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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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It is a cliché that everyone in the insurance industry believes in climate change. But the same can certainly be said of those in the mountain-guiding business.
May marks the beginning of the recreational mountaineering season on Washington’s Mount Rainier, the most popular technical climb in the country. But for many of the guide companies that take clients up the mountain, the last day of the 2026 commercial climbing season remains an ominous unknown. “We used to run a season through the end of September typically,” Jonathon Spitzer, the director of operations at Alpine Ascents, which has offered guided climbs of Rainier since 2006, told me. “For four of the last five years, we’ve ended around Labor Day or so” due to poor snow conditions on the mountain — meaning a loss of about 20% of the historic season.
In the spring and summer, when the vast majority of Rainier’s 10,000 or so annual climbers attempt to reach the summit, the weather begins to mellow, avalanche danger lessens, and crevasses remain mostly covered. But ideally the mountain should still be frozen hard. A firm snowpack provides crampons and ice axes with the best purchase, allowing climbers to stick to steep slopes without sliding, while reducing the danger of ice and rockslides. Accidents and falls increase when climbing on loose dirt, slush, and rock, as well as when navigating exposed blue glacier ice, which is normally covered in snow and otherwise extremely slick.
Yet high-mountain areas, known as the cryosphere, are warming up to twice as fast as the global average. Rainier has lost half its ice since 1896, with most of that loss occurring in recent years; three of its 29 glaciers have disappeared since 2021. Researchers last fall went as far as to assert that the 14,410-foot mountain is now 10 feet shorter than it was in 1998 due to a rocky outcropping replacing its former highest point, a mound of ice that has since melted away.
For the guides working on Rainier, the weather in April and May sets the stage for the rest of the season, when spring storms ideally dump the snow needed for the summer climbs. “It doesn’t really matter what happens in December, January, February,” Spitzer told me, since winter snow is dry and blows off the summit rather than accumulates. Alpine Ascents had guides on the summit of Rainier last week who reported that the upper mountain has a lot of snow, but Spitzer cautioned that the character of the season ahead is still uncertain. “It’s been really dry in April,” he noted.
And it’s not looking good for May, either. Temperatures in the Puget Sound region are 20 to 25 degrees above average to start the month, a kind of final exclamation point on the wickedly warm winter and ongoing snow drought across the West. The Cascade mountain basins have only around 29% of their historic median snow-water equivalent, the metric used to measure snowpack and provide insight into runoff, water availability, and the fire season ahead. Tom Vogl, the CEO of the Mountaineers, a Seattle-based alpine club that offers local climbing courses, told me that “100%, with almost no uncertainty, we’re going to have a shorter climbing season on Washington peaks this year.”
In Oregon and northern California, where Lassen Peak sits at the southern end of the Cascades’ volcanic backbone, the snow-water equivalent median is as low as 1% in places. “Mount Hood is a mess right now,” Graham Zimmerman, a professional alpinist and the athlete alliance manager at Protect Our Winters, told me.
Zimmerman was on Oregon’s highest peak in February to climb Arachnophobia, a challenging route, and he told me that on “significant sections of the south side of the mountain, up high on the final summit, we were walking on dirt.” Though Zimmerman isn’t a guide himself, many of his friends are, and for “the core season up there in June, it’s going to be pretty intense,” he predicted. “There’s not going to be a lot of ice, it’s going to be pretty dirty, and when those mountains start to thaw out, they get pretty dang crumbly, and that’s going to create a risk for those going up there.”
Think of a mountain like a scoop of Rocky Road in an ice cream cone. Fresh out of the freezer, the scoop holds its shape because everything is frozen in place — but as it starts to melt, marshmallows and nuts begin to slough down the sides.
Except on a mountain, it’s not marshmallows and nuts but avalanches and rockfall. In addition to being a life-or-death hazard in the moment — and top-of-mind for the risk-averse concessioners guiding otherwise oblivious novice clients — the debris on a warming mountain can close routes to the peak, crowding the ones that remain. “When you have a bunch of people on a route, it doesn’t make things safer,” Zimmerman said. “It makes things more dangerous because people knock stuff onto each other, and because it slows things down.”
Even as the season shortens due to inadequate snowpack, more and more people are trying to climb on an ever-smaller number of viable days. That puts additional pressure on the guides, whose clients take time off from work and pay thousands of dollars for the chance to summit within a predetermined window, even as conditions overall become more dangerous.
This strain is particularly visible in the Himalayas, where photos of the conga line headed to the top of Everest go viral every few years. This season, icefall from a glacier closed the route to the world’s highest point for more than a week, with more icefall anticipated, adding to concerns about queues.
Iconic climbs in the Alps are also a mess due to warming weather and snow shortages. Spitzer, of Alpine Ascents, used to guide on Mont Blanc from June through September, but these days, many guides in the Alps stop around July 15 and resume again in mid- to late-August, when the mountains start to firm up again, because the height of summer in Europe is so hot. “The mountains are dynamic right now,” Spitzer said, and “it’s not just here in Washington. We’re seeing it globally.”
This raises, perhaps, the question of “so what?” Mountaineering is a niche, expensive, and often elite pastime. But a low summer snowpack has knock-on effects: “We expect to see pretty significant impacts on [gateway] communities, not just from the perspective of water availability but also how that relates to guiding businesses, water sports, water recreation, and the outdoor industry, which is really big in the West,” Erin Sprague, the CEO of Protect Our Winters, told me. Rafting guides, for example, could also see abbreviated seasons, hurting their bottom line. Outdoor retailers like REI could see sales slump if it’s a particularly bad fire year, keeping people off the trails.
That’s not to mention that 75% of the West gets its water from snowpack, meaning what happens in the mountains will impact even those for whom sweat, bugs, chance bear encounters, and walking uphill for hours sounds like personal torment.
“It’s not just about mountaineers and climbers who experience the glaciers in a more direct way for recreational purposes — it literally touches every person who lives in the Northwest,” Vogl, the Mountaineers CEO, told me. “This should matter.”
It does to me. In 2021, a few weeks after the Pacific Northwest heat dome, I summited Mount Rainier with my dad on the 50th anniversary of his first climb of the mountain when he was 14. In 1971, August 12 had been the peak of the Cascade climbing season; in 2021, we climbed in a haze of wildfire smoke and almost didn’t make it to the summit because of the warm conditions on the mountain. (Vogl, who was leading a trip on the other side of Rainier around the same time, said exposed blue ice and running water were directly responsible for an accident in his group that resulted in a broken femur and required a helicopter evacuation.) Stripped down to my base layers during the descent from the peak, I watched a boulder the size of a minivan come off a rock across the glacier from where we were climbing. In other spots, we had to balance across ladders laid over crevasses so deep you couldn’t see their bottom.
Last fall, I gave birth to my daughter, and I’ve been thinking about what the mountain will look like in August 2071, on the 100th anniversary of her grandfather’s first summit and the 50th of mine. When I asked Vogl what he thought, I expected something optimistic from the CEO of an organization focused on getting people outdoors. But he sounded crestfallen. “Some of the climbs that I’ve done with my kids, I doubt that they’ll be able to do them with their kids because the conditions are going to change so dramatically,” he said.
I also asked Zimmerman, the accomplished alpinist, what he thought about the future of his sport. He meditated on the question throughout our conversation, only to circle back to it at the end. “I don’t think that people are going to stop climbing,” he finally said. “But I think that people are going to need to come to terms with the fact that we’re living in a changing climate.”
“We’re going to have to continue to adapt, to be smart, to really focus on situational awareness while we’re out there,” he went on. The sense of adventure and risk inherent to climbing won’t just be about first ascents and “going to places where people haven’t necessarily been before,” he predicted — because “even the places we have been are changing.”
Current conditions: The weekend’s polar vortex chill in New York City is over as temperatures are set to hit 70 degrees Fahrenheit today, your humble correspondent’s birthday • A winter storm blanketing the Sierra Nevadas with as much as four feet of snow on Interstate 80’s Donner Pass, the primary route between Sacramento and Reno named for the notorious 1846 episode of snowbound settlers driven to cannibalism • Days after thermometers finally slid from an almost sauna-like 118 degrees to somewhere in the 90s, thunderstorms are deluging India’s northern Uttar Pradesh state as dust storms blast cities such as Kanpur.
The Trump administration is bringing construction of virtually all new onshore wind turbines to a halt, putting as many as 165 projects on pause on the grounds that they may threaten national security. The projects, sited on private land, are being stalled by the Department of Defense, and include “wind farms which were awaiting final sign-off, others in the middle of negotiations, and some that typically would not require oversight” by the military, according to the Financial Times. Wind farms require routine approvals from the Pentagon to make sure turbines don’t interfere with radar systems. Normally these assessments are done in a few days. But developers told the newspaper they have faced a mix of setbacks since last August.
Back in December, the administration made a similar argument to justify an order to stop work on all offshore wind farms. Developers sued, and it only took weeks for federal courts to put a pause on the order. That legal strategy is now expected to play out once again on land.
Exxon Mobil and Chevron are resisting the White House’s pressure to increase oil production as the administration presses U.S. oil majors to ramp up supply to ease the demand shock from the closure of the Strait of Hormuz. In an interview with the Financial Times, Exxon’s finance chief Neil Hansen said there would be “no change” to the company’s strategy in the Permian Basin, while Chevron’s chief financial officer Eimear Bonner said “the crisis has not prompted any change to any of our plans.” The statements come days after the price per barrel of crude hit $126 last Thursday. “There’s really no need for us to shift up because we’re already up, we’re already in high gear,” Hansen said. “That doesn’t mean we aren’t looking at the potential to expand that but there are limitations.”
That doesn’t mean the industry isn’t happy to play along with Trump’s other foreign policy ventures. In a post on X last week, Bloomberg columnist Javier Blas highlighted the rapid shift of Exxon Mobil CEO Darren Woods’ views on Venezuela, which went from “uninvestable” in January” to, just four months later, “a huge resource that’s now opened up more freely to the world” where “we’ll be uniquely positioned and play an important role in bringing those barrels to market.” Meanwhile, the U.S. Senate candidate who could become the first Democrat to win statewide in Texas in 32 years has sought to ease the oil industry’s concerns about his political views. In an interview on Tejano singer Bobby Pulido’s podcast, Democratic Senate nominee James Talarico disavowed his party’s past rhetoric promising to phase out oil and gas production. “The idea that politicians in Washington think they can just eliminate this industry, eliminate these jobs, is something we had to fight against, something we have to fight against in our own party,” he said. “I’m a big fan of the renewable industry we’ve got in Texas … but it’s going to take an all-of-the-above approach.” Killing off the U.S. industry while global demand remains in effect is “not practical” and “it’d do so much damage to our state,” he said.
For all the hype over nuclear power in the United States, the Canadians are the North Americans on track to build the hemisphere’s first small modular reactor. On Friday, Ontario Power Generation’s project to expand its Darlington atomic station just east of Toronto with the world’s first BWRX-300 hit a critical milestone as the province-owned utility completed installation of the reactor’s basement some 35 meters, or about 115 feet, underground. The 300-megawatt unit was designed by GE Vernova Hitachi Nuclear Energy, the heir to General Electric’s 20th-century legacy of building the world’s fleet of boiling water reactors that today still makes up the second-largest share of all commercial fission plants after the Westinghouse-pioneered pressurized water reactor. If the reactor enters into service on time in 2029 — a big if — it will be the first on multiple counts: The first SMR from GE Hitachi. The first SMR in either Canada, North America, or the Western Hemisphere. Indeed, the first SMR in the entire democratic world, an overdue moment as China completes its Linglong-1 project in Hainan and Russia’s floating Akademik Lomonosov nuclear station remains in operation. “Ontario is building the Western World’s first small modular reactor,” Stephen Lecce, Ontario’s minister of energy and mines, said in a statement. “Ontario just executed with great precision the first foundation of a new nuclear reactor in Ontario in over 30 years. This is a major achievement as the world turns to Ontario to refurbish and build large scale nuclear on-time and on-budget.”
Ontario set a model for the rest of the region on how to pursue nuclear power despite modern development constraints. Its government-owned utility opted for the reactor over cheaper renewables and batteries by examining a whole systems-cost approach that included the transmission and back-up generation implied by a big solar and wind buildout. That ownership model also inspired neighboring New York to tap in its New York Power Authority, the largest state-owned utility the U.S., to lead the charge on building at least a gigawatt of new reactor capacity, as Heatmap’s Matthew Zeitlin explained last year. In December, as I wrote at the time, New York Governor Kathy Hochul forged a nuclear alliance with Ontario’s government to work together on issues related to building new reactors. The U.S. last year pumped $400 million into GE Hitachi’s plan to build America’s first BWRX-300 at the federally owned Tennessee Valley Authority’s Clinch River facility, as I reported for Heatmap.
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The Trump administration hasn’t abandoned its effort to kill New York’s congestion pricing scheme. On Friday, Secretary of Transportation Sean Duffy filed a notice of appeal to U.S. District Judge Lewis Liman’s March 3 decision to dismiss the administration’s lawsuit arguing that New York had overstepped its federal authorization by putting the toll in place. Before New York City implemented congestion pricing, experts warned that the apparent opposition captured in the pages of the New York Post was a paper tiger. Successful efforts to impose tolls on cars driving into dense urban areas with lots of public transit in Singapore and London had followed the same arc: Vehement blowback before the tolls take effect, contented acceptance once the charges become as normal as any other toll on the city’s roads and drivers start enjoying the easing of the gridlock. Within months of congestion pricing taking effect, polls showed that, already, support had flipped with more New Yorkers wanting to keep the tolls in place than eliminate them. But a year in, the results were hard to debate. As The City put it: “Less traffic. Faster buses. More subway riders.”
The latest legal challenge comes as New York grapples with mounting energy issues. In March, the Hochul administration proposed pushing back a key deadline in the state’s landmark decarbonization law. The state has yet to broker a final budget as legislators struggle to reach a deal with the governor’s office. Meanwhile, the state’s grid operator has issued a warning urging regulators to allow two barge-mounted power plants in Brooklyn to stay open past their planned closure.

The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration has ruled that The Metals Company’s deep-seabed mining application is fully compliant with U.S. regulations. On Friday, the Canadian company, which is aiming to harvest mineral-rich nodules from a 1.7-million-acre swath of the Pacific called the Clarion-Clipperton Zone, called the approval “a key milestone” toward commercialization that puts the firm on track to start producing metals by the first three months of next year. Under a new regulatory framework NOAA put out, which The Metals Company applied to use, “applicants with exploration-phase data to submit a consolidated application for both an exploration license and commercial recovery permit,” establishing “a more efficient” permitting timeline. “This determination marks an important step forward in NOAA’s transparent, rules-based process, and brings us ever closer to providing the U.S. with a new, abundant and lower-impact source of critical metals,” Gerard Barron, chairman and chief executive of The Metals Company, said in a statement. “It reflects the sheer scale of scientific, environmental, and engineering effort and expertise that have been brought to bear on this project over the last 15 years, which provides us with sufficient information to move efficiently and responsibly into commercial operations under NOAA’s oversight.” Shares in the company surged on Friday in response to the news.
In March, the United Nations’ International Seabed Authority vowed to establish a global framework for regulating deep seabed mining this year, as I wrote at the time. Japan, meanwhile, is stepping up its efforts to create its own seabed mining industry.
The kiwi disappeared from the hills around New Zealand’s capital more than a century ago. But now the country’s flightless national bird is once again living in Wellington. Last week, the Capital Kiwi Project, a charitable trust that aims to bring the birds back to the city, released its 250th kiwi. “They are a part of who we are and our sense of belonging here,” Paul Ward, founder of the Capital Kiwi Project, told Euronews. “But they’ve been gone from these hills for well over a century and we decided as Wellingtonians that wasn’t right.”
Plus news on cloud seeding, fission for fusion, and more of the week’s biggest money moves.
From beaming solar power down from space to shooting storm clouds full of particles to make it rain, this week featured progress across a range of seemingly sci-fi technologies that have actually been researched — and in some cases deployed — for decades. There were, however, few actual funding announcements to speak of, as earlier-stage climate tech venture funds continue to confront a tough fundraising environment.
First up, I explore Meta’s bet on space-based solar as a way to squeeze more output from existing solar arrays to power data centers. Then there’s the fusion startup Zap Energy, which is shifting its near-term attention toward the more established fission sector. Meanwhile, a weather modification company says it’s found a way to quantify the impact of cloud seeding — a space-age sounding practice that’s actually been in use for roughly 80 years. And amidst a string of disappointments for alternate battery chemistries, this week brings multiple wins for the sodium-ion battery sector.
One might presume that terrestrial solar paired with batteries would prove perfectly adequate for securing 24/7 clean energy moving forward, as global prices for panels and battery packs continue to fall. But the startup Overview Energy, which uses lasers to beam solar power from space directly onto existing solar arrays, thinks its space-based solar energy systems will prove valuable for powering large loads like data centers through the night. Now Meta is backing that premise, signing a first-of-its-kind agreement with Overview this week that secures early access for up to a gigawatt of capacity from the startup’s system.
Initial orbital demonstrations are slated for 2028, with commercial power delivery targeted for 2030. It’s an ambitious timeline, and certainly not the first effort to commercialize space-based solar, though prior analyses have generally concluded that while the physics check out, the economics and logistics don’t. Overview Energy thinks its found the core unlocks though: “geographic untethering,” which allows it to direct its beam to ground-based solar arrays anywhere in the world based on demand, and high-efficiency lasers capable of converting near-infrared light into electricity much more efficiently than pure sunlight.
The startup is targeting between $60 and $100 per megawatt-hour by 2035, at which point the goal is to be putting gigawatts of space solar on the grid. “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere,” Marc Berte, founder and CEO of Overview Energy, told me when I interviewed him last December. “You’re profitable at $100 bucks a megawatt-hour somewhere, instantaneously, all the time.”
Launch costs have also fallen sharply since the last serious wave of space-solar research, and Overview has already booked a 2028 launch with SpaceX. Solar power beamed from space also sidesteps two earthly constraints — land use and protracted grid interconnection timelines. So while this seemingly sci-fi vision remains unproven, it might be significantly more plausible than it once appeared. And Meta’s certainly not alone in taking that bet — Overview has already raised a $20 million seed round led by Lowercarbon Capital, Prime Movers Lab, and Engine Ventures.
Fusion startups are increasingly looking to nearer-term revenue opportunities as they work toward commercializing the Holy Grail of energy generation. Industry leader Commonwealth Fusion Systems is selling its high-temperature superconducting magnets to other developers, while other companies including Shine Technologies are generating income by producing nuclear isotopes for medical imaging. Now one startup, Zap Energy, is pushing that playbook a step further, announcing this week that it plans to develop fission reactors before putting its first fusion electrons on the grid.
Specifically, the startup is now attempting to develop small modular reactors — hardly a novel idea, as companies like Oklo, Kairos, and TerraPower have already secured significant public and private funding and struck major data center deals. Zap, however, thinks it can catch up to these new competitors in part by leveraging design commonalities between fission and fusion systems, including the use of liquid metals, engineered neutron environments, and high-power-density systems. “Fission and fusion are two expressions of the same underlying physics," Zap’s co-founder Benj Conwayby said in the press release. "This isn’t a pivot — by integrating them into a single platform, we can move faster, reduce risk, and build a more enduring company."
As the company outlines on its website, pursuing both pathways could eventually manifest in the development of a hybrid fusion-fission system, while also giving Zap practical experience interfacing with regulators and securing approvals. As The New York Times reports, the company is targeting an early 2030s timeline for its fission reactors, although Zap has yet to specify a timeline for fusion commercialization. Like so many of its peers, the company is eyeing data centers as a promising initial market, though bringing its first units online will likely require a significant influx of additional capital.
For all the concern surrounding geoengineering fixes for climate change such as solar radiation management, there’s one form of weather modification that’s been in use since the 1940s — cloud seeding. This practice typically involves flying planes into the center of storms and releasing flares that disperse a chemical called silver iodide into the clouds. This causes the water droplets within the clouds to freeze, increasing the amount of precipitation that falls as either rain or snow.
Alarming as it may sound for the uninitiated, there’s no evidence that silver iodide causes harm at current usage levels. But what has been far more difficult to pin down is efficacy — specifically, how much additional precipitation cloud seeding actually creates. That’s where the startup Rainmaker comes in. The company, which deploys unmanned drones to inject the silver iodide, says that its advanced radar and satellite systems indicate that its operations generated over 143 million gallons of additional freshwater in Oregon and Utah this year — roughly equivalent to the annual water usage of about 1,750 U.S. households. The findings have not yet been peer reviewed, but if accurate, they would make Rainmaker the first private company to quantify the impact of its cloud seeding operations.
Cloud seeding is already a well-oiled commercial business, with dozens of states, utility companies and ski resorts alike using it to increase snowfall in the drought-stricken American West and worldwide — China in particular spends tens of millions of dollars per year on the technology. Rainmaker has a particular aspiration: to help restore Utah’s Great Salt Lake, which has been shrinking since the 1980s amid rising water demand and increased evaporation driven by warmer temperatures.
In a press release, the company’s 26-year-old founder and CEO Augustus Doricko said, “With the newfound capability to measure our yields and quantify our results, Rainmaker will go forward and continue our mission to refill the Great Salt Lake, end drought in the American West and deliver water abundance wherever it is needed most around the world."
Sodium-ion batteries have long been touted as an enticing alternative — or at least complement — to lithium-ion systems for energy storage. They don’t rely on scarce and costly critical minerals like lithium, nickel, or cobalt, and have the potential to be far less flammable. The relatively nascent market also offers an opening for the U.S. to gain a foothold in this segment of the battery supply chain. But especially domestically, the industry has struggled to gain traction. Two sodium-ion startups, Natron and Bedrock Materials, both closed up shop last year as prices for lithium-iron-phosphate batteries cratered, eroding sodium-ion’s cost advantage, while the cost of manufacturing batteries in the U.S. constrained their ability to scale.
But one notable bright spot is the startup Alsym Energy, which announced this week that it has signed a letter-of-intent with long-duration energy storage company ESS Inc. for 8.5 gigawatt-hours of sodium-ion cells and modules, marking ESS’s expansion into the short and medium-duration storage market. Alsym’s CEO, Mukesh Chatter, told me this represents the largest deal for sodium-ion batteries in the U.S. to date — although it’s not yet a binding contract. Notably, it came just a day after the world’s largest-ever order for these batteries, as CATL disclosed a 60 gigawatt-hour sodium-ion agreement with energy storage integrator HyperStrong. Taken together, these partnerships suggest the sector is finally picking up durable traction both domestically and abroad.
ESS, however, is facing its own operational headwinds, nearly shuttering its Oregon manufacturing plant last year before securing an unexpected cash infusion and pivoting to a new, longer-duration storage product. Chatter remains exuberant about Alsym’s deal with the storage provider, however, telling me it represents a major proof point in terms of broader industry acceptance and an acknowledgement that “the benefits [sodium-ion] brings to the table are significant enough to overcome any stickiness” and hesitation around adopting new battery chemistries.
Chatter said that interest is now pouring in from all sides, citing inquiries from lithium-ion battery manufacturers, utilities, and defense companies and highlighting use cases ranging from data centers to apartment buildings and mining operations as likely early deployment targets.