Here’s a link to a CBC article on a recently released report I wrote on the carbon emissions and biodiversity impacts of forest biomass energy in eastern Canada.  In short, burning trees to heat buildings can reduce carbon emissions, while burning trees for electricity can increase emissions for decades.  Because biomass cutting can lead to removal of almost all woody material from a site, the impact on biodiversity can be devastating.


I have no need to hunt, in order to eat. As a kid, I was obsessed for a while with hunting and fishing, and had no qualms, as most boys don’t, with killing. But years had passed since those days, and I hesitated as I stepped into the woods, with the thought of killing a wild animal. Why did I want to hunt an animal?

I had made a bow. I had found some plans on the internet, and a friend gave me a piece of dry white ash, quarter-sawn with a reasonably straight grain, enough for several bows. I grinned when I shot my first arrows from my first bow. It worked. Arrows flew and hit the cardboard box I had set up. Some of them. Others careened haphazardly into trees and shrubs and the forest floor in the vicinity of the cardboard target. The bow did not have a lot of power; not enough for hunting.

I made a second bow, stronger than the first. Again I roughed out the bow with a friend’s bandsaw, then shaped the limbs and handle with a spokeshave, as long curls of wood gathered at my feet, destined for the woodstove. Every so often I put one limb to the floor to test its flexibility. Then I tillered the bow; that is, I fine-tuned the limbs to ensure they bent evenly, or at least close to evenly. Gradually I bent the limbs further and further, tense, waiting for the bitter crack and snap of breaking wood.

But the white ash held. I had followed the grain of the wood with the bandsaw’s blade to ensure that the back of the bow was one long continuous ring of wood: one year of the tree’s growth, unbroken from tip to tip of the bow. In this way, the white ash’s long wood fibres were kept whole, as they had grown in the tree, on my friend’s woodlot, before he cut the tree and sawed it into planks with his mill. It had sat for several years in his barn, drying, before I came looking. White ash is not one of the bowyer’s most sought-after woods, but it works. I watched the limbs of my bow bend into a graceful arc as I applied more and more pull to the tillering string, and then become straight again as I eased off on the string. Such an amazing material, I thought. I pictured that ash tree, growing on my friend’s woodlot, bending to the force of strong fall winds without breaking, then coming back straight once winds abated.

I moved through the forest, bow in hand, placing my feet deliberately, slowly, in the fresh snow. Step, step, pause and scan. Again, and again: a rhythm of moving and seeing and hearing, my awareness tuned up. Not walking, really, not a stroll in the forest. I was hunting. I had one arrow nocked to the bow string, ready, and two more held against the handle of the bow. I noted the tracks of snowshoe hare, and red squirrels, and mice, and grouse, and a coyote, and, I kneeled for a closer look, a bobcat, perhaps. Cast members of the ancient predator and prey performance. With the fresh snow, every passing animal had left its trail, visible even to our relatively dull human senses. I’m often amazed by such abundance of tracks, given the rarity of seeing animals in the forest.

A silhouette against the snow, partially visible through the spruce and fir trees, not exactly distinguishable, but enough hints of a form that my brain filled in the obscured parts and I thought, grouse. Soft, easy steps; a little closer. Yes, it was not a stump, but a ruffed grouse, its feathers fluffed against the winter chill. I could have tried a shot, but I knew it would be a very lucky shot at that distance. A couple more steps and the bird stood up, cocking its head about at the sound of my footsteps, then started walking, then stopping and listening, then walking again. I kept moving, not directly at the bird, but more or less parallel, trying to keep my bow from catching on small branches, while keeping pace with the grouse. I pressed the bird on, slowly, keeping it moving, but trying not to make it flee the area.

Soon, I heard a quick flutter of wings that ended a second later. The bird had flown up to a low tree branch. It was early evening, when grouse tend to roost in trees. This was in my favour, as once a grouse was perched in a tree, at this time of day, it tended to stay put. I waited, then took a few slow steps, carefully scanning the trees where I had heard the bird fly up. I saw it on a low branch of a spruce tree. I moved sideways until I had an opening through the tree branches between me and the bird. I knew the grouse was within my range. I slowly raised my bow and drew back the arrow. I paused for half a breath as I reviewed my stance in my mind. Three fingertips on the string, one above the arrow and two below, my middle finger anchored to the corner of my mouth, my elbow pointed back, the pressure of the bow handle against my left hand. I thought about gently releasing the string, and keeping my stance until the arrow hit its mark. A traditional bow, such as mine, has no sights by which to aim. Accuracy depends on instinct, instinct honed by countless practice shots. My archery ability was rudimentary, but I knew I could hit the grouse at this relatively close range. Both eyes open, I focused on the spot on the grouse I wanted to hit. I breathed. My fingertips loosed the bowstring.

Release and contact, in a flash. I took a moment to look away and breathe the cold forest air. There is no pleasure in killing, and my stomach turned a little. I thought back to a couple of weeks I had spent on Haida Gwaii on Canada’s west coast with a friend. We caught, killed and ate big Dungeness crabs and several kinds of silvery salmon. She had shot a deer the day before I arrived, and we ate it after I helped her butcher it. There sure is a lot of killing, it had struck me, with the hunting and gathering lifestyle. I thought of the stories one hears of aboriginal peoples thanking the spirit of an animal they’ve killed, and in that moment, beside the recently alive grouse, it made sense to me, if only to ease one’s heart a little.

When I cleaned the grouse, I opened its crop to see what its day’s foraging had been. I spilled out a tablespoon or two of fresh twigs with buds, which the grouse had snapped off of shrubs and trees that day with its beak. I recognized the round, reddish buds of the red maple tree. The others I couldn’t identify, but they might have been buds from a serviceberry tree. I opened its stomach too, and found more of the same buds, but these less distinct, partly digested. The wonder of it, I thought: this bird digesting and deriving nourishment from twigs and buds from the forest around me.

I ate grouse stew that night, and savoured the meat of the grouse, and thought of the white ash tree that made my bow, and the trees that fed this grouse, and the trees that kept me warm burning in the woodstove, and slept deeply, glad to be a part, that day at least, of the forest.

yB regen under wS, #7_edited-1

“Burn a tree, grow a tree. It’s simple, Jamie!”

So said an exasperated Natural Resources minister to me once. On one level, his argument sounded sensible. The carbon released into the atmosphere by burning one tree should be offset by carbon taken up when a new tree grows and takes its place – or so it might seem. Based on this premise, governments around the world – including Nova Scotia – have introduced policies to encourage biomass energy, buoyed by the hope of reducing carbon emissions.

It’s important to note that nowhere in the world is forest biomass electricity development driven by the energy market; the feasibility of these projects so far depends on support from government policy. When representatives for Nova Scotia Power Inc. (NSPI) were asked whether the company would pursue the Point Tupper biomass project if not for the province’s renewable energy requirements, the answer was a definite “no.” Why not? Cost and risk, of course. The government’s regulated targets for increased renewables provided an opportunity for NSPI to shift that extra cost and risk to Nova Scotian rate-payers.

So hold on. Given that Nova Scotias are picking up the tab, and given that forest biomass electricity hinges on government support, what do Nova Scotians get in return for these costs and risks? And what are we trading for the negative impacts to our forest resource and wildlife habitat, and sacrifice of our higher-value hardwood industries? What about the migrating songbirds, retuning to Nova Scotia in the spring, only to find biomass clearcuts where they once nested and raised their young? If the government’s intention is to reduce our carbon emissions, then Nova Scotians have a right to know whether Point Tupper actually delivers carbon reductions, given the damaging side-effects of burning our forests for electricity.

As it turns out, the assumption that forest biomass electricity reduces carbon emissions is rather brittle. The way forests grow and store carbon, and the way that energy is generated from burning trees, is not as simple as the “burn a tree, grow a tree” argument. Burning trees to make electricity can put more carbon into the atmosphere than burning coal, at least for the next few decades. Burning trees to heat buildings, however, may reduce carbon emissions.

A Critical Climate Accounting Error

So what’s going on here? There are three key issues at play. The first thing to consider is the time it takes a forest to soak up carbon from the atmosphere after biomass is harvested and burned, and whether the forest is even able to soak up an equivalent amount of carbon. The lag time between biomass burning and carbon take-up is important, because we need carbon reduction now, not decades down the road. Scientists tell us that if we can’t get a handle on carbon emissions in the near term, future reductions may not provide much benefit.

A Princeton University scientist named Timothy Searchinger, along with 12 of his colleagues, wrote about this way back in 2009, in an article in the journal Science, titled “Fixing a Critical Climate Accounting Error.” They made the point that land used for biomass fuels may, over the long term, store less carbon per hectare than it did before biomass harvesting. The upshot is that burning forest biomass results in immediate carbon emissions which may or may not be taken up by the forest decades in the future.

Burning trees for Electricity is Inefficient

Burning wood to heat buildings can be 80 percent efficient or even a bit higher. Burning wood to generate electricity, on the other hand, is far less efficient, in the neighborhood of 21.5 percent.

Some biomass electricity facilities can put waste heat to use, thereby increasing their efficiency. By supplying some thermal energy to Hawkesbury Paper, its pulp mill neighbor, Point Tupper, when operating under its best case scenario, can achieve 36 percent efficiency. In other words, of the 50 truckloads of wood delivered to that plant daily (yes, 50 truckloads a day!), 32 to 39 truckloads are wasted, quite literally, up the smokestack.  (Of course, the carbon from all 50 truckloads goes into the atmosphere, regardless of how much energy is produced.)

Furthermore, the carbon footprints of fuels are not equal. For example, electricity from natural gas is far cleaner than coal, and coal is cleaner than wood, on the basis of carbon released at time of burning per unit of energy produced.

A team of forest biomass energy researchers in Massachusetts found that under a best-case scenario (low-impact forest harvesting; use of biomass for heating rather than electricity; and replacing the dirtiest of the fossil fuels), forest biomass can become carbon neutral in as little as 10 to 20 years. However, under a worst-case scenario (clearcutting; burning wood for electricity; and replacing the least dirty of fossil fuels), the researchers found that forest biomass would not become carbon neutral within a century.

To put these results in perspective, the researchers offered a snapshot of estimated carbon emission levels in 2050 (assuming that the forest actually does eventually sequester all of the carbon released). Replacing electricity from coal with electricity from biomass would result in a three percent net increase in emissions by 2050, and replacing a natural gas power plant with biomass would result in a 110 percent net increase in emissions. Replacing an oil-fired heating system with a biomass heating system, on the other hand, could result in a 25 percent net reduction in emissions by 2050.

Researchers in Ontario ended up with similar results. Jon McKechnie and his fellow researchers found that replacing coal-fired electricity with forest biomass electricity would increase carbon emissions for some 16 to 35 years. These researchers also investigated converting trees to ethanol to be used as a substitute for gasoline, and they found that this would increase carbon emissions for more than a century.

Repeat Cutting

A researcher in Norway, Bjart Holtsmark, noted that previous studies had failed to account for the impact of repeated biomass harvests. He found that when multiple biomass harvests on the same piece of land are factored in (based on the forest reaching economic maturity), net carbon emissions from forest biomass electricity remain higher than coal-fired electricity for some 250 years.

There is also research pointing to reduced productivity in certain soils following some types of harvesting. Once the productive capacity of soil is compromised, the forest loses some of its capacity to sequester carbon. This appears to be the case in Nova Scotia, according to research commissioned by the provincial Department of Natural Resources. Unfortunately, DNR has yet to release the results of this study.

Signs of Change

So far, most governments have clung to their policies that make biomass electricity projects economically viable. Under Nova Scotia’s Renewable Energy Standard, biomass electricity still qualifies as renewable, regardless of its actual impact on carbon emissions and our forests. But there are signs of a shift. The European Union has recommended that existing biomass energy facilities should emit 35 percent less greenhouse gases than the fossil fuels they replace, and that new facilities release 60 percent less by 2018.

Massachusetts has gone further by actually changing its energy policy based on our new understanding of carbon accounting in relation to biomass. The state introduced a minimum efficiency requirement of 50 percent for biomass energy projects, a minimum of 60 percent efficiency for projects to receive full renewable energy subsidies, and the further requirement that a proposed biomass facility will reduce carbon emissions by 50 percent over its first 20 years of operation relative to a new natural gas facility. If such requirements were in place in Nova Scotia, the Point Tupper plant would not qualify for the special treatment which enabled NSPI to build it and have electricity customers pick up the tab.

Listen to the Science

What should we do? Nova Scotia’s Department of Energy needs to take a hard look at the science of forest biomass energy and carbon emissions, and adjust its Renewable Energy Standard accordingly. If Point Tupper cannot meet a 60 percent minimum efficiency requirement, perhaps it should no longer qualify as a source of renewable energy. Small-scale biomass heating projects, on the other hand, should be further explored for their potential to reduce carbon emissions while reducing our reliance on fuel oil and electric heat.

Furthermore, Nova Scotia’s Department of Natural Resources should introduce forest harvesting regulations to ensure that carbon storage in Nova Scotia’s forests is increasing over time, rather than decreasing. This would also help avoid the detrimental effects on biodiversity which result from clearcutting for biomass fuel.

Given the negative impacts of forest biomass electricity, it’s time for Nova Scotia to reassess the costs and benefits. Let’s look at the scientific evidence and start making the difficult but necessary decisions. Surely our forests and the wildlife they support are worth it.

A Paddle to Old Forest

On a Friday afternoon in May, four friends and I left Halifax with two canoes, food and camping supplies for a long-weekend escape from the city. Last minute delays meant it was past dark when we set up our tents beside some nameless logging road, by a quiet, boggy lake. We were not sure where we were, only that it wasn’t where we intended to be. In the morning I boiled water for coffee and studied our map, attempting to deduce our location among the myriad lines of logging roads, trails and watercourses. Maps are an approximation of reality.

By midmorning, after a few false turns, we found our destination and soon dipped our paddles into the sluggish waters of Sporting Lake Stream, grinning as our loaded canoes slipped along through the morning quiet. How quickly the city fades from the mind when breathing sun-warmed air off a slow-moving brook, with nothing to do but follow it towards its source. We lunched at the far end of one of several portages. I cut and gathered year-old shoots from wild raison shrubs with thoughts of weaving a basket. We took turns putting our water filters to work, and enjoyed stretching out on some flat rocks, feeling the sun’s warmth. The distance we wanted to travel wasn’t long, and we didn’t hurry.

We made camp on the bank of a small lake. Once the tents were up, I slipped my canoe back into the water and, in the soft light of the evening, paddled to where the lake narrowed near its out-flow stream. An expanse of shrubs bordered the lake – huckleberries, leatherleaf, sweet gale and other bog plants. The sweet gale’s nutmeg scent spiced the warm evening air and the hermit thrushes’ ethereal calls echoed one another from the surrounding forest. It was that utopian moment of spring – all too brief – after the last of the ice clears and before the torment of blackflies ensues. It was also the moment for mayflies, a marker of spring that torments no-one, as these flies do not feed on anything. They exist in their winged stage only long enough to mate and deposit eggs – they belong to a group of insects known as Ephemeoptera, meaning “winged ephemerals.” Incalculable numbers of the insects hovered around me in clouds, now rising a bit, now descending, over the bank-side shrubs and water. I wondered at their coordinated movement, their group dynamic synchronized to who-knew-what rhythm or purpose. It was a gush of spring-time insect abundance, and the winter-hungry trout feasted. The water’s surface was alive with ripples and splashes of darting fish eating their fill of mayflies.

I drifted my canoe alongside the shrubby margin for a bit, then stepped gingerly amidst the huckleberry, feeling for something solid on which to stand. I paused before casting my line, and let a heavy peacefulness settle over me. I realized with a twinge of guilt that it’d been far too long since I’d connected with wilderness, far too long away from streams and forest and the warm evening smell of woods and a lake. I remembered that kid and teenager in me that spent every possible afternoon and weekend canoeing, hunting, camping, fishing, hiking – whatever activity it was just so long as I was out there – and felt a passion rekindled. Most time in wilderness, of course, is far from sublime – mostly it is hot or cold or windy or wet or buggy. But that moment, on that warm spring evening on little lake in south-western Nova Scotia, was a perfect moment of melancholic joy that only time in wilderness can invoke, and only those who go can know.

I cast my line over the water – a few times and then snap! My rod bent sharply and I kept the tip high as I slowly brought the fish in, the rush just as powerful as when I was ten years old, but a thrill I had lately forgotten. The speckled trout was about a foot long, sleek and striking with iridescent colours. A few casts and I had another. I killed and cleaned them quickly, offering a silent apology as my knife entered. Two were enough, and in the twilight, on the edge of night, I paddled back to our tent-site. We cooked the fish over the fire and then passed them around, sharing the sweet, melt-in-your-mouth trout flesh.

Sometime later I read a poem by William Carlos Williams where he states that food, coming to us from the land and sea, is nothing “but the body of the Lord”, and I thought back to that moment of sharing those freshly caught trout, under massive pine trees on a dark May night in a small outpost of wilderness, and while I can’t describe myself as religious, his words rang true and I saw that we and the fish and the forest and the lake were tiny, real, active and interconnected parts of this mysterious, and yes, sacred expression of life.

[originally published in the Chronicle Herald, June 10, 2012]

sporting lake, morning