavers and fringed by slopes of trees, many that have never been cleaved. Clamber over some rocks and slippery moss into these stands and you can find sentinels that have stood amid this scene for timescales that leave the modern world behind.

Roe holds a tape measure to the bark of a grand yellow birch – 39in in diameter, probably 300 or so years old. A tree that was overlooking this lake, passing the seasons, before George Washington was born. “This is a monster,” Roe said, gawping up at the tree.

In March, Porter got an email from the district ranger overseeing the planned logging project, stating that there was “no need” for the plan to be sent to Forest Service leadership for a review as it would not disturb what the forest managers define to be true old growth, which is this tiny amount of pre-colonial woodland left behind.

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Violence, death and stolen land: people need to know the true cost of an avocado | Claudia Ignacio Álvarez

Behind the west’s huge appetite for the fruit lies the dark reality of environmental destruction and Indigenous exploitation in MexicoI grew up in San Andrés Tziróndaro, a Purépecha community on the shores of Lake Pátzcuaro in the Mexican state of Michoacán. My childhood was shaped by water, forests and music. The lake fed us. The forest protected us. In the afternoons, people gathered in the local square while bands passed through playing pirekua, our traditional music.That way of life is now under threat as our land is extracted for profit. Continue reading...

I grew up in San Andrés Tziróndaro, a Purépecha community on the shores of Lake Pátzcuaro in the Mexican state of Michoacán. My childhood was shaped by water, forests and music. The lake fed us. The forest protected us. In the afternoons, people gathered in the local square while bands passed through playing pirekua, our traditional music.That way of life is now under threat as our land is extracted for profit.Michoacán is one of Mexico’s leading export states for agricultural products. Avocados and berries are promoted internationally as symbols of healthy, sustainable consumption. Yet behind this lies a reality of land dispossession, environmental destruction and violence.Most avocados and berries from Michoacán are exported to the US, though some also reach European markets, including the UK.In San Andrés Tziróndaro, agribusiness companies rent land that is legally communal. This land is meant to guarantee food for our people, not profits for export. Pipes have been installed to extract water from Lake Pátzcuaro and divert it to plantations. During last year’s severe drought, the lake nearly dried up. Fish disappeared. A fishing community was suddenly unable to eat its own traditional food.If governments are serious about human rights and environmental protection, they must move beyond rhetoricIn the forests, avocado orchards consume enormous amounts of water and eliminate other forms of life. Forest fires, often deliberately set, clear land that is then quickly converted into plantations.We have done everything we can to protect our land, but sadly this has led to threats, killings and disappearances.Communities such as mine find ourselves caught between corporate interests, organised criminal actors and a state that repeatedly fails to protect us.This pattern is not limited to agribusiness. In Michoacán’s coastal region, Indigenous Nahua communities have faced similar threats while opposing mining and steel-related projects imposed without consultation. In San Juan Huitzontla, the defence of communal territory brought defenders into direct confrontation with extractive interests linked to the steel industry. It was in this context that Eustacio Alcalá Díaz was murdered, and environmental defender José Gabriel Pelayo was forcibly disappeared. Both cases remain unresolved, emblematic of the dangers faced by those who challenge powerful economic interests.A protest in Puebla in November. For us, defending the land is not an abstract environmental cause: it is about memory, survival and dignity. Photograph: Alejandro Munoz/AlamyI have not been immune to this violence.I have had to physically intervene when authorities have attacked community members, often traditional leaders.One incident remains etched in my memory. Outside a government building in Michoacán, I noticed a police officer loitering near people organising a peaceful demonstration. When I asked him to identify himself, he stepped directly in front of me, using his height and strength to block me. I activated the emergency button provided by the authorities while he made mocking gestures. I stepped back and began writing my report, trying to hide that my hands were shaking.The context has grown even more tense after the killing of Carlos Manzo, the mayor of Uruapan, who had launched a public confrontation with organised crime. His assassination in November took place during a public event in the central square of a city that is economically crucial as the capital of the world’s main avocado-exporting region. It has been reported that at least three mayors have been murdered this year. These killings create widespread fear and reveal how violence is used politically in Michoacán.According to Global Witness, at least 36 defenders were attacked in Mexico between 2023 and 2024, most of them Indigenous. Few of these cases have seen meaningful progress in investigations. Carrying out sustained human rights work now means accepting serious personal risk.In practice, protection does not come from the state but from strengthening community networks, international accompaniment and collective self-protection strategies.Red handprints symbolising violence surround a picture of murdered mayor Carlos Manzo. Photograph: Alejandro Munoz/AlamyThe emotional toll of this violence is collective. Many defenders, including myself, now live in forced displacement. We return to our communities only briefly, always alert. Violence is not only physical; it is psychological. The perpetrators are trying to fragment us; exhaust our resistance and corrode our hope.Responsibility does not lie with Mexico alone. The US, the main destination for Michoacán’s avocados and berries, plays a central role in sustaining this model. European and British markets are also implicated through imports, corporate finance and trade relationships that prioritise profit while ignoring conditions locally.If governments are serious about human rights and environmental protection, they must move beyond rhetoric. Importing countries should require binding human rights and environmental due diligence across agricultural and extractive supply chains. Indigenous peoples must be consulted, communal land and water rights respected, and defenders protected.For us, defending the land is not an abstract environmental cause. It is about memory, survival and dignity. If the international community continues to enjoy the benefits of extraction while ignoring its costs, violence in places such as Michoacán will not end. It will simply remain out of sight.

Costa Rica Mandates Mangrove Restoration at RIU Guanacaste Hotel

Costa Rica’s Environmental Administrative Tribunal has issued a directive for the RIU Guanacaste hotel complex to repair mangrove and forest areas harmed during its construction in Playa Matapalo, Guanacaste. This decision wraps up a dispute that has dragged on for over 15 years, holding the developers accountable for altering sensitive coastal ecosystems. The tribunal’s ruling, […] The post Costa Rica Mandates Mangrove Restoration at RIU Guanacaste Hotel appeared first on The Tico Times | Costa Rica News | Travel | Real Estate.

Costa Rica’s Environmental Administrative Tribunal has issued a directive for the RIU Guanacaste hotel complex to repair mangrove and forest areas harmed during its construction in Playa Matapalo, Guanacaste. This decision wraps up a dispute that has dragged on for over 15 years, holding the developers accountable for altering sensitive coastal ecosystems. The tribunal’s ruling, numbered 1403-2025, pins responsibility on SE Costa Rica Hotelera de Guanacaste S.A., the property owner, and Yitzak Investments S.A., which handled the site’s groundwork. Inspectors found clear evidence of mangrove loss and other harms in the public maritime zone along Matapalo beach in Carrillo. Back in 2007, the area featured intact mangroves and tree cover in the public zone. By 2009, changes were stark: two wooded sections totaling 6,994 square meters and 5,960 square meters were impacted, an 8,233-square-meter mangrove patch was wiped out through filling and material dumping, and an unnamed stream’s path was shifted, damaging its protected buffer. The court linked these issues directly to debris from the RIU project’s building phase. Mangroves shield coasts from erosion, nurture marine life, and store carbon effectively. Local groups have pointed out that such losses weaken the bay’s health to favor one major tourism venture. To fix this, the tribunal requires the companies to revert the site to its prior state. They must submit a detailed technical plan within 30 business days, outlining fill removal and mangrove revival, backed by expert input and a timeline. The National System of Conservation Areas must approve it, with full work done in three years and yearly updates sent to the tribunal. Separately, the ruling calls for a plan to clear structures from the stream’s bed and restore its flow and buffer. No financial penalty applies here, as the court deemed it unfit for this scenario. RIU Hotels & Resorts responded to inquiries from us in the media, noting the ruling’s arrival but emphasizing its non-final status. The chain plans to pursue all legal options to contest it, claiming the project held all required permits and expecting a thorough review to clarify events. Given that tribunal outcomes can lead to further agency steps or court appeals, this matter may linger in the system even as restoration deadlines approach. The case traces to 2009, when residents and advocates reported filling, tree removal, and water changes. Organizations like Confraternidad Guanacasteca pushed through delays, with Constitutional Court interventions urging timely resolution. Critics say holdups let the development solidify, complicating fixes. Now, the verdict sets a benchmark for similar coastal clashes, though enforcement remains key. This outcome signals broader lessons for coastal growth in Costa Rica. It stresses that mangroves and public zones cannot be sacrificed for projects promising employment and revenue. Firms face not only halts to harm but active ecosystem repairs under supervision. It also exposes institutional slowdowns, where community persistence proved essential. For those in Guanacaste’s tourism scene, the decision underscores hidden stories of land and resource conflicts behind beachfront appeal. Over the coming years, focus shifts to on-site progress: clearing fills, fixing water flows, replanting, and official checks to ensure real change. After prolonged advocacy and interim steps, the court has confirmed what was noted long ago: the Matapalo mangrove suffered, and recovery is due. The post Costa Rica Mandates Mangrove Restoration at RIU Guanacaste Hotel appeared first on The Tico Times | Costa Rica News | Travel | Real Estate.

How a former Forest Service employee changed the future of housing in California

One April night eight years ago, two tech leaders sat down with a former Forest Service employee at Terroir, a natural wine bar in San Francisco. Then they started sketching out a plan that would eventually reshape California’s housing policy. Landmark housing reforms that passed in the state in 2025, one that allows more housing to be built near transit stops, and another curbing the use of environmental law to block new housing—and which many believed would never succeed—can be traced back to that night, five bottles of wine, and crucial backing from Silicon Valley executives. An unlikely new leader Brian Hanlon, the Forest Service employee, was an unlikely leader for a new housing movement. Hanlon moved to the Bay Area in 2010 after dropping out of a Ph.D. program, and got a job managing grant paperwork for USFS. He wasn’t planning to work on housing; he considered becoming a winemaker. But he soon saw the impact of California’s housing policy directly. When he first arrived in the area, apartments were still relatively affordable. Within a year, he saw demand spike: every open house he visited had 20 to 30 people competing for the same apartment. Over the next couple of years, as rents in the city continued to rise, Hanlon got involved with rental advocacy groups, but quickly saw the limitations. He felt advocates weren’t engaging with what he saw as a basic problem: restrictive policy made it too difficult to build housing, and the shortage of housing—not just landlords trying to extract higher rents from renters—was what was driving up prices. “Even then, I was like, ‘It’s not landlord greed.’ There aren’t enough homes. Landlords are just as greedy in Houston, Texas, or wherever else,” he says. “I kind of got excommunicated from that movement because I believed in more housing.” A friend introduced him to Sonia Trauss, a math teacher who had started advocating for new housing development at planning meetings—a YIMBY (“yes in my backyard”) counterpart to the resistance to new construction that was common in San Francisco, which is commonly characterized as NIMBY (“not in my backyard”). This resistance came largely from two separate, but sometimes aligned, groups: first, homeowners who believe new constructions of apartments around their homes will lower the resale value, obstruct their views, and otherwise affect “the neighborhood character”; and second, advocates for low-income tenants who believe that the new construction pushed by the YIMBY movement in gentrifying working-class neighborhoods will accelerate the damaging process of pricing out long-time residents. The first group is more powerful politically at the state level, but at the start of Hanlon and Trauss’s advocacy in San Francisco, many of the fights were with the second, leading to vitriolic conflict in the city (and online). Trauss faced intense criticism for comparing tenant advocates to Trump voters during a speech at hearing. And in one incident, Hanlon was at a public film screening about the eviction crisis, talking with a resident who was fighting a plan to demolish his apartment building, when an activist forced him out of the event, screaming “Get the fuck out!” As the conflicts continued in San Francisco, Hanlon decided he needed to do more than tackle one planning meeting—and one building—at a time. After he and Trauss secured some funding, they founded a nonprofit, California Renters Legal Advocacy and Education Fund, and filed a lawsuit against a Bay Area suburb for not building enough housing. They lost the suit, and Hanlon realized that they needed to change direction. “I was like, alright, well, we’re going to fail as a nonprofit if we don’t change the law,” he says. Rewriting the law With help from a likeminded developer he’d met, Hanlon brought together a group of land-use attorneys, planners, and other developers and explained why the lawsuit had failed and how he wanted the law to change so cities would have to allow more construction. Hanlon copied the existing law into Microsoft Word, rewrote it based on feedback from the group, and then gave it to a lawyer to draft a real version of a potential bill. Then he started heading to Sacramento, meeting with anyone who’d talk. A lawyer from the Building Industry Association told him that he was wasting his time. “I’m like, alright, thanks for your feedback,” he says. “And then I just kept going.” At the time, he had little money and few connections. At a housing conference, he entered a contest to meet the new chair of the state’s Department of Housing Development—the competition involved guessing the number of Monopoly houses in a giant jar. “I remembered a little bit of middle school geometry or something, and I just looked at the jar and did the right math and guessed the right number of houses,” he says. He won a lunch with Ben Metcalf, the new chair, and peppered him with questions about housing reform in the state. Meanwhile, he was starting to make more connections in the tech industry. Trauss had already gotten some support from tech CEOs like Yelp’s Jeremy Stoppleman, who saw that the housing shortage could hurt their industry since it was so hard for employees to find a place to live. Like others, he’d read a viral article in TechCrunch from Kim-Mai Cutler explaining how housing policy restricted development. “That story really helped put everything in perspective—like, oh, this is actually by design,” Stoppleman says. “[It was] many years of decisions to specifically constrain housing production, density, and growth. That created a real point of frustration as a person leading a business with thousands of employees here in the Bay Area.” Hanlon met Zack Rosen, CEO of the WebOps platform Pantheon, on Twitter. “I got in a fight with him on the internet,” Rosen says. “I got into one of those things where it was back and forth, back and forth, and by the third time, I’m like, man, I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He suggested to Hanlon that they meet up for coffee, and they became friends. Rosen, too, wanted to invest in a solution to the housing crisis. “The tech industry didn’t create these terrible housing policies, they predate us,” Rosen says. “However, the success of our industry and these terrible housing policies are a train wreck. The net effect of that train wreck is immiseration for the state of California—you know, teachers teaching [while] homeless in San Francisco. I mean, it’s insane. So for me, it was like, look, the tech industry has a special responsibility to help solve it.” A few weeks later, Hanlon ran into Rosen in Sacramento, along with Nat Friedman—the former CEO of Github, now head of Meta’s Superintelligence Labs, who had come to Sacramento to talk about housing with an assemblymember. They started walking through the capital building, and knocked on the door of the governor’s office, where they managed to wrangle a meeting with staffers on the fly. Policymakers wanted to act, but the issue was complex, and they needed help understanding what laws could truly help. On the drive back home, Rosen started thinking about partnering with Hanlon. Making a bet on a new startup nonprofit They stayed in touch, and nearly a year later, Rosen, Friedman, and Hanlon met at the wine bar to talk about the potential for a new nonprofit. They talked for hours, closing out the bar. Hanlon pitched them on the vision of a new housing advocacy organization for the state that would work on new policy, build coalitions and a grassroots movement, and massively scale up homebuilding. At the time, Hanlon was still working on a shoestring budget, helping shepherd a housing bill called SB 167—based on what he’d drafted earlier—through the committee process. “Imagine all that we could do if I had a real team and a real budget?” he said. They didn’t know exactly how the new organization would work. “We ended up with more questions than answers,” says Rosen. “But we had a direction. We had a strategy.” They were sold on the idea. “It was reminiscent to me of the beginnings of a great startup,” he says. “It just felt like hey, here’s this obvious idea. No one’s doing it. Is it possible to do? Absolutely. Is it incredibly difficult to do? Absolutely. Let’s go do it.” Within a couple of months, they had raised hundreds of thousands for the project. Hanlon resigned from his previous nonprofit with Trauss. Rosen joined the new organization, California YIMBY, as a cofounder. It’s something that probably only would have happened in San Francisco. “I don’t think I ever would have raised this sort of philanthropic capital just given my profile—I’m some guy who was working for the Forest Service and moved to the Mission because I was really into wine, fixed gear bikes, and shows,” Hanlon says. “That doesn’t sound like someone I’d want to make a big bet on to try to rebuild the built environment of the world’s fourth largest economy.” But his vision resonated with them, and with friends of Friedman’s who gave to the new nonprofit. “Brian’s a mile a minute—very fast on his feet, very thoughtful, had clearly done tons of research, knew his stuff,” says Stoppleman. “It was a really unique strategy that he was laying out. For me, it’s exciting to meet people at that stage when they’re just getting going. Obviously brilliant, lots of energy, a lot of passion, probably some naivete. There is a parallel, 100%, to the startup world.” The tech leaders who put in money also were willing to try something new. “I don’t mean to just make a paean to enlightened tech leaders, but I will say, San Francisco’s entrepreneurial tech leaders don’t treat the status quo or entrenched power as immutable reality,” says Hanlon. “They treat it as problems to be solved and building a new future. And that’s rare and uncommon….I think there’s this real sense that we’re not on this Earth for very long, it’s good and right to work quickly to solve your problems. And also, that failure isn’t the worst thing. The worst thing is not trying, or trying and not being ambitious.” Sweeping changes in policy After the nonprofit was founded in 2017—as a 501(c)(4) organization, so it’s allowed to lobby full time—it led advocacy for SB 167, a bill that made it harder for cities to fail to comply with state laws designed to force cities to approve more housing. The organization also fought for new laws that make it easier to build ADUs and “missing middle” housing like duplexes. But the biggest victories, after earlier failed attempts, came this year. First, the state passed a set of laws that reform CEQA, the California’s environmental law, which has sometimes been used as a method to stop development. Some housing now has a faster review process under the law. When the nonprofit first began working on CEQA reform, they were told that it was impossible. This fall, the state also passed SB 79, a law that legalizes large apartment buildings near major transit stops throughout the state—even when local laws restrict density or height. That can help significantly shrink the state’s housing shortage. In L.A., alone, by one estimate, it will eventually zone for 1.46 million new housing units. Along with CEQA reform, it was something they’d first talked about at the wine bar. “That was really was got Nat and Zack excited that night,” Hanlon says. Earlier attempts to pass the law, including a bill introduced in 2018, helped change the conversation about housing. Academics had long argued for more housing near transit, but this type of policy was new. “That’s the first bill, to my knowledge, that had actually been commensurate with the scale of the problem to actually solve it,” Hanlon says. It died quickly in committee, but got people talking in other cities. In New York City, the planning office held a meeting to discuss it. Other advocacy groups in other states started considered new changes to state policy. The latest version of the bill barely passed. It’s likely the only bill in the history of the state, Hanlon says, to become law after “rolling” the first two policy committee chairs, meaning it passed over their objections. The bill had to make it through nine votes, and then the governor’s vote. At each step, it barely made it. “This was incredibly, incredibly hard fought.” Still, he says, despite fierce opposition to the bill, including citizen protests and formal opposition from dozens of city councils, the debate was less heated than it had been in the past. Previous bills had faced widespread, statewide activism in large town halls and protests—many of which were organized by Livable California, a group of homeowners founded by a former oil executive that fights zoning changes and regulations that would make it easier to build apartemts—along with a deluge of op-eds and even a study with false data that argued that Los Angeles could meet its housing needs with vacant apartments. Now, the ideas behind the YIMBY have now become more mainstream. Policymakers have largely accepted the idea that the housing shortage is a supply problem, and that policy has held back development. “YIMBY benefits from being correct,” says Rosen. “It’s real. It’s substantive. It’s right. It also benefits from taking what should be an obscure issue like zoning, and turning it into something that’s real and personal for people—housing. And that was clear from the beginning.” When the YIMBY movement started to take off, “what wasn’t clear was how you would translate that movement that was getting attention into change of government that would enable a boom in housing,” he says. “There’s a huge leap between those things. We’ve got a long list of modern-day political movements that capture attention and don’t deliver the outcome. it’s not that any of the work of translating attention in a movement into outcomes is like rocket science. But it’s tremendously difficult work. And it’s very deliberate kind of work, very strategic work. It’s very stage sequenced. To me, it feels like kind of like scaling a company.” The work isn’t done. The next big battle, Hanlon says, is the steep fees that local governments impose on new developments, which can make building infeasible even when other barriers are taken away. But 2025 has “absolutely been a breakthrough year,” says Rosen. “We have a lot left to do. But I don’t know that there’s going to be a political lift that heavy.”

One April night eight years ago, two tech leaders sat down with a former Forest Service employee at Terroir, a natural wine bar in San Francisco. Then they started sketching out a plan that would eventually reshape California’s housing policy. Landmark housing reforms that passed in the state in 2025, one that allows more housing to be built near transit stops, and another curbing the use of environmental law to block new housing—and which many believed would never succeed—can be traced back to that night, five bottles of wine, and crucial backing from Silicon Valley executives. An unlikely new leader Brian Hanlon, the Forest Service employee, was an unlikely leader for a new housing movement. Hanlon moved to the Bay Area in 2010 after dropping out of a Ph.D. program, and got a job managing grant paperwork for USFS. He wasn’t planning to work on housing; he considered becoming a winemaker. But he soon saw the impact of California’s housing policy directly. When he first arrived in the area, apartments were still relatively affordable. Within a year, he saw demand spike: every open house he visited had 20 to 30 people competing for the same apartment. Over the next couple of years, as rents in the city continued to rise, Hanlon got involved with rental advocacy groups, but quickly saw the limitations. He felt advocates weren’t engaging with what he saw as a basic problem: restrictive policy made it too difficult to build housing, and the shortage of housing—not just landlords trying to extract higher rents from renters—was what was driving up prices. “Even then, I was like, ‘It’s not landlord greed.’ There aren’t enough homes. Landlords are just as greedy in Houston, Texas, or wherever else,” he says. “I kind of got excommunicated from that movement because I believed in more housing.” A friend introduced him to Sonia Trauss, a math teacher who had started advocating for new housing development at planning meetings—a YIMBY (“yes in my backyard”) counterpart to the resistance to new construction that was common in San Francisco, which is commonly characterized as NIMBY (“not in my backyard”). This resistance came largely from two separate, but sometimes aligned, groups: first, homeowners who believe new constructions of apartments around their homes will lower the resale value, obstruct their views, and otherwise affect “the neighborhood character”; and second, advocates for low-income tenants who believe that the new construction pushed by the YIMBY movement in gentrifying working-class neighborhoods will accelerate the damaging process of pricing out long-time residents. The first group is more powerful politically at the state level, but at the start of Hanlon and Trauss’s advocacy in San Francisco, many of the fights were with the second, leading to vitriolic conflict in the city (and online). Trauss faced intense criticism for comparing tenant advocates to Trump voters during a speech at hearing. And in one incident, Hanlon was at a public film screening about the eviction crisis, talking with a resident who was fighting a plan to demolish his apartment building, when an activist forced him out of the event, screaming “Get the fuck out!” As the conflicts continued in San Francisco, Hanlon decided he needed to do more than tackle one planning meeting—and one building—at a time. After he and Trauss secured some funding, they founded a nonprofit, California Renters Legal Advocacy and Education Fund, and filed a lawsuit against a Bay Area suburb for not building enough housing. They lost the suit, and Hanlon realized that they needed to change direction. “I was like, alright, well, we’re going to fail as a nonprofit if we don’t change the law,” he says. Rewriting the law With help from a likeminded developer he’d met, Hanlon brought together a group of land-use attorneys, planners, and other developers and explained why the lawsuit had failed and how he wanted the law to change so cities would have to allow more construction. Hanlon copied the existing law into Microsoft Word, rewrote it based on feedback from the group, and then gave it to a lawyer to draft a real version of a potential bill. Then he started heading to Sacramento, meeting with anyone who’d talk. A lawyer from the Building Industry Association told him that he was wasting his time. “I’m like, alright, thanks for your feedback,” he says. “And then I just kept going.” At the time, he had little money and few connections. At a housing conference, he entered a contest to meet the new chair of the state’s Department of Housing Development—the competition involved guessing the number of Monopoly houses in a giant jar. “I remembered a little bit of middle school geometry or something, and I just looked at the jar and did the right math and guessed the right number of houses,” he says. He won a lunch with Ben Metcalf, the new chair, and peppered him with questions about housing reform in the state. Meanwhile, he was starting to make more connections in the tech industry. Trauss had already gotten some support from tech CEOs like Yelp’s Jeremy Stoppleman, who saw that the housing shortage could hurt their industry since it was so hard for employees to find a place to live. Like others, he’d read a viral article in TechCrunch from Kim-Mai Cutler explaining how housing policy restricted development. “That story really helped put everything in perspective—like, oh, this is actually by design,” Stoppleman says. “[It was] many years of decisions to specifically constrain housing production, density, and growth. That created a real point of frustration as a person leading a business with thousands of employees here in the Bay Area.” Hanlon met Zack Rosen, CEO of the WebOps platform Pantheon, on Twitter. “I got in a fight with him on the internet,” Rosen says. “I got into one of those things where it was back and forth, back and forth, and by the third time, I’m like, man, I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He suggested to Hanlon that they meet up for coffee, and they became friends. Rosen, too, wanted to invest in a solution to the housing crisis. “The tech industry didn’t create these terrible housing policies, they predate us,” Rosen says. “However, the success of our industry and these terrible housing policies are a train wreck. The net effect of that train wreck is immiseration for the state of California—you know, teachers teaching [while] homeless in San Francisco. I mean, it’s insane. So for me, it was like, look, the tech industry has a special responsibility to help solve it.” A few weeks later, Hanlon ran into Rosen in Sacramento, along with Nat Friedman—the former CEO of Github, now head of Meta’s Superintelligence Labs, who had come to Sacramento to talk about housing with an assemblymember. They started walking through the capital building, and knocked on the door of the governor’s office, where they managed to wrangle a meeting with staffers on the fly. Policymakers wanted to act, but the issue was complex, and they needed help understanding what laws could truly help. On the drive back home, Rosen started thinking about partnering with Hanlon. Making a bet on a new startup nonprofit They stayed in touch, and nearly a year later, Rosen, Friedman, and Hanlon met at the wine bar to talk about the potential for a new nonprofit. They talked for hours, closing out the bar. Hanlon pitched them on the vision of a new housing advocacy organization for the state that would work on new policy, build coalitions and a grassroots movement, and massively scale up homebuilding. At the time, Hanlon was still working on a shoestring budget, helping shepherd a housing bill called SB 167—based on what he’d drafted earlier—through the committee process. “Imagine all that we could do if I had a real team and a real budget?” he said. They didn’t know exactly how the new organization would work. “We ended up with more questions than answers,” says Rosen. “But we had a direction. We had a strategy.” They were sold on the idea. “It was reminiscent to me of the beginnings of a great startup,” he says. “It just felt like hey, here’s this obvious idea. No one’s doing it. Is it possible to do? Absolutely. Is it incredibly difficult to do? Absolutely. Let’s go do it.” Within a couple of months, they had raised hundreds of thousands for the project. Hanlon resigned from his previous nonprofit with Trauss. Rosen joined the new organization, California YIMBY, as a cofounder. It’s something that probably only would have happened in San Francisco. “I don’t think I ever would have raised this sort of philanthropic capital just given my profile—I’m some guy who was working for the Forest Service and moved to the Mission because I was really into wine, fixed gear bikes, and shows,” Hanlon says. “That doesn’t sound like someone I’d want to make a big bet on to try to rebuild the built environment of the world’s fourth largest economy.” But his vision resonated with them, and with friends of Friedman’s who gave to the new nonprofit. “Brian’s a mile a minute—very fast on his feet, very thoughtful, had clearly done tons of research, knew his stuff,” says Stoppleman. “It was a really unique strategy that he was laying out. For me, it’s exciting to meet people at that stage when they’re just getting going. Obviously brilliant, lots of energy, a lot of passion, probably some naivete. There is a parallel, 100%, to the startup world.” The tech leaders who put in money also were willing to try something new. “I don’t mean to just make a paean to enlightened tech leaders, but I will say, San Francisco’s entrepreneurial tech leaders don’t treat the status quo or entrenched power as immutable reality,” says Hanlon. “They treat it as problems to be solved and building a new future. And that’s rare and uncommon….I think there’s this real sense that we’re not on this Earth for very long, it’s good and right to work quickly to solve your problems. And also, that failure isn’t the worst thing. The worst thing is not trying, or trying and not being ambitious.” Sweeping changes in policy After the nonprofit was founded in 2017—as a 501(c)(4) organization, so it’s allowed to lobby full time—it led advocacy for SB 167, a bill that made it harder for cities to fail to comply with state laws designed to force cities to approve more housing. The organization also fought for new laws that make it easier to build ADUs and “missing middle” housing like duplexes. But the biggest victories, after earlier failed attempts, came this year. First, the state passed a set of laws that reform CEQA, the California’s environmental law, which has sometimes been used as a method to stop development. Some housing now has a faster review process under the law. When the nonprofit first began working on CEQA reform, they were told that it was impossible. This fall, the state also passed SB 79, a law that legalizes large apartment buildings near major transit stops throughout the state—even when local laws restrict density or height. That can help significantly shrink the state’s housing shortage. In L.A., alone, by one estimate, it will eventually zone for 1.46 million new housing units. Along with CEQA reform, it was something they’d first talked about at the wine bar. “That was really was got Nat and Zack excited that night,” Hanlon says. Earlier attempts to pass the law, including a bill introduced in 2018, helped change the conversation about housing. Academics had long argued for more housing near transit, but this type of policy was new. “That’s the first bill, to my knowledge, that had actually been commensurate with the scale of the problem to actually solve it,” Hanlon says. It died quickly in committee, but got people talking in other cities. In New York City, the planning office held a meeting to discuss it. Other advocacy groups in other states started considered new changes to state policy. The latest version of the bill barely passed. It’s likely the only bill in the history of the state, Hanlon says, to become law after “rolling” the first two policy committee chairs, meaning it passed over their objections. The bill had to make it through nine votes, and then the governor’s vote. At each step, it barely made it. “This was incredibly, incredibly hard fought.” Still, he says, despite fierce opposition to the bill, including citizen protests and formal opposition from dozens of city councils, the debate was less heated than it had been in the past. Previous bills had faced widespread, statewide activism in large town halls and protests—many of which were organized by Livable California, a group of homeowners founded by a former oil executive that fights zoning changes and regulations that would make it easier to build apartemts—along with a deluge of op-eds and even a study with false data that argued that Los Angeles could meet its housing needs with vacant apartments. Now, the ideas behind the YIMBY have now become more mainstream. Policymakers have largely accepted the idea that the housing shortage is a supply problem, and that policy has held back development. “YIMBY benefits from being correct,” says Rosen. “It’s real. It’s substantive. It’s right. It also benefits from taking what should be an obscure issue like zoning, and turning it into something that’s real and personal for people—housing. And that was clear from the beginning.” When the YIMBY movement started to take off, “what wasn’t clear was how you would translate that movement that was getting attention into change of government that would enable a boom in housing,” he says. “There’s a huge leap between those things. We’ve got a long list of modern-day political movements that capture attention and don’t deliver the outcome. it’s not that any of the work of translating attention in a movement into outcomes is like rocket science. But it’s tremendously difficult work. And it’s very deliberate kind of work, very strategic work. It’s very stage sequenced. To me, it feels like kind of like scaling a company.” The work isn’t done. The next big battle, Hanlon says, is the steep fees that local governments impose on new developments, which can make building infeasible even when other barriers are taken away. But 2025 has “absolutely been a breakthrough year,” says Rosen. “We have a lot left to do. But I don’t know that there’s going to be a political lift that heavy.”

You think you’ve seen a big tree? Why we can no longer recognize a real forest

Environmental educator Ross Reid, also known as Nerdy About Nature, explains why we don't understand the scale of true old-growth forests.

Stand in awe before a towering Douglas fir in an Oregon forest, and you might believe you’re experiencing the majesty of old growth. But according to environmental educator Ross Reid, what most of us consider impressive forest landscapes are merely shadows of what once existed. In an archived episode of the Peak Northwest podcast, Reid, who is known for his presence on social media as “Nerdy About Nature,” explains why our perception of forests has been fundamentally altered by what we’ve lost.“It’s this concept known as shifting baseline syndrome where we’re limited in what we think is normal based on our experiences,” Reid said on the podcast. “The people who are living in this part of the world a hundred years ago had a radically different perception of the forest around them versus the one we have now.”Generative AI was used to summarize a recent episode of the Peak Northwest podcast. This story was reviewed and edited by The Oregonian/OregonLive.This psychological phenomenon, where each generation accepts a more diminished version of nature as “normal,” has profound implications for conservation efforts, Reid said. If we can’t recognize what we’ve lost, how can we work to protect or restore it?Bushwhacking through the rain forest of the Devil's Staircase Wilderness, one of Oregon's last true old-growth forests, in the Coast Range.Jamie Hale/The OregonianReid offered tangible examples of the differences between second-growth and old-growth forests that go beyond just tree size. “Pit mound topography is a concept in an old growth forest where you have bigger, older trees falling over naturally ... and you end up with a really undulating bit of terrain,” Reid said. “A lot of the forests we have in the Pacific Northwest, especially the second growth ones, you walk around, it’s fairly easy to walk off trail because it’s all kind of flat.”Throughout the episode, Reid explained how old-growth forests create unique habitats that are impossible to replicate in younger stands. For instance, bears in British Columbia rely on hollowed-out cavities in old Western red cedar trees for denning — structures that take centuries to form.A towering western redcedar tree is the highlight of the Rockaway Beach Old Growth Cedar Preserve on the north Oregon coast.Jamie Hale/The OregonianThe conversation reveals how industrial forestry has not just changed how forests look, but fundamentally altered their ecological function. Second-growth forests managed for timber production lack the structural complexity, genetic diversity, and ecological relationships that develop in forests allowed to mature naturally over centuries, Reid said.For anyone who loves hiking through Pacific Northwest forests, the interview offers a new lens through which to view familiar landscapes. Reid challenges listeners to look beyond their initial impressions of big trees and green canopies to recognize the subtler signs of ecological complexity that distinguish truly ancient forests from their younger counterparts.Listen to the full episode here: Subscribe to The Oregonian/OregonLive’s travel and outdoors podcast Peak Northwest on Apple, Spotify, YouTube or anywhere else you listen to podcasts. Hosts Jamie Hale and Chiara Profenna take you to some of the greatest destinations in Oregon and the Pacific Northwest. Check out more Peak Northwest episodes below.

‘I can’t think of a place more pristine’: 133,000 hectares of Chilean Patagonia preserved after local fundraising

Exclusive: Ancient forests and turquoise rivers of the Cochamó Valley protected from logging, damming and developmentA wild valley in Chilean Patagonia has been preserved for future generations and protected from logging, damming and unbridled development after a remarkable fundraising effort by local groups, the Guardian can reveal.The 133,000 hectares (328,000 acres) of pristine wilderness in the Cochamó Valley was bought for $78m (£58m) after a grassroots campaign led by the NGO Puelo Patagonia, and the title to the wildlands was officially handed over to the Chilean nonprofit Fundación Conserva Puchegüín on 9 December. Continue reading...

A wild valley in Chilean Patagonia has been preserved for future generations and protected from logging, damming and unbridled development after a remarkable fundraising effort by local groups, the Guardian can reveal.The 133,000 hectares (328,000 acres) of pristine wilderness in the Cochamó Valley was bought for $78m (£58m) after a grassroots campaign led by the NGO Puelo Patagonia, and the title to the wildlands was officially handed over to the Chilean nonprofit Fundación Conserva Puchegüín on 9 December.The now-protected ecosystem is 383 times the size of Manhattan’s Central Park, or 800 times as big as London’s Regent’s Park.The lush, forested Cochamó Valley is home to waterfalls, emerald green rivers, hummingbirds and condors. The ancient forests hold groves of alerce trees that sprouted about 1,000BC, four centuries before the rise of the Roman empire.The newly acquired lands hold 11% of the remaining alerce forests on Earth. Logged for their solid, water-resistant trunk, alerce wood was fashioned into ship masts and telephone poles.The thick reddish bark on the alerce tree allows it to survive forest fires, droughts and 11ft of annual rainfall. Photograph: Marcelo SalazarSparsely populated by a few remote homestead camps and rustic campgrounds, the Cochamó Valley is surrounded by 3,200ft (970 metre) granite cliffs that in 1997 lured climbers seeking the first ascent of rock faces on Cerro Trinidad.In 2012, rancher families and lone cowboys living in the valley joined forces with tour operators, NGOs, climbers, backpackers and explorers in vociferous opposition to a $400m hydroelectric plan that included 150-metre transmission towers, access roads and complete disruption of the rural way of life along the Manso River. The communities then worked together to stop a high-end vacation home development and plans to pave roads through the valley.“Our goal was to transform threats into opportunities,” said José Claro, the president of Puelo Patagonia.Claro described how one large-scale project after another was stymied by Puelo Patagonia and the local community working together.The conservation campaigns highlighted Cochamó’s importance as a biological corridor that could connect to the surrounding 1.6m hectares of protected lands in Chile and Argentina. A coalition of local and foreign NGOs known as Conserva Puchegüín then began recruiting donors to fund long-term conservation strategies.The valley receives over 3 metres of rain a year, making industrial agriculture virtually impossible. Cattle grazing is difficult as the mountain slopes are nearly vertical.Except for a few cave drawings attributed to native peoples from present-day Argentina who migrated along riverbanks, this corner of northern Patagonia reveals few signs of longstanding human habitation.These never-logged forests and free-flowing turquoise rivers are a field biologist’s paradise. The area teems with ferns the size of beach umbrellas. The undergrowth of native bamboo makes bushwhacking through this temperate rainforest nearly impossible, even with a machete.The dense underbrush prevents many larger mammals from migrating through the valley. Local species of deer known as pudu have adapted so they are rarely taller than 40cm.Chilean cowboys often lead pack horses into Cochamó Valley with saddles and sacks filled with food and supplies. Photograph: Valentina Thenoux“You think about those trees being cut down or the valley flooded. It’s just terrifying,” said Alex Taylor, the chief executive of Cox Enterprises, who was first introduced to Cochamó in early 2025 by fellow fly fisher Yvon Chouinard, the founder of the clothing company Patagonia.Taylor returned to Atlanta with an idea for the James M Cox Foundation to support the protection of the valley. The other trustees agreed and approved a $20m donation.“It’s almost like the spiritual centre of the universe from a forest biodiversity standpoint,” said Taylor. “I can’t think of a place more pristine.”Hikers and climbers who manage to reach the peaks inside Cochamó Valley are treated to a panoramic view of the many unclimbed peaks inside the future park. Photograph: Valentina ThenouxThe successful fundraising campaign to buy the land is the beginning of what is likely to be a decades-long project to conserve the homesteader way of life and the valley’s rich biodiversity.“How do we ensure that traditional living and practices that have been going on for the better part of a century or more don’t get disrupted?” said Alex Perry, the Latin America general manager for Patagonia, which has been funding local conservation groups in the Cochamó Valley for more than a decade and in 2024 donated $4m through the company’s non-profit owner, Holdfast Collective.“How do we make it so that this model is something that can be replicated and scaled and is attractive to the next generation?”While the 133,000 hectares may eventually be donated to the Chilean national park system, recently passed environmental legislation in Chile created a system that secures permanent protection of designated areas even when the land remains in private ownership.As the valley’s popularity surges among hikers, climbers and horseback riders, a limit of 15,000 visitors a year has been set. Reservations are now required and a master plan of hiking trails, base camps and horse stables is being developed with direct participation from the local communities.“The beauty of the Pucheguín project is that it’s coming with an endowment,” said Anne Deane, the president of the Freyja Foundation which helped fund land purchases in the valley and recruited additional funders including the Wyss Foundation. “Cochamó is only going to get more and more popular, so it’s very important that there is an operating budget to support it.”Using camera traps and through collaboration with residents, a survey of the area’s wildlife has begun. A small herd of Chile’s national symbol, the now-endangered huemul deer, was recently discovered.A pair of endangered huemul deer grazing in Cochamó Valley. Photograph: Benjamin ValenzuelaThere are no roads through the valley and electricity is generated house by house through solar or wind. The homes are often rough cabins set on riverbanks, allowing small motorboats to navigate up and down the Puelo River. Pack horses still haul in most food and supplies.The Cochamó conservation project was inspired by the landmark conservation efforts of Kris and Doug Tompkins, who abandoned successful leadership roles at the Patagonia and Esprit clothing companies respectively, moved to a remote cabin in Patagonia and dedicated 25 years and $300m to creating national parks in Chile and Argentina.By buying massive swathes of land and then negotiating with the Chilean government to expand its existing parks, the Tompkins conservation group – now known as Rewilding Chile – helped protect more than 5.7m hectares of wildlands.The path to becoming a park may be different in Cochamó. The measly budget allocated for national parks in Chile – highlighted by the recent deaths of five hikers in Torres del Paine national park – has convinced many conservation advocates to look at creating private parks that combine conservation with low impact commercial operations such as family farms or a solar-powered craft brewery.The plans for Cochamó are to place at least 80% in protected national park level status, while the remaining 20% will be zoned for multiple use, allowing locals to earn a living off tourism and traditional activities such as family farms and their small ranches.There are no roads through the valley and electricity is generated house by house through solar or wind. Photograph: Rodrigo MannsOn a recent hike through Cochamó, the connection between conservation and community was evident.A Chilean cowboy hauling a horse piled high with fruits, vegetables and canned food stopped to share news. His horse was pregnant. Rex, a neighbour’s dog, needed medicine. The remote bridge washed away by the floods was nearly rebuilt.Stopping to chat in the cool fern forest, the cowboy spoke with excitement about the German tourists he would that evening be guiding down the mountain, on a path that his father helped build and that his children might one day continue to use and preserve.

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