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Here’s a grim fact: The most destructive fires in recent American history swept over a state with the country’s strictest wildfire-specific building code, including in some of the neighborhoods that are now largely smoldering rubble.
California’s wildfire building code, Chapter 7A, went into effect in 2008, and it mandates fire-resistant siding, tempered glass, vegetation management, and vents for attics and crawlspaces designed to resist embers and flames. The code is the “most robust” in the nation, Lisa Dale, a lecturer at the Columbia Climate School and a former environmental policy advisor for the State of Colorado, told me. It applies to nearly any newly built structure in one of the zones mapped out by state and local officials as especially prone to fire hazard.
The adoption of 7A followed years of code development and mapping of hazardous areas, largely in response to devastating urban wildfires such as the Tunnel Fire, which claimed more than 3,000 structures and 25 lives in Oakland and Berkeley in 1991, and kicked off renewed efforts to harden Californian homes.
The Federal Emergency Management Agency’s report on the 1991 fire makes for familiar reading as the Palisades and Eaton fires still smolder. The wildland-urban interface, it says, was put at extreme risk by a combination of dry air, little rainfall, hot winds blowing east to west, built-up vegetation that was too close to homes, steep hills, and limited access to municipal water. The report also castigates the “unregulated use of wood shingles as roof and siding material.”
This was not the first time a destructive fire on the wildland-urban interface had been partially attributed to ignitable building materials. The 1961 Bel-Air fire, for instance, which claimed almost 200 homes, including that of Burt Lancaster, and the 1959 Laurel Canyon fire were both, FEMA said, evidence of “the wood roof and separation from natural fuels problems,” as were fires in 1970 and 1980 near where the Tunnel Fire eventually struck in 1970 and 1980.
But it was the sheer scale of the Tunnel Fire that prompted action by California lawmakers.
Throughout the 1990s, fire-resilient roofing requirements were ramped up, designating which materials were allowed in fire hazard areas and throughout the state. By all accounts, the building code works — but only when and where it’s in force. Dale told me that compliant homes were five times as likely to survive a wildfire. Research by economists Judson Boomhower and Patrick Baylis found that the code “reduced average structure loss risk during a wildfire by 16 percentage points, or about a 40% reduction.”
“The challenge from the perspective of wildfire vulnerability is that those codes are relatively recent, and the housing stock turns over really slowly, so we have this enormous stock of already built homes in dangerous places that are going to be out there for decades,” Boomhower told me.
The 7A building code applies only to new buildings, however. In long-settled areas of California like Pacific Palisades, which has little new housing construction or even existing home turnover due to high costs and permitting complications, especially in areas under the jurisdiction of the California Coastal Commission, many houses are not just failing to comply with Chapter 7A, but also with any housing code at all.
Looking at which homes had survived past fires, Steve Quarles, who helped advise the California State Fire Marshal on developing 7A, told me, “What really mattered was if it was built under any building code.” Many homes destroyed by the fires in Los Angeles likely were not. In Pacific Palisades, fire management is a frequent topic of concern and discussion. But as late as 2018, local media in Pacific Palisades noted that the area still had some homes with wood shingle roofs.
While a complete inventory of homes lost in the Palisades and Eaton fires has yet to be taken, the neighborhoods were full of older homes. According to CalFire incident reports, of the almost 47,000 structures in the zone of the Palisades Fire, more than 8,000 were built before 1939, and 44,560 were built before 2009. For the Eaton Fire area, of the around 41,000 structures, almost 14,000 were built before 1939, and only around 1,000 were built since 2010.
A Pacific Palisades home designed by architect Greg Chasen and built in 2024, however, survived the fire and went viral on X after he posted a photo of it still standing after the flames had moved through. The home embodied some of the best practices for fire-safe building, according to Bloomberg, including keeping vegetation away from the building, a metal roof, tempered glass, and fire-resistant siding.
When Michael Wara, the director of Stanford University’s Climate and Energy Policy Program, spoke with firefighters and insurance industry officials in the process of drafting a 2021 report for the Stanford Woods Institute for the Environment on strategies for mitigating wildfire risk, they told him that, from their perspective, wildfires are often a matter of “home ignition,” meaning that while building near forested areas puts any home at risk, the risk of a home itself igniting varies based on how it’s built and the vegetation clearance around it. “Existing homes in high fire threat areas” built before the implementation of California’s wildfire building codes, Wara wrote, “are a massive problem.” At the time he published the paper, there were somewhere between 700,000 and 1.3 million pre-building code homes still standing in “high or very high threat areas.”
The flipside of focusing on “home ignition” and the building code is that the building code works better over time, as more and more homes comply with it thanks to normal turnover, people extensively renovating, or even tearing down old homes — or rebuilding after fires. Homes that are close to homes that don’t ignite in a fire are more likely to survive.
One study that looked at the 2018 Camp Fire, which destroyed more than 18,000 structures and claimed more than 80 lives in the Northern California town of Paradise, sampled homes built before 1997, between 1997 and 2018, and from 2018 onwards, and found that only 11.5% of pre-1997 homes survived, compared to 38.5% from 1997 and after. The researchers also found that building survivability had a kind of magnifying effect, with distance from the nearest destroyed structure and the number structures destroyed in the immediate area among “the strongest predictors of survival.”
“The more homes that comply, the less chance you get those structural ignitions and the less chance you get those huge disasters like this,” Doug Green, who manages Headwaters Economics’ Community Assistance for Wildfire Program, told me. “It takes people doing the right thing to their own home — dealing with vegetation, making sure roofs are clean, having right roofing. It’s really a community-wide strategy to stop fires that happen like this.”
But just as any home hardening — or just building to code — is more effective the more the homes around you do it as well, it’s just as true in reverse. “If your next door neighbors don’t do that work, the effectiveness of your efforts will be less,” Dale said. “Building codes ultimately work best when we get an entire landscape or neighborhood to adopt them.”
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At this point, I think it’s clear that AI data centers are unpopular.
You probably know it, at least. I was preparing talk about data center opposition on a podcast today and I took the opportunity to dive back into our data, so I certainly know it. At this point, we’ve written about results from our polling that show Americans overwhelmingly oppose local data center construction, that majorities of Americans now support a national data center moratorium, and that the only group of Americans who feels more optimistic than pessimistic about artificial intelligence is … men older than 65 years old.
So I got curious: Given all that, who actually supports AI data centers?
One question from our recent Heatmap Pro poll, conducted by Embold Research, helps give us a sense. This is the profile of someone our data says would support a data center built in their local area:
A few facets stand out. These data center YIMBYs are more likely to be men, and more likely to be 2024 Trump voters, but they’re not locked into one age demographic or voting cohort. A third are Harris supporters, and roughly a third are women. Data center YIMBYs are more likely to be older than 50, but the majority isn’t overwhelming.
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Perhaps more surprising: The group has many more people who voted third-party in the 2024 election (8%) than the general population (just under 2%), although that response could also include people who didn’t vote. (Alas, the data can’t quite confirm how many in this group are libertarian.)
What’s perhaps most interesting: This group overwhelmingly believes that artificial intelligence will make their lives better. And in heartening news for climate advocates, they are even more likely to support a given data center project if it is powered by renewables.
I was going to joke that the profile is essentially a newly retired engineering dad — except that, to my surprise, these data center YIMBYs are far less gender imbalanced than the American engineering profession. (They’re also less gender-imbalanced than American Tesla owners.) So I’ll leave it at that.
Five takeaways from the latest Lazard Levelized Cost of Energy report.
It’s all getting more expensive.
That’s the conclusion of the investment bank Lazard’s latest report on the levelized cost of energy, one of the most closely watched and cited energy reports of the year.
Levelized cost of energy measures the dollars per megawatt-hour a power plant needs to earn in revenue to break even over the course of its lifetime in present-value terms.
What makes LCOE so alluring is that it’s a way to compare any type of generator, whether it requires a large upfront investment but has few operating costs, like a utility-scale solar project, or whether its expenses are largely fuel costs incurred in the future, like a combined cycle natural gas plant. This is also why LCOE has its critics, who point out that a solar panel that only runs during certain times of day has a different value to the electricity system than a natural gas plant that can ramp up and down quickly or a nuclear plant that provides steady baseload power.
Anyway, here’s what we can learn from this year’s Lazard report.
Curves that were once gently sloping downward are starting to look like incipient U’s. While longterm LCOE falls are still dramatic and impressive for some technologies — utility solar has fallen from $359 per megawatt-hour in 2009 to $69 in 2026 — the short term rises are worrisome. That $69 per megawatt hour represents a nearly 10% increase from 2025, when utility-scale solar had a LCOE of $58. And it’s not just renewables — the LCOE for a combined cycle natural gas plant rose from $78 per megawatt-hour to $90 in the past year. Gas plant LCOE got as low as $60 in 2021. That’s a 50% price hike in just five years.
Lazard attributed the increase in solar and wind LCOE to “higher capital costs, sustained interest rates, tariff pass-through and supply chain repricing.” These technologies are also the most “sensitive” to subsidies by way of the tax code, with federal tax tax credits taking the low end cost of utility solar to as low as $16 per megawatt hour. To the extent those tax credits are no longer available or weren’t accessible due to strict eligibility rules, that could be a source of future upward pressure on costs.
That being said, renewables “maintain their relative cost advantage despite facing the same cost pressures affecting the rest of the generation stack,” the Lazard analysts concluded.
Natural gas, meanwhile, is seeing prices spiral upward on huge and growing customer demand.
“Continuous upward revisions to demand projections have driven a sharp increase in announced new-build gas generation despite a 15-year high LCOE and historically long development lead times,” according to Lazard.
The report hints at what LCOE is not always able to capture, namely that generators like gas have attributes besides low cost that make them attractive. “New gas combined cycle plants offer the lowest-cost dispatchable power in high-demand and low-cost-gas environments,” the analysts point out.
Anyone building a new combined cycle gas plant, however, will have to deal with the high cost and low availability for turbines, which is “extending development timelines well beyond historical norms.” That provides an opening for renewables that can be deployed quickly and cheaply, like solar and accompanied by battery storage.
In 2019, the low end of LCOE for onshore end was $28 per megawatt-hour, according to Lazard’s figures, and the high end was $54. In 2026, however, the low end costs sits a bit higher at $37 per megawatt-hour, but the high end cost rose to $99. There’s a similar story for utility solar: in 2019, the spread between low and high was a snug $8 per megawatt-hour, while this year it’s ballooned to $58.
The broadening range is “likely reflecting that some project developers have been better able to mitigate broader cost pressures across supply chain and project-level economics than others,” the Lazard analysts wrote.
The Lazard report doesn’t just look at the discounted cost of individual generators over their lifetimes. It also tries to figure how much they cost on certain grids. One way of doing this is to look at what Lazard calls the “cost of firming intermittency” or “levelized firming costs.” This is essentially looking at what it costs to bring solar, solar and storage, and wind and storage onto actual grids considering their ability to perform when the grid is most stressed.
This measure tries to refine LCOE to give a sense of how various forms of energy generation compare to gas plants in real world circumstances, not just as a financial construct. This is not a perfect, real-world comparison — gas capacity needs to be “firmed” as well, as it’s not always entirely available at times of peak need — but at least it gives an idea of how these resources actually function in a real-world grid.
Even with firming costs, “renewables remain broadly cost-competitive,” the report concludes.
Not surprisingly, some of the most dramatic costs are in America’s most troubled electricity market, PJM Interconnection. The unsubsidized cost of firming intermittency for solar and storage is $167 per megawatt-hour, compared to $150 in Texas or $115 in California. That’s also compared to a $129 per megawatt-hour at the high end for conventional combined cycle gas plants in PJM.
PJM is notorious for its inability to bring on new resources quickly and its strict standards for accrediting the contribution of storage and renewables to grid stability.
While the Lazard authors explicitly caution that it doesn’t measure what the“total system costs are for 1 MWh of incremental electricity” and can’t say “the optimal mix of renewables, conventional generation and storage,” it does conclude that “firming costs and dispatchability are increasingly critical for comparing resources on a more complex grid.”
In short, no matter what ends up on the grid, grid planners will have to think carefully about how to make sure it’s reliable and works in concert with what’s already there.
Timber companies think of them as pests, but new research indicates that stands of the slender tree can act as barriers against raging flames.
Colorado’s Aspen Acres Fire is named after a quiet RV campground located high in the San Isabel Mountains, about a five-hour drive due southeast of the state’s better-known Aspen. Both places, however, are named after the iconic deciduous tree known for its golden leaves in the fall. While the start of monsoon season may yet prevent the Aspen Acres Fire — the seventh-largest in Colorado’s history — from joining Utah’s Babylon Fire as the second 100,000-acre “megafire” of the season, the conflagration has been aided in its rampage not by aspens, but rather by dead, downed, and blighted ponderosa pines, spruce, and Douglas firs. The wildfire has now burned over 98,000 acres and nearly 300 homes, and is only 36% contained due to steep terrain that has hampered firefighting efforts, along with extreme drought conditions and beetle infestations that have greatly degraded the forest health of the region.
But what about its aspens? Though the extent of the damage at the campground remains unknown, according to a recent study of Populus tremuloides, Colorado’s iconic golden trees could be one of the keys to more wildfire-resistant forests in the future.
Flavie Pelletier, a recent PhD graduate of McGill University’s Natural Resource Sciences program, told me she first became interested in aspens while working as a tree planter in British Columbia. “The historical assumption on aspen is that stands are very good at stopping fire progression. But the paradox is that if you take an aspen by itself, it’s going to burn at high severity,” Pelletier, who published her findings in Forest Ecology and Management, told me.
By creating near-real-time maps of fires using satellites and comparing them against the Canadian Forest Service’s newly available maps of dominant tree species in the boreal, Pelletier and her colleagues discovered that aspen were almost two and a half times more common at the perimeter of a burned area than inside it. The finding suggests that despite the flammability of a single aspen with its thin bark, stands of aspen act as a kind of barrier when wildfire ran up against them, likely because they lack the flammable resins of conifers and their high foliage helps force running crown fires back toward the ground. Pine and spruce, by contrast, showed a near-zero or even negative effect.
When aspen stands did burn, Pelletier found they did so more slowly: A tree cover of 50% aspen burned at about 224 hectares per day, compared to 717 hectares per day in areas where aspen made up less than 10% of the cover. That’s the equivalent of about 1,000 FIFA-regulation soccer pitches per day in places where aspen are sparser — like Aspen Acres.
Even more surprising, though, was that the pattern held true in the early season, when the trees are still twiggy and have yet to grow their moisture-filled leaves, and despite the severity of fire weather. “Aspen still showed resilience even when the fire weather was very intense, [like in 2023, when] we had all the fires,” Pelletier said.
But she was also the first to admit that seasons are getting more extreme, and that there’s no guarantee the pattern will hold for the next 10 or 20 years.
Pelletier was reluctant to make a policy recommendation based on her research, noting that she’s not a forest manager. But in Alberta and British Columbia, timber companies spray hundreds of thousands of acres of timber with glyphosate, an herbicide, to kill off aspens because the trees outcompete the more commercially valuable conifers. Her findings are “a big argument to stop the spreading of herbicides because you’re increasing the risk of fire in your forest by removing aspen,” Pelletier said.
Despite her hesitation, Pelletier is explicit in her paper about one thing: that aspens “should be encouraged — specifically around key landscape positions, such as population centers” — given that they are a proven means of hardening the wildland-urban interface against wildfires. It might be too late for the idyllically named Aspen Acres, of course; any of the aspens that once drew tourists to the area are likely now ash.
But this not be Colorado’s last fire, either.