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Inside Climeworks’ big experiment to wrest carbon from the air

In the spring of 2021, the world’s leading authority on energy published a “roadmap” for preventing the most catastrophic climate change scenarios. One of its conclusions was particularly daunting. Getting energy-related emissions down to net zero by 2050, the International Energy Agency said, would require “huge leaps in innovation.”
Existing technologies would be mostly sufficient to carry us down the carbon curve over the next decade. But after that, nearly half of the remaining work would have to come from solutions that, for all intents and purposes, did not exist yet. Some would only require retooling existing industries, like developing electric long-haul trucks and carbon-free steel. But others would have to be built from almost nothing and brought to market in record time.
What will it take to rapidly develop new solutions, especially those that involve costly physical infrastructure and which have essentially no commercial value today?
That’s the challenge facing Climeworks, the Swiss company developing machines to wrest carbon dioxide molecules directly from the air. In September 2021, a few months after the IEA’s landmark report came out, Climeworks switched on its first commercial-scale “direct air capture” facility, a feat of engineering it dubbed “Orca,” in Iceland.
The technology behind Orca is one of the top candidates to clean up the carbon already blanketing the Earth. It could also be used to balance out any stubborn, residual sources of greenhouse gases in the future, such as from agriculture or air travel, providing the “net” in net-zero. If we manage to scale up technologies like Orca to the point where we remove more carbon than we release, we could even begin cooling the planet.
As the largest carbon removal plant operating in the world, Orca is either trivial or one of the most important climate projects built in the last decade, depending on how you look at it. It was designed to capture approximately 4,000 metric tons of carbon from the air per year, which, as one climate scientist, David Ho, put it, is the equivalent of rolling back the clock on just 3 seconds of global emissions. But the learnings gleaned from Orca could surpass any quantitative assessment of its impact. How well do these “direct air capture” machines work in the real world? How much does it really cost to run them? And can they get better?
The company — and its funders — are betting they can. Climeworks has made major deals with banks, insurers, and other companies trying to go green to eventually remove carbon from the atmosphere on their behalf. Last year, the company raised $650 million in equity that will “unlock the next phase of its growth,” scaling the technology “up to multi-million-ton capacity … as carbon removal becomes a trillion-dollar market.” And just last month, the U.S. Department of Energy selected Climeworks, along with another carbon removal company, Heirloom, to receive up to $600 million to build a direct air capture “hub” in Louisiana, with the goal of removing one million tons of carbon annually.
Two years after powering up Orca, Climeworks has yet to reveal how effective the technology has proven to be. But in extensive interviews, top executives painted a picture of innovation in progress.
Chief marketing officer Julie Gosalvez told me that Orca is small and climatically insignificant on purpose. The goal is not to make a dent in climate change — yet — but to maximize learning at minimal cost. “You want to learn when you're small, right?” Gosalvez said. “It’s really de-risking the technology. It’s not like Tesla doing EVs when we have been building cars for 70 years and the margin of learning and risk is much smaller. It’s completely new.”
From the ground, Orca looks sort of like a warehouse or a server farm with a massive air conditioning system out back. The plant consists of eight shipping container-sized boxes arranged in a U-shape around a central building, each one equipped with an array of fans. When the plant is running, which is more or less all the time, the fans suck air into the containers where it makes contact with a porous filter known as a “sorbent” which attracts CO2 molecules.

When the filters become totally saturated with CO2, the vents on the containers snap shut, and the containers are heated to more than 212 degrees Fahrenheit. This releases the CO2, which is then delivered through a pipe to a secondary process called “liquefaction,” where it is compressed into a liquid. Finally, the liquid CO2 is piped into basalt rock formations underground, where it slowly mineralizes into stone. The process requires a little bit of electricity and a lot of heat, all of which comes from a carbon-free source — a geothermal power plant nearby.
A day at Orca begins with the morning huddle. The total number on the team is often in flux, but it typically has a staff of about 15 people, Climeworks’ head of operations Benjamin Keusch told me. Ten work in a virtual control room 1,600 miles away in Zurich, taking turns monitoring the plant on a laptop and managing its operations remotely. The remainder work on site, taking orders from the control room, repairing equipment, and helping to run tests.
During the huddle, the team discusses any maintenance that needs to be done. If there’s an issue, the control room will shut down part of the plant while the on-site workers investigate. So far, they’ve dealt with snow piling up around the plant that had to be shoveled, broken and corroded equipment that had to be replaced, and sediment build-up that had to be removed.

The air is more humid and sulfurous at the site in Iceland than in Switzerland, where Climeworks had built an earlier, smaller-scale model, so the team is also learning how to optimize the technology for different weather. Within all this troubleshooting, there’s additional trade-offs to explore and lessons to learn. If a part keeps breaking, does it make more sense to plan to replace it periodically, or to redesign it? How do supply chain constraints play into that calculus?
The company is also performing tests regularly, said Keusch. For example, the team has tested new component designs at Orca that it now plans to incorporate into Climeworks’ next project from the start. (Last year, the company began construction on “Mammoth,” a new plant that will be nine times larger than Orca, on a neighboring site.) At a summit that Climeworks hosted in June, co-founder Jan Wurzbacher said the company believes that over the next decade, it will be able to make its direct air capture system twice as small and cut its energy consumption in half.
“In innovation lingo, the jargon is we haven’t converged on a dominant design,” Gregory Nemet, a professor at the University of Wisconsin who studies technological development, told me. For example, in the wind industry, turbines with three blades, upwind design, and a horizontal axis, are now standard. “There were lots of other experiments before that convergence happened in the late 1980s,” he said. “So that’s kind of where we are with direct air capture. There’s lots of different ways that are being tried right now, even within a company like Climeworks."
Although Climeworks was willing to tell me about the goings-on at Orca over the last two years, the company declined to share how much carbon it has captured or how much energy, on average, the process has used.
Gosalvez told me that the plant’s performance has improved month after month, and that more detailed information was shared with investors. But she was hesitant to make the data public, concerned that it could be misinterpreted, because tests and maintenance at Orca require the plant to shut down regularly.
“Expectations are not in line with the stage of the technology development we are at. People expect this to be turnkey,” she said. “What does success look like? Is it the absolute numbers, or the learnings and ability to scale?”
Danny Cullenward, a climate economist and consultant who has studied the integrity of various carbon removal methods, did not find the company’s reluctance to share data especially concerning. “For these earliest demonstration facilities, you might expect people to hit roadblocks or to have to shut the plant down for a couple of weeks, or do all sorts of things that are going to make it hard to transparently report the efficiency of your process, the number of tons you’re getting at different times,” he told me.
But he acknowledged that there was an inherent tension to the stance, because ultimately, Climeworks’ business model — and the technology’s effectiveness as a climate solution — depend entirely on the ability to make precise, transparent, carbon accounting claims.
Nemet was also of two minds about it. Carbon removal needs to go from almost nothing today to something like a billion tons of carbon removed per year in just three decades, he said. That’s a pace on the upper end of what’s been observed historically with other technologies, like solar panels. So it’s important to understand whether Climeworks’ tech has any chance of meeting the moment. Especially since the company faces competition from a number of others developing direct air capture technologies, like Heirloom and Occidental Petroleum, that may be able to do it cheaper, or faster.
However, Nemet was also sympathetic to the position the company was in. “It’s relatively incremental how these technologies develop,” he said. “I have heard this criticism that this is not a real technology because we haven’t built it at scale, so we shouldn’t depend on it. Or that one of these plants not doing the removal that it said it would do shows that it doesn’t work and that we therefore shouldn’t plan on having it available. To me, that’s a pretty high bar to cross with a climate mitigation technology that could be really useful.”
More data on Orca is coming. Climeworks recently announced that it will work with the company Puro.Earth to certify every ton of CO2 that it removes from the atmosphere and stores underground, in order to sell carbon credits based on this service. The credits will be listed on a public registry.
But even if Orca eventually runs at full capacity, Climeworks will never be able to sell 4,000 carbon credits per year from the plant. Gosalvez clarified that 4,000 tons is the amount of carbon the plant is designed to suck up annually, but the more important number is the amount of “net” carbon removal it can produce. “That might be the first bit of education you need to get out there,” she said, “because it really invites everyone to look at what are the key drivers to be paid attention to.”
She walked me through a chart that illustrated the various ways in which some of Orca’s potential to remove carbon can be lost. First, there’s the question of availability — how often does the plant have to shut down due to maintenance or power shortages? Climeworks aims to limit those losses to 10%. Next, there’s the recovery stage, where the CO2 is separated from the sorbent, purified, and liquified. Gosalvez said it’s basically impossible to do this without losing some CO2. At best, the company hopes to limit that to 5%.
Finally, the company also takes into account “gray emissions,” or the carbon footprint associated with the business, like the materials, the construction, and the eventual decommissioning of the plant and restoration of the site to its former state. If one of Climeworks’ plants ever uses energy from fossil fuels (which the company has said it does not plan to do) it would incorporate any emissions from that energy. Climeworks aims to limit gray emissions to 15%.
In the end, Orca’s net annual carbon removal capacity — the amount Climeworks can sell to customers — is really closer to 3,000 tons. Gosalvez hopes other carbon removal companies adopt the same approach. “Ultimately what counts is your net impact on the planet and the atmosphere,” she said.
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Despite being a first-of-its-kind demonstration plant — and an active research site — Orca is also a commercial project. In fact, Gosalvez told me that Orca’s entire estimated capacity for carbon removal, over the 12 years that the plant is expected to run, sold out shortly after it began operating. The company is now selling carbon removal services from its yet-to-be-built Mammoth plant.
In January, Climeworks announced that Orca had officially fulfilled orders from Microsoft, Stripe, and Shopify. Those companies have collectively asked Climeworks to remove more than 16,000 tons of carbon, according to the deal-tracking site cdr.fyi, but it’s unclear what portion of that was delivered. The achievement was verified by a third party, but the total amount removed was not made public.
Climeworks has also not disclosed how much it has charged companies per ton of carbon, a metric that will eventually be an important indicator of whether the technology can scale to a climate-relevant level. But it has provided rough estimates of how much it expects each ton of carbon removal to cost as the technology scales — expectations which seem to have shifted after two years of operating Orca.
In 2021, Climeworks co-founder Jan Wurzbacher said the company aimed to get the cost down to $200 to $300 per ton removed by the end of the decade, with steeper declines in subsequent years. But at the summit in June, he presented a new cost curve chart showing that the price was currently more than $1,000, and that by the end of the decade, it would fall to somewhere between $400 to $700. The range was so large because the cost of labor, energy, and storing the CO2 varied widely by location, he said. The company aims to get the price down to $100 to $300 per ton by 2050, when the technology has significantly matured.
Critics of carbon removal technologies often point to the vast sums flowing into direct air capture tech like Orca, which are unlikely to make a meaningful difference in climate change for decades to come. During a time when worsening disasters make action feel increasingly urgent, many are skeptical of the value of investing limited funds and political energy into these future solutions. Carbon removal won’t make much of a difference if the world doesn’t deploy the tools already available to reduce emissions as rapidly as possible — and there’s certainly not enough money or effort going into that yet.
But we’ll never have the option to fully halt climate change, let alone begin reversing it, if we don’t develop solutions like Orca. In September, the International Energy Agency released an update to its seminal net-zero report. The new analysis said that in the last two years, the world had, in fact, made significant progress on innovation. Now, some 65% of emission reductions after 2030 could be accounted for with technologies that had reached market uptake. It even included a line about the launch of Orca, noting that Climeworks’ direct air capture technology had moved from the prototype to the demonstration stage.
But it cautioned that DAC needs “to be scaled up dramatically to play the role envisaged,” in the net zero scenario. Climeworks’ experience with Orca offers a glimpse of how much work is yet to be done.
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Roads bring people, and people start fires.
The United States has more roads than you could possibly imagine. Eighty-three percent of the land in the Lower 48 lies within one kilometer of a road; if you’re seeking isolation, the furthest you can get away from one is likely only about 25 miles, in a far-flung corner of Yellowstone National Park.
The Trump administration wants to build even more. Earlier this week, the U.S. Department of Agriculture filed to rescind the nearly quarter-century-old Roadless Area Conservation Rule, which protects about 45 million acres of pristine national forest lands from the construction of — and dissection by — new permanent roads. The USDA’s given reason? That new roads will provide the access forest managers and fire practitioners need to better prevent wildfires in the nation’s most remote locations.
Fire ecologists immediately cried foul. Researchers have long understood that roads enable wildfire ignitions by bringing people — who are responsible for starting nearly 85% of fires — into the landscapes. Just this past January, new research found that wildfires ignited four times more often within 50 meters of a road than in an untracked, intact forest. “The notion that you can prevent fires by building roads seems to me precisely backwards when you look at what the science says,” Ben Goldfarb, the author of the road ecology book Crossings, told me.
But this past spring, Americans got a good idea of what wildfires look like when there aren’t roads around. Lightning storms in Northern Ontario ignited fires in an area so remote that officials found it “impossible to get firefighters on the ground” to fight them, per The New York Times, or even to react early with airplane water tankers. The result? More than 1.8 million acres burned in the province so far this year, with the resulting smoke causing the Midwestern U.S. and New England to experience some of its worst air pollution in decades.
“There’s a duality — roads are neither necessarily good nor bad from a fire perspective,” Eric Kennedy, an associate professor of disaster and emergency management at York University, told me. “They bring opportunities for ignition and they bring opportunities for firefighting.” Those opportunities include the aforementioned access for fire personnel, as well as serving as a fuel break so crews can gain a foothold against an approaching conflagration. In a populated area, more roads can also mean more evacuation routes when there is a disaster, preventing potentially deadly traffic jams.
Forest defenders were already suspicious of the administration’s motivations when it comes to wildfire policy. “There’s all of the Trump administration directives to increase logging on public lands, which rescinding the Roadless Rule helps to facilitate,” Goldfarb noted. Environmental groups have pointed to attempted legislation such as the Fix Our Forests Act, which removes obstacles for forest management methods, including timber harvest, as another example of how the administration is allegedly using wildfire as a cover to cut down and sell more trees.
Viewed in the context of recent changes by the administration to weaken the Endangered Species Act — namely, narrowing the definition of “harm” to a species to exclude disturbances to its habitat — rescinding the Roadless Rule can appear to follow a kind of rapacious internal logic that “wildlife doesn’t need habitat, and we can build roads wherever we want to disrupt” the forest, Goldfarb went on.
Fires igniting in remote areas is also not a new problem. Agencies adapt to the fire conditions in their areas, such as Quebec, which has an entire apparatus for fighting fires in tractless wilderness, including shuttling in fire crews via float plane. “You can fight fires via helicopter. You can also build temporary roads under the Roadless Rule,” Goldfarb said. As one Montana-based National Forest manager of 25 years recently wrote for a local newspaper, in his experience, “the Roadless Rule doesn’t pose an insurmountable barrier to good land management; it simply requires baseline analysis and thought before impacting the landscape.”
Those who are cynical about the Trump administration’s motivations also pointed me toward the grandiose scale of the Roadless Rule rescission. Fire managers frequently talk about the need for tailored, local, and precise responses to America’s wildfires, which run the gamut from grass fires to chaparral fires to forest fires in regions that both do and do not have histories of regular burning. Policymakers would more appropriately approach wildfire management fireshed by fireshed, they say, and through proposed management plans. Perhaps most notably, the Roadless Rule protects about half of the nearly 17 million acres of the Tongass National Forest, a temperate rainforest and one of the wettest locations in North America, which “does not experience wildfires like those in other places,” the Alaskan environmental conservation group SalmonState wrote in a statement with other advocates and business groups.
Most cynical, though, is the argument that the Trump administration is proposing rescinding the Roadless Rule at the same time that it has gutted the Forest Service that is supposed to maintain all those roads. The agency already struggles with an overwhelming backlog of maintenance projects, from washed-out bridges to erosion problems that impact the water quality in drought-stressed areas. If the USDA were really interested in using roads to combat wildfires, the line of thinking goes, then it would be investing more in the Forest Service, people told me, not less.
“The wildfire challenge really calls upon us to be able to hold different dimensions and different layers and seemingly contradictory ideas at the same time,” Kennedy said, again emphasizing that one can make the case that roads have benefits in certain contexts and scenarios. But while there may be a valid line of debate about when, where, and how roads can help with wildfire management, using the cudgel of a rescission, it doesn’t appear to be one the administration is interested in having.
The facility will power OpenAI’s 10-gigawatt data center in Pike County, Ohio.
The Trump administration aims to complete its environmental review of what would be the biggest fossil fuel power project in the country in just a few months, Heatmap has learned.
This news follows Monday’s announcement from OpenAI that it intends to lease a new 10-gigawatt data center under development in Pike County, Ohio, financed by a mixture of money from a SoftBank subsidiary and the chip company Nvidia. This AI hyperscale facility — known as the PORTS-Pike project — is expected to draw power from the largest gas power facility ever built in the United States, a 9.2-gigawatt facility sited on federal lands that would be built and owned by the Energy Department.
According to OpenAI, the data center campus will be built and started up in phases, with the first 800 megawatts starting construction this year and operational in 2028. That first phase will rely mostly on existing power infrastructure operated by AEP Ohio. How things progress from there will depend at least in part on the permitting and construction timelines for the new power plant.
Building large infrastructure of any kind on federal land or with significant federal investment typically triggers a review under the National Environmental Policy Act. I’ve been curious to find out what kind of review this particular project was going to get, especially after the administration allowed a NEPA review for a solar project to be repurposed for a data center on federal lands earlier this year.
Turns out some information about the PORTS-Pike permitting process is public. Before OpenAI confirmed its involvement with the site, the Trump administration added the project to the federal FAST-41 permitting dashboard, where it posts regular updates on the timeline for getting federal sign-offs. Per the lone federal notice available about the PORTS-Pike project, it will include “several data center buildings and power plants.” That will require at least two federal greenlights: an Army Corps of Engineers permit and approval from the Fish and Wildlife Service, which is being consulted about potential endangered bats in the project area.
The NEPA permitting work for this historically large data center-plus-fossil fuel power project began on July 10 and will conclude on December 23, the day before Christmas Eve, according to the Trump administration’s estimates. This comes after paperwork to begin the review was submitted to the Army Corps in May, per the federal notice — a total timeline of about seven months.
Those familiar with NEPA and the debate over permitting reform will likely be surprised by the speed of this review. It’s moving fast in part because the project is receiving just an Environmental Assessment, the lesser and smaller type of analysis than the EIS. I do not know why the government decided to take this route because the government’s NEPA review determination is not currently public, but I have asked the Army Corps to explain this move.
I’m not sure exactly how air permitting will fit into this NEPA review, as the Clean Air Act isn’t listed as a review step on the federal dashboard. The Ohio EPA has primary authority over permitting projects like these under the Clean Air Act, and I’ve reached out to them to confirm whether PORTS has submitted a permitting application. The state agency’s permitting database does not have any information on air permitting for the project, though it does include reports from third-party consultants confirming wetlands and protected species warranted reviews from the Army Corps and Fish and Wildlife.
Lastly, these timetables are not sacrosanct. Under the Fiscal Responsibility Act of 2023, agencies are supposed to complete environmental assessments within one year, but nevertheless they regularly fail to meet them. The White House’s Council on Environmental Quality said in a report to Congress last year that from mid-2023 to mid-2025, the Army Corps was the agency that most often missed these statutory NEPA deadlines for environmental assessments.
Still, news of this speedy review for a priority Trump project is sure to excite pro-data center advocates who see expedited construction as an imperative in the global AI arms race. It’s also guaranteed to put a foul taste in the mouths of environmentalists already frustrated by federal revisions to NEPA regulations they say elide analysis of climate impacts.
What’s undebatable in all this is that, as my colleague Robinson Meyer wrote, the PORTS project could ignite a new era of mega-gas plants. This permitting timeline couldn’t be more important for the future of the data center boom — and the nation’s greenhouse gas emissions.
SB Energy, the SoftBank subsidiary behind the data center project, did not provide comment before publication.
A new front opens in the data center wars.
A series of lawsuits filed in federal court asks a big question – are data center moratoria constitutional?
In early August, data center developer DC Blox sued the city of Nashville in federal court to overturn a zoning moratorium stopping them from building a hyperscale facility adjacent to the city zoo. “The Data Center Moratorium, moreover, is a targeted attack against DC BLOX, in violation of federal constitutional protections,” the suit argued, claiming that it defied the corporation’s due process and equal protection rights.
Around the same time, another developer – Wixom Industrial One – filed a federal lawsuit against the city of Wixom, Michigan, to try and “invalidate the city’s illegal police power moratorium” blocking their data center.
These two cases were far from novel or the first of their kind, and they’re now a fresh front in the battle over hyperscale data centers. At least that’s what some who work on these cases say: In April, attorneys with the law firm Vorys published a “client alert” asserting “many moratoria may be vulnerable to statutory, procedural, and constitutional challenges.” The attorneys advised that constitutional arguments against moratoria “may be stronger where a government singles out data centers without a sound factual basis, treats similar land uses differently without a reasonable basis, or adopts a restriction driven more by political pressure than by defensible planning or regulatory objectives.”
Months later, according to court documents, the Vorys attorneys who authored the alert now represent real estate firm Thor Equities in a federal case against the Ohio city of Urbana, arguing the city’s decision to reject their data center project broke “fundamental protections” under the U.S. Constitution. (Vorys and Thor Equities did not respond to requests for comment.)
It’s unclear how many of these kinds of cases have been filed to date. Data on federal court cases is quite opaque. But legal experts and industry attorneys tell me we should expect them to be on the rise as developers seek whatever tools they can find to get projects built.
“Bringing a lawsuit like this is fairly cheap, something they can do at a relatively low cost, and imposes a real cost on local governments to defend themselves,” said Daniel Metzger, director of the Cities Climate Law Initiative at Columbia Law School’s Sabin Center. “The cases out there will be bellwethers. And if successful, there’ll be a lot more of them.”
What developers probably want looks a lot like Hill County, Texas, where an LLC proposing an $80 million data center project was stymied in May by the state’s first countywide moratorium. (It predated Governor Greg Abbott’s temporary freeze of data center development in Texas by three months.) Within a period of only a few weeks, the LLC sued and the county rescinded the pause on approvals. The case was dropped a month later. Local reports state the county had to afterwards pay the corporation $100,000 in legal fees – a drop in the bucket compared to what a drawn-out court battle would have cost the rural county.
Metzger said whether the companies will win these cases is ultimately not the point – their goal is to win a finished data center, not a judicial ruling. By filing expansive litigation in the national court system, a hypothetical developer can exhaust the coffers of a city or county with legal expenses that are chump change compared to would-be billions in private financing for compute infrastructure.
“These lawsuits may deter some local governments from taking steps to oppose data center development, just because of the cost it would impose on them to defend a lawsuit, even if they know they have a strong legal basis for the action they want to take.”
Those I spoke to in private practice about data center developers’ constitutional arguments agreed with Metzger’s assessment that it’s too early to tell whether the companies will win. Generally, they said, a city or county will win this kind of case if it demonstrates a rational basis for its decision-making and courts typically want to defer to governmental autonomy. The onus will be on the developers to prove a moratorium was meritless – that’s the due process challenge – or unfairly targeted their industry in a way other sectors don’t face, which is the basis of the equal protection claim.
“What they’re saying is in essence that these actions the municipality is taking are arbitrary and capricious, which is one of the sort of catch-all standards,” Thomas Allen, a partner at K&L Gates, told me. “They say the laws lack a rational basis. And then they make equal protection claims, saying data centers are being singled out because of political concerns as opposed to actual things relevant to the legislature’s directive. They’re not basing their decisions on the underlying merits of the project but reacting to political pressure.”
“It’s a reliance question and it’s about the treatment of their projects,” added Laura Morton, an attorney with Ashurst Perkins Coie. “It’s always been important to talk about and engage with communities where your infrastructure is planned. Here, I think this is the developers going in, maybe having conversations, and then suddenly they’re getting a reversal after already receiving these approvals and making investments based off of what the conversations and rules were.”
The likelihood of these constitutional challenges reaching higher courts anytime soon is quite low. It’ll be a long time before we see one of these cases reach a verdict, let alone some kind of appeals process come to fruition. Nevertheless, the new legal ambiguity around these local restrictions is an important new facet of the data center wars, including for developers.
“Companies want to act within the law to get [things] done, so whatever tactics they can do to help get the project over the line that are legal and ethical, they may try those,” Allen told me. “And if that includes the pressure of a lawsuit, that’s a judgment they’ll have to make.”