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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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All the workers who helped build Georgia’s new Vogtle plants are building data centers now.
The Trump administration wants to have 10 new large nuclear reactors under construction by 2030 — an ambitious goal under any circumstances. It looks downright zany, though, when you consider that the workforce that should be driving steel into the ground, pouring concrete, and laying down wires for nuclear plants is instead building and linking up data centers.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Thousands of people, from construction laborers to pipefitters to electricians, worked on the two new reactors at the Plant Vogtle in Georgia, which were intended to be the start of a sequence of projects, erecting new Westinghouse AP1000 reactors across Georgia and South Carolina. Instead, years of delays and cost overruns resulted in two long-delayed reactors 35 miles southeast of Augusta, Georgia — and nothing else.
“We had challenges as we were building a new supply chain for a new technology and then workforce,” John Williams, an executive at Southern Nuclear Operating Company, which owns over 45% of Plant Vogtle, said in a webinar hosted by the environmental group Resources for the Future in October.
“It had been 30 years since we had built a new nuclear plant from scratch in the United States. Our workforce didn’t have that muscle memory that they have in other parts of the world, where they have been building on a more regular frequency.”
That workforce “hasn’t been building nuclear plants” since heavy construction stopped at Vogtle in 2023, he noted — but they have been busy “building data centers and car manufacturing in Georgia.”
Williams said that it would take another “six to 10” AP1000 projects for costs to come down far enough to make nuclear construction routine. “If we were currently building the next AP1000s, we would be farther down that road,” he said. “But we’ve stopped again.”
J.R. Richardson, business manager and financial secretary of the International Brotherhood of Electric Workers Local 1579, based in Augusta, Georgia, told me his union “had 2,000 electricians on that job,” referring to Vogtle. “So now we have a skill set with electricians that did that project. If you wait 20 or 30 years, that skill set is not going to be there anymore.”
Richardson pointed to the potential revitalization of the failed V.C. Summer nuclear project in South Carolina, saying that his union had already been reached out to about it starting up again. Until then, he said, he had 350 electricians working on a Meta data center project between Augusta and Atlanta.
“They’re all basically the same,” he told me of the data center projects. “They’re like cookie cutter homes, but it’s on a bigger scale.”
To be clear, though the segue from nuclear construction to data center construction may hold back the nuclear industry, it has been great for workers, especially unionized electrical and construction workers.
“If an IBEW electrician says they're going hungry, something’s wrong with them,” Richardson said.
Meta’s Northwest Louisiana data center project will require 700 or 800 electricians sitewide, Richardson told me. He estimated that of the IBEW’s 875,000 members, about a tenth were working on data centers, and about 30% of his local were on a single data center job.
When I asked him whether that workforce could be reassembled for future nuclear plants, he said that the “majority” of the workforce likes working on nuclear projects, even if they’re currently doing data center work. “A lot of IBEW electricians look at the longevity of the job,” Richardson told me — and nuclear plants famously take a long, long time to build.
America isn’t building any new nuclear power plants right now (though it will soon if Rick Perry gets his way), but the question of how to balance a workforce between energy construction and data center projects is a pressing one across the country.
It’s not just nuclear developers that have to think about data centers when it comes to recruiting workers — it’s renewables developers, as well.
“We don’t see people leaving the workforce,” said Adam Sokolski, director of regulatory and economic affairs at EDF Renewables North America. “We do see some competition.”
He pointed specifically to Ohio, where he said, “You have a strong concentration of solar happening at the same time as a strong concentration of data center work and manufacturing expansion. There’s something in the water there.”
Sokolski told me that for EDF’s renewable projects, in order to secure workers, he and the company have to “communicate real early where we know we’re going to do a project and start talking to labor in those areas. We’re trying to give them a market signal as a way to say, We’re going to be here in two years.”
Solar and data center projects have lots of overlapping personnel needs, Sokolski said. There are operating engineers “working excavators and bulldozers and graders” or pounding posts into place. And then, of course, there are electricians, who Sokolski said were “a big, big piece of the puzzle — everything from picking up the solar panel off from the pallet to installing it on the racking system, wiring it together to the substations, the inverters to the communication systems, ultimately up to the high voltage step-up transformers and onto the grid.”
On the other hand, explained Kevin Pranis, marketing manager of the Great Lakes regional organizing committee of the Laborers’ International Union of North America, a data center is like a “fancy, very nice warehouse.” This means that when a data center project starts up, “you basically have pretty much all building trades” working on it. “You’ve got site and civil work, and you’re doing a big concrete foundation, and then you’re erecting iron and putting a building around it.”
Data centers also have more mechanical systems than the average building, “so you have more electricians and more plumbers and pipefitters” on site, as well.
Individual projects may face competition for workers, but Pranis framed the larger issue differently: Renewable energy projects are often built to support data centers. “If we get a data center, that means we probably also get a wind or solar project, and batteries,” he said.
While the data center boom is putting upward pressure on labor demand, Pranis told me that in some parts of the country, like the Upper Midwest, it’s helping to compensate for a slump in commercial real estate, which is one of the bread and butter industries for his construction union.
Data centers, Pranis said, aren’t the best projects for his members to work on. They really like doing manufacturing work. But, he added, it’s “a nice large load and it’s a nice big building, and there’s some number of good jobs.”
A conversation with Dustin Mulvaney of San Jose State University
This week’s conversation is a follow up with Dustin Mulvaney, a professor of environmental studies at San Jose State University. As you may recall we spoke with Mulvaney in the immediate aftermath of the Moss Landing battery fire disaster, which occurred near his university’s campus. Mulvaney told us the blaze created a true-blue PR crisis for the energy storage industry in California and predicted it would cause a wave of local moratoria on development. Eight months after our conversation, it’s clear as day how right he was. So I wanted to check back in with him to see how the state’s development landscape looks now and what the future may hold with the Moss Landing dust settled.
Help my readers get a state of play – where are we now in terms of the post-Moss Landing resistance landscape?
A couple things are going on. Monterey Bay is surrounded by Monterey County and Santa Cruz County and both are considering ordinances around battery storage. That’s different than a ban – important. You can have an ordinance that helps facilitate storage. Some people here are very focused on climate change issues and the grid, because here in Santa Cruz County we’re at a terminal point where there really is no renewable energy, so we have to have battery storage. And like, in Santa Cruz County the ordinance would be for unincorporated areas – I’m not sure how materially that would impact things. There’s one storage project in Watsonville near Moss Landing, and the ordinance wouldn’t even impact that. Even in Monterey County, the idea is to issue a moratorium and again, that’s in unincorporated areas, too.
It’s important to say how important battery storage is going to be for the coastal areas. That’s where you see the opposition, but all of our renewables are trapped in southern California and we have a bottleneck that moves power up and down the state. If California doesn’t get offshore wind or wind from Wyoming into the northern part of the state, we’re relying on batteries to get that part of the grid decarbonized.
In the areas of California where batteries are being opposed, who is supporting them and fighting against the protests? I mean, aside from the developers and an occasional climate activist.
The state has been strongly supporting the industry. Lawmakers in the state have been really behind energy storage and keeping things headed in that direction of more deployment. Other than that, I think you’re right to point out there’s not local advocates saying, “We need more battery storage.” It tends to come from Sacramento. I’m not sure you’d see local folks in energy siting usually, but I think it’s also because we are still actually deploying battery storage in some areas of the state. If we were having even more trouble, maybe we’d have more advocacy for development in response.
Has the Moss Landing incident impacted renewable energy development in California? I’ve seen some references to fears about that incident crop up in fights over solar in Imperial County, for example, which I know has been coveted for development.
Everywhere there’s batteries, people are pointing at Moss Landing and asking how people will deal with fires. I don’t know how powerful the arguments are in California, but I see it in almost every single renewable project that has a battery.
Okay, then what do you think the next phase of this is? Are we just going to be trapped in a battery fire fear cycle, or do you think this backlash will evolve?
We’re starting to see it play out here with the state opt-in process where developers can seek state approval to build without local approval. As this situation after Moss Landing has played out, more battery developers have wound up in the opt-in process. So what we’ll see is more battery developers try to get permission from the state as opposed to local officials.
There are some trade-offs with that. But there are benefits in having more resources to help make the decisions. The state will have more expertise in emergency response, for example, whereas every local jurisdiction has to educate themselves. But no matter what I think they’ll be pursuing the opt-in process – there’s nothing local governments can really do to stop them with that.
Part of what we’re seeing though is, you have to have a community benefit agreement in place for the project to advance under the California Environmental Quality Act. The state has been pretty strict about that, and that’s the one thing local folks could still do – influence whether a developer can get a community benefits agreement with representatives on the ground. That’s the one strategy local folks who want to push back on a battery could use, block those agreements. Other than that, I think some counties here in California may not have much resistance. They need the revenue and see these as economic opportunities.
I can’t help but hear optimism in your tone of voice here. It seems like in spite of the disaster, development is still moving forward. Do you think California is doing a better or worse job than other states at deploying battery storage and handling the trade offs?
Oh, better. I think the opt-in process looks like a nice balance between taking local authority away over things and the better decision-making that can be brought in. The state creating that program is one way to help encourage renewables and avoid a backlash, honestly, while staying on track with its decarbonization goals.
The week’s most important fights around renewable energy.
1. Nantucket, Massachusetts – A federal court for the first time has granted the Trump administration legal permission to rescind permits given to renewable energy projects.
2. Harvey County, Kansas – The sleeper election result of 2025 happened in the town of Halstead, Kansas, where voters backed a moratorium on battery storage.
3. Cheboygan County, Michigan – A group of landowners is waging a new legal challenge against Michigan’s permitting primacy law, which gives renewables developers a shot at circumventing local restrictions.
4. Klamath County, Oregon – It’s not all bad news today, as this rural Oregon county blessed a very large solar project with permits.
5. Muscatine County, Iowa – To quote DJ Khaled, another one: This county is also advancing a solar farm, eliding a handful of upset neighbors.