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There isn’t one EV transition. There are two.

This has not been a good week for the electric-vehicle transition. On Wednesday, General Motors scrapped a self-imposed plan of building 400,000 electric vehicles by the middle of next year. Then it jettisoned plans with Honda to build a sub-$30,000 EV. On Thursday, Mercedes Benz announced that its profits had fallen in part due to turbulence in the EV market, and Hertz ditched a plan to have EVs make up 25% of its fleet by 2024.
Nor has the past month been much better. Ford has slowed down its EV factory build-out. Elon Musk announced that Tesla was taking a wait-and-see approach to opening its next plant, in Mexico, and The Wall Street Journal has reported that EV demand is proving weaker than once expected. Higher interest rates and, perhaps, a continued lack of public chargers now seem to be impairing the EV transition.
It’s an odd time, because while the day-to-day news is bad, the overall trend remains good — surprisingly good, even. More than 1 million EVs have been sold in America this year, and the country is likely to record 50% year-over-year EV market growth for two years in a row. That is not the usual sign of an industry in trouble. The industry is faltering, yes, but only compared to the rapid scale-up that companies once aimed for — and that the Paris Agreement’s climate targets demand. And at a global level, the news is better: The economics of batteries and trends in the Chinese and European markets leave little doubt that EVs will eventually win.
So how to make sense of this moment? Automakers, it seems, are not doubting whether the EV transition will happen; they are pausing to figure out how best to proceed. Journalists often talk about the “EV transition,” but this is something of a misnomer — there are really at least two different transitions, two different bridges to the EV future.
One of those transitions must be navigated by the legacy automakers, such as Ford and GM. The other must be completed by the new electric-only upstarts, such as Tesla and Rivian. Both transitions are, today, half-complete. What is notable about this moment is that both transitions are also in flux — and the companies and executives tasked with navigating them are struggling with their next steps.
The first bridge must be built by Ford, GM, Toyota, Volkswagen, and every other legacy automaker heavily invested in the U.S. market. You can think of it as a bridge made of cross-subsidies — subsidies not from the government, but from other cars in their product line.
Right now, many automakers earn their biggest profits by selling big, gas-burning vehicles: crossovers, SUVs, and pickup trucks. They lose money, meanwhile, on each EV that they sell. So over the next few years, these companies must take the huge profits from their SUV-and-truck business and reinvest them into scaling up their EV business.
You can see how difficult this will be by looking at Ford, which conveniently reports earnings from its internal combustion business separately from its electric vehicle business. During the first half of 2023, Ford’s global gas and hybrid sales earned $4.9 billion before interest or taxes. Ford’s EV business, meanwhile, lost $1.8 billion before interest or taxes.
During this same period, Ford sold nearly half a million trucks and SUVs in the U.S. alone, and roughly 25,000 electric vehicles. By one calculation, Ford lost $60,000 for every EV that it sold during the first quarter of this year.
This is the narrow bridge that Ford and its ilk must walk: They must remain mature businesses, delivering consistent profits to shareholders, even as they overhaul their entire product line and manufacturing system. And while these legacy automakers have certain advantages — brand cachet, a network of dealerships, and an understanding of how to make car bodies — they lack the deep familiarity with software or battery chemistries that underpin the EV business. What’s more, their current business rests on uneasy foundations: Because their profits are so heavily concentrated in just a few SUVs and trucks, a sudden shift in consumer tastes, fuel prices, or regulation could undercut their whole hustle.
We’ve already seen one consequence of this concentration in the United Autoworkers strike. By focusing its strikes on just a few factories at first, and then gradually expanding them to include each company’s most profitable facilities, the UAW was able to make its strike fund go further than outside commentators initially estimated. That strategy resulted in record high pay raises for workers in the UAW’s tentative deal with Ford; strikes continue at GM and Stellantis.
But this is, of course, only the first bridge to the EV future. Other companies — including Tesla, Rivian, and the early-stage EV startups Canoo and Fisker — have to build a different path across the river. You can think of this as the bridge of scaling up, although some auto-industry analysts give it a different name: crossing the EV valley of death.
These companies have to survive long enough to build up economies of scale. You can think of it this way: At the beginning of an EV company’s lifespan, it knows very little about how to mass-produce its EVs, but it has a lot of cash to burn. As it matures, it gets better at making EVs and grows its customer base, and it makes cars more frequently and more cheaply. Eventually, it reaches a point where it can sell lots of EVs for more money than they cost to make — that is, it can be a mature, profitable business.
But in the middle, it faces a hold-your-breath moment where its high costs can overwhelm its meager production. This is the valley of death, “the challenging period between developing a product and large-scale production, when a company isn’t earning much if any revenue, but operating and capital costs are high,” as the journalist Steve Levine puts it at The Information.
Nearly every EV company faces this problem to some extent right now. Elon Musk discussed it during a recent rambling Tesla earnings call. “People do not understand what is truly hard. That’s why I say prototypes are easy. Production is hard,” he said. “Going from a prototype to volume production is like 10,000% harder… than to make the prototype in the first place.”
Now, Tesla seems to have mostly cleared the valley of death with its Model 3 and Model Y this year, allowing it to undertake a campaign of aggressive price cuts that have increased demand while retaining some profitability.
But what Musk was talking about — and what Tesla is clearly struggling with — is the Cybertruck, which will debut next month after a multi-year delay. Musk warned that the company had “dug its own grave” by trying to build the Cybertruck and that there would be “enormous challenges” in producing it profitably and at scale.
But “this is simply normal,” he added. “When you've got a product with a lot of new technology or any brand-new vehicle program, but especially one that is as different and advanced as the Cybertruck, you will have problems proportionate to how many new things you're trying to solve at scale.”
Every other EV company finds itself on the same narrow bridge. Rivian, for instance, is somewhere further behind Tesla in general but is fast making up ground. It scaled up its production of its R1T and R1S models last quarter faster than analysts thought, but was at last report still losing money on each vehicle. Rivian’s CEO, R.J. Scaringe, told me that the company is focusing on making its next line of vehicles, the R2 series, easier and simpler to manufacture to avoid this problem.
Even further behind Rivian are Fisker, which claims to have delivered 5,000 of its Ocean SUVs, and Canoo, which is struggling to stay solvent.
What’s hard about this moment, then, is that the downsides and risks of each approach have never been clearer.
If a legacy company completes its EV transition too quickly, then it risks finding itself with a fleet of electric vehicles that the public isn’t ready to buy. Companies like Ford, GM, Volkswagen, and Toyota must scale up a profitable EV product line at the same time that they sell vehicles from their legacy business.
Worldwide, no historic automaker has transitioned fully to making battery-electric vehicles, although some have come very close: BYD, the Chinese automaker that has surpassed Tesla as the world’s biggest producer of EVs, opted to quit making internal-combustion vehicles last year, but it still sells plug-in hybrids. Volvo, too, is making an attempt: It has promised to stop selling internal-combustion cars by 2030. But Volvo is owned by the Chinese automaker Geely, meaning that both of these companies can sell their cars to a much larger and more EV-interested Chinese domestic market.
Yet the second transition is tough, too. Although it may seem that EV-only companies have a lot of freedom (by lacking a network of EV-skeptical dealerships, for instance), they also have no alternative revenue to cushion themselves through a period of soft demand — they can’t ever cross-subsidize. Although it sold buses and not private vehicles, the American EV-only vehicle maker Proterra is indicative here: It went bankrupt earlier this year after getting stuck halfway through the valley of death.
America is going to have a domestic EV industry. By the mid-2030s, most automakers will be integrated EV companies, building and selling electric vehicles that include some in-house hardware, software, and battery components. Consumers will think of their new vehicles more as technology than as a simple mode of transportation, and they will power them from ubiquitous charging stations, which will be as mundane and abundant as wall outlets are today.
That future is certain. But what kinds of cars will we be driving, and what companies will count themselves among the electric elect? I couldn’t tell you. It will all depend on what happens next — on who makes it across the narrow bridge.
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Facing down a sea change, the automaker has staked its next EV bet on a compact, sporty pickup.
“Full fathom five, your father lies,” the invisible spirit Ariel sings early in The Tempest, as a handsome and grieving prince listens, rapt. The song tells of a shipwrecked skeleton transforming into something else — its eyes have become pearls, and its bones pink coral — as it undergoes, yes, a “sea change.” It is the first time that phrase appears in the English language.
Ford is now facing its own kind of sea change. Over the past decade, the automaker has doubled down on its most profitable and exciting vehicles — pickups, SUVs, and the Mustang muscle car — and dropped from its line-up the cheap, boring cars that once made it famous. It embraced, then backed off, the transition to electric vehicles, in part because it failed to make money from them; and it began to reckon with the surge of cheaper, cleaner, and “far superior” EVs from Chinese producers that are transforming global auto markets around the world.
Locked into its aging but reliable line-up, yet unable to innovate at the low end, Ford might seem like the epitome of a company facing disruptive innovation. No wonder its stock has traded flat from where it was five years ago — even as the broader market has surged by more than 70%.
Its solution is an EV skunkworks, run by Tesla alumni, where it can develop a new “universal EV platform” to undergird future vehicles. Today, we got a peek at the first car to emerge from that secret shop: an all-electric compact pickup that will hit the roads by the end of next year. Its name? The Ford Fathom.
We know very little about the Fathom, as our correspondent Andrew Moseman wrote today. It will retail for just over $28,000, and even with mandatory delivery costs and other add-ons will stick to this side of $30,000. That makes it only a smidge more expensive than the gas-burning Ford Maverick, a sporty, compact, and popular pickup that starts around $27,000.
Ford promises that the Fathom will have as much seating capacity as Toyota’s RAV4, America’s best-selling car that isn’t a truck. (Ford’s own F-150, of course, holds the true No. 1 spot.) Those dimensions suggest the Fathom will sport a four-door crew cab, like the Maverick, making it more acceptable to families with kids — or young professionals who want to give their friends rides on the weekend. It will also have a frunk.
Beyond that, though, we don’t know much. We don’t know its range, for instance, and its price point shouldn’t inspire too much confidence on that front. Nor do we know, frankly, whether Ford can pull it off: When the automaker announced its first electric truck, the F-150 Lightning, in 2021, it claimed a price point of less than $40,000. Eighteen months of inflation later, it actually sold them for closer to $55,000 — and it still lost money on every EV that it made. Fixing the latter problem is part of why the skunkworks exists in the first place, and Ford now has an additional half-decade of experience making EVs. But consumers hoping for a miraculously priced electric pickup from the Blue Oval have been burned before.
If the Fathom disappoints, though, then consumers will soon have other options. The American car market is about to be deluged with sporty, compact pickup trucks — a welcome change from just a few years ago, when the segment was almost entirely dominated by mid-size and half-ton models. The Jeff Bezos-backed startup Slate will start delivering two-door, all-electric pickups starting at $25,000 at the end of this year. The automaker Stellantis, which owns the Dodge and Jeep brands, says it wants to bring another compact pickup — it’s almost more of a ute — called the Rampage to North America soon.
That’s welcome news for me — I love these little trucks — but I’m a little worried I’ll be outside my pickup-buying years by the time they actually make it to market. In the meantime, I’ll keep you posted on other updates about the Fathom. Will “sea nymphs hourly ring its knell”? No, but it will have Apple CarPlay and Android Auto.
The company confirmed its plans to market research company Cleanview.
The data center buildout has hit a new inflection point. It has long been true that artificial intelligence is fueling climate change by driving up power demand; more recently, tech companies have started directly financing new natural gas plants in their quest for AI glory. Now one is backing the biggest fossil fuel-fired power plant ever to exist in the United States — exclusively to power an AI data center complex.
That company is Amazon, according to the market research company Cleanview, which reported on Friday that the tech giant is building an AI data center campus in Texas powered by an up to 7.65-gigawatt off-grid natural gas plant.
That’s larger than any other power plant in the country — fossil or otherwise. The next biggest plant is the Grand Coulee hydroelectric plant in Washington State, at 7 gigawatts, followed by Arizona’s 4-gigawatt Palo Verde nuclear plant, and the West Count Energy Center, a 3.7-gigawatt natural gas plant in Florida.
The new power plant’s developer, Pacifico Energy, announced in January that it had secured permits from Texas regulators for the project, dubbed “GW Ranch.” The site is also permitted for up to 750 megawatts of solar and 1.8 gigawatts of battery energy storage.
It was not clear who the customer for all this energy would be until earlier this week, when Cleanview uncovered construction permits Amazon filed showing that the company owned the GW Ranch site. The company confirmed to Cleanview that it acquired the site and planned to buy power from Pacifico’s plant.
Not only will this natural gas plant be larger than the one in Florida, it will also use far less efficient technology. Pacifico’s permit says it plans to build 35 “simple cycle” generating units, which are typically installed in rarely-used peaker power plants and waste a lot more fuel potential than the modern “combined cycle” natural gas plants that serve as baseload power for the grid today. These more efficient turbines are essentially on backorder for years, and power-hungry developers have increasingly turned to the simpler versions as a quick fix as they race to bring facilities online.
According to its permit, the GW Ranch plant is allowed to emit as much as 33 million tons of CO2 per year. That’s twice as much as the most-polluting power plant in the country, the James H. Miller Jr. coal plant in Alabama, emitted in 2023, the most recent year for which data is available.
In a statement to Cleanview, an Amazon spokesperson said the company “believes in paying the full costs of powering our operations,” and that this Texas project “does just that: it’s powered by new on-site generation that won’t raise electricity costs for Texas families and designed to transition to grid-connected service as interconnection timelines allow.”
Some researchers disagree on that point, however. In an opinion piece for Utility Dive, Energy Innovation director Jeffrey Rissman and senior fellow Eric Gimon argue that the proliferation of off-grid natural gas generation for data centers will increase costs for regular people more than if the data centers connected to the grid, because they will be competing with utility companies for gas supply. “Data centers can buy gas in bulk and sign long-term contracts (as we’ve seen in Texas, Pennsylvania and New Mexico), giving them access to cheap gas, even if this unfairly drives up prices for everyone else,” they write.
Jane Flegal, a senior fellow at the Searchlight Institute, has also argued that building off-grid natural gas plants to serve data centers locks in emissions for decades because the plants don’t face competitive pressure from other resources. When a new natural gas plant is hooked up to the grid, by contrast, there’s a far greater chance that cheaper, cleaner resources will displace its generation over time.
The Rhodium Group recently developed a scoring system to help investors differentiate between projects that are likely to accelerate the energy transition, those that will have little effect one way or the other, and those that will actively slow it down. They used it to assess options for powering data centers, and found that off grid natural gas plants scored the worst, falling at the bottom of the latter category.
Regardless, Amazon still, somehow, asserts that it is committed to achieve net zero emissions by 2040.
The smoke pouring into Seattle from Spokane is particularly bad, but there’s also no such thing as good smoke.
I wrote this story from inside a cloud of smoke. Owing to some funky meteorology in the Seattle area this week — a pressure ridge paired with a thermal trough — the region’s usual westerly winds reversed, causing smoke from the fires burning in the eastern half of the state to pour through the mountain passes and river valleys of the Cascades and pool over the populous Puget Sound lowlands, where I live.
Though it’s cleared up some today, I’m still running my air purifier on full blast because I know what’s in the lingering smoke. Unlike the still blazing wildfires in Ontario that are burning through mostly uninhabited forests, the smoke in the Seattle area this week came to us partially from Spokane, where the Old Trails fire razed at least 700 buildings and homes last weekend. That means that beyond the usual organic matter associated with wildfire smoke, the pollution that has hung over Seattle has likely also contained particles and chemicals from burned plastics, batteries, cars, and household appliances.
But how can the average person be sure whether their wildfire smoke is the bad kind or the worse kind? (At least assuming that well-adjusted people do not obsessively watch the animations on AirNow.Gov, as I do.) I turned to Coty Jen, an associate professor of chemical engineering, and Albert Presto, a research professor of mechanical engineering, both of Carnegie Mellon University, to learn more about the chemistry of wildfire smoke.
“There is no safe smoke,” Jen said, setting me straight immediately. “It’s all bad. It will piss your body off.”
While it’s true that some smoke is more toxic than other smoke, what you might call the “all natural, organic” variety will still spike hospital emission rates and exacerbate pre-existing respiratory diseases, even if it is mostly burning trees.
Under ideal conditions, when cellulose or lignin — the main structural components of trees and plants as well as leaf litter and soil, the largest sources of carbon during a forest fire — heat up and combust, the chemical reaction creates carbon dioxide, water, heat, and light. But wildfires don’t burn cleanly, and the chemical reactions often stall midway through that process due to things like oxygen availability and temperature variation, producing intermediate products like carbon monoxide or partially broken-down bits of carbon, often called soot. The tiniest of these particles can be smaller than 2.5 micrometers across — 30 or more could fit across the width of a human hair — and are measured collectively as PM2.5, a catch-all term that refers to the size of the particle rather than what it is. What’s important, though, is that these particles are small enough to penetrate deep into our lungs and potentially enter our bloodstream, factors that add to the known mortality associated with PM2.5 exposure.
Different kinds of forests create different emissions — heavy duff, or leaf litter, which is common in pine forests, creates some of the densest smoke conditions. Wetter fuels also burn “dirtier,” creating more pollution. Different topographies also impact air quality in myriad ways; it’s no surprise that some of the worst pollution from the Spokane wildfires pooled in mountain valleys as a warm overhead layer of air trapped the particles near the ground.
Even “natural” wildfires can be extra toxic; burning eucalyptus, which grows in Southern California, is not something you want to inhale. Pine smoke can cause mutations in bacterial DNA, a common lab test for a substance’s potential to cause cancer. Wildfires that smolder are worse than those that burn fast; researchers have found that PM2.5 can be up to 70 times higher when fuels aren’t actively on fire. “You can even see this if you’ve ever built a fire yourself,” Presto explained. “There’s a period where everything is big and flaming, and then, if you’re burning a log, it eventually goes down to smoldering. The emissions are different.”
In the case of something like a house burning down in a wildfire, however, it’s not only cellulose and lignin combusting. “We’re good at engineering materials that are extremely robust, but when they burn, they release very exotic compounds,” Jen said. She pointed to the common plastic PVC, which is used for everything from exterior siding to plumbing and window frames. When it combusts, PVC releases chlorine, “which is very bad for you,” Jen told me. “It’s like how bleach is bad for you — it’s a pretty nasty chlorine compound. PVC isn’t releasing bleach, but it is releasing radical chlorine molecules that produce some crazy compounds.”
If you’re following a smoke event at home, the answer is “not really.” PM2.5 is measured in micrograms per cubic meter, which tells us how much small stuff is floating around, but not what that small stuff is. “It is pretty difficult to measure all the different compounds that wildfires, or broadly any pollution, will emit,” Jen said. “The easiest way to quantify it is to literally suck air onto a filter and measure how heavy it got.”
Measuring what exactly is in that mass requires instruments that cost in the ballpark of half a million dollars, which is not financially feasible at every air monitoring station, Jen went on. But while there are certainly academic applications for that kind of knowledge, a person trying to decide whether or not to go for their run in wildfire smoke doesn’t need that level of granularity.
“Some smoke is definitely more dangerous,” Jen said. “But as innocent bystanders, it’s not like we can pick and choose what smoke floats over to us. You just have to live with it, so the best mentality is to treat all smoke as bad.”
In a 2026 Science Advances study that attributed more than 24,000 deaths per year to wildfire smoke in the U.S., researchers found no safe threshold for PM2.5 exposure. Every 0.1 microgram per cubic meter increase in a county’s average annual PM2.5 from smoke was associated with nearly 5,600 excess deaths nationwide, even though most counties saw only trace amounts of smoke — about 0.4 micrograms per cubic meter a year. While it’s “orange sky” days, when the pollution spikes into triple-digit AQI numbers, that get the most media attention, even low exposure that you can’t smell or even see can be affecting your health.
PM2.5 is just one component of wildfire smoke — the other is gases, including benzene and formaldehyde. Many gases chemically transform as they move from where the fire is to where you inhale them. “The atmosphere is extremely oxidizing — it likes to add oxygen molecules onto compounds,” Jen said.
Some of those compounds react faster than others, “so it depends how downwind you are,” Jen went on. That’s why people closer to a wildfire — maybe a day or less downwind — get the distinctive campfire smell, mainly from the “young” vapors and volatile organic compounds. But for people on the East Coast who were subject to the Ontario smoke several weeks ago, the smoke had to travel several days to reach places like Pittsburgh and New York, and by then the sharper-smelling compounds had transformed into new pollutants like ozone.
The AQI only measures a few specific gases that are considered “criteria pollutants” under the Clean Air Act, which means, as Presto told me, “during these fires, you could emit a whole bunch of different other gases that don’t have an AQI number.”
Instead, you can look at the PM2.5 number to get the gist of how prevalent wildfire gases are. “If your PM 2.5 is high, it’s impossible for the bad gasses to be low,” Jen said. “The way we think about it is, there’s a bunch of junk on the particle, and if the same junk’s not also in the gas, it will evaporate off the particle into the gas. They always exist together.”
You might notice by now that I’ve written little about the actual AQI number, that score that appears on your weather app and runs from zero to 500 (or, confusingly, even higher). That’s because while the AQI is a great communication tool, it doesn’t offer us much in the way of the science of wildfire smoke.
The AQI measures five different pollutants — PM2.5, ozone, carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide, and nitrogen dioxide — with the EPA setting specific concentration thresholds for each one, as my colleague Emily Pontecorvo has explained. “If local concentrations of any one of them tick up above those protective standards, the AQI will jump from green to a more alarming color,” she wrote. “The higher the level of pollution is, the higher the AQI and the darker the color will be.”
If you want to impress your friends, though, you ought to zero in specifically on the PM2.5 concentration — again, because the prevalence of the tiniest particulates is a good indicator of all the other gunk you can assume is in the air, too. (You can find the specific PM2.5 concentration usually by clicking for more information about the AQI on your weather app or checking IQ Air’s widget.) For example, at the time of this writing, my local PM2.5 concentration is 50 micrograms per cubic meter, more than triple the World Health Organization’s 15 micrograms per cubic meter threshold for 24-hour exposure. (The EPA’s 24-hour threshold is much more lenient, at 35 micrograms per cubic meter.)
When I asked Jen how she stays sane knowing all she knows about smoke exposure, she laughed. “I have just generally become more terrified of all campfires and all barbecues, but people already think I’m weird, so I might as well add to it,” she told me.
In all seriousness, though, she told me the answer is air filters, and her confidence in their ability to work. When wildfire smoke rolled through Pittsburgh, she had two running that she moved from room-to-room with her family, as well as a whole-house air filter. “We were getting PM2.5 concentrations in our house of about 80 micrograms per cubic meter when it was 150 outside,” she said. “But with the air filter on, we could drop that down to less than eight.”
Jen pointed out, though, that many people do not run their air filters properly. Filters are rated at their highest blower level, “so for them to be effective, you need to crank them to their highest setting to get all the air through,” she said. Most people keep their filters on auto or low because they’re so loud — myself included, until I learned otherwise.
Additionally, while an air filter is a rather large appliance, it really ought to be placed in the center of your room to be the most efficient, rather than up against a wall. (Again, my bad.) “When these wildfire events happen, the most effective place for the air filter is where you are, and you have to run it loud, which kind of sucks,” Jen said. “But it is better than breathing in gross air.”