That’s when I learned about a state law that requires Colorado utilities to credit homeowners who send power back to the grid at the same rate they would pay to buy power from the power company. This “net metering” policy made adding solar to my home a good investment. Even though we didn’t add batteries, which would have doubled our costs, our solar panels will offset a significant portion of our utility bills.

I’m a fan of net metering because it forces Xcel Energy, which enjoys a monopoly in my area, to discount our bill for any energy our solar panels produce. They do this even though it cuts into their profits. Net metering made the economics of solar power work in my instance, and we save money when the sun shines brightly and spring days stay cold.

But after watching hurricanes knock out power across large regions of the country, I have a brand-new perspective on net metering. Rather than viewing it as a policy that lets homeowners save on utility bills, I’m thinking of net metering as a way to make where I live more resilient to natural disasters.

My parents live in Asheville, North Carolina which was devastated by Hurricane Helene in September 2024. They were out of town visiting family when the storm struck, but water and power outages kept them from getting home for weeks.

Until 2023, North Carolina had used net metering requirements to encourage solar installation, contributing to its status as the fourth-largest solar power-producing state in the country. But in recent years, power companies successfully persuaded legislators in North Carolina, as well as California, Nevada and Arizona, to switch from net metering to “net billing.” That change and other policies now pay solar producers at significantly lower rates.

In those states, utilities argued that net metering hurts homeowners who don’t have solar by increasing costs for non-solar power. But analyses, notably those conducted by public power consultant Richard McCann of mcubedecon.com, show that increased solar production saves billions for non-solar producers in California.

When states move away from net metering—despite the dubious arguments justifying the shift—the pace of solar installations slows dramatically. In California, new solar installations dropped by 56% from 2022 to 2024.

For those of us with solar panels, I think it’s time to think about adding storage batteries right from the start, using that extra electricity for battery charging. Batteries make any home more independent from the grid, but here’s the catch: The cost can be prohibitive. I’m saving up as solar batteries cost between $12,000 and $20,000 for a typical home according to solarreviews.com. 

The advantages to battery support, however, are significant. If homeowners use their net metering savings to add batteries to disconnect from the grid during outages, they could still pump water out of domestic wells, run refrigerators, or charge their phones until power is restored during natural disasters.

Normally, I wouldn’t advocate for state governments to step in and regulate businesses. But in the case of power companies, I support net metering because there usually isn’t a competitive free market for power.

Customers are at the mercy of electric companies that raised power prices 11% in 2022 and 2.5% in 2023, according to the U.S. Energy Information Administration’s state electricity profiles. As the same companies were raising prices, they were also fighting to reduce the amount rebated to solar-producing homeowners.

Now that I’m aware of net metering and invested in providing solar power back to the grid, I’m keeping tabs on any proposal that would reduce net metering in my state.

It’s such a wonderful concept—thousands of homeowners selling power back to the electric company—while also reducing their vulnerability to natural disasters such as wildfire.

What’s even better: Residential solar power mimics a stand-alone power plant, one that need never be built.

Andrew Carpenter is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He writes in Colorado.

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But now, sadly, Wyoming has agreed to subjugate women. In March, Wyoming’s governor signed a “trigger bill” that would ban abortions in the state five days after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v Wade, which it did June 24.

Around the West, other states including Idaho, Utah, North Dakota, South Dakota and Oklahoma also passed bills restricting women’s reproductive health soon after the Supreme Court acted. Texas had a tough law that banned virtually all abortions since 2021, although their new law, set to take effect in the next month, introduces even harsher measures — a near-total ban, even after incest and rape.

Fortunately, some Western states recognize the needs of women, and are already being sought out by women seeking abortions who are blocked at home. Colorado passed an act in March giving anyone pregnant the “fundamental right to continue the pregnancy… or to have an abortion.”

Three coastal states, California, Washington and Oregon, said they would be havens for women seeking abortions. In addition, Oregon allotted $15 million to help cover abortion costs even for non-residents.

Corporations are also becoming allies. Apple, Citi, and Yelp adjusted their corporate policies in Texas to include travel for abortions as part of health insurance packages. Lyft and Uber have promised to pay legal fees if their drivers are charged with the crime of “assisting” abortion patients.

Ironically, when Covid-19 was rampant, I often heard Westerners express a common sentiment about getting vaccinated, or not: “It’s my body and my choice.” I almost laughed, as that’s the cry of women who want the choice of becoming a mother, or not.

Before the Supreme Court decision was announced, I began talking to people about their views on access to abortion, and as you would expect, reactions were mixed, though no one I spoke to for this opinion agreed to be quoted by name due to privacy concerns. At a block party, a 22-year-old Jackson man, who self-identified as Hispanic, said he thought of abortion as “one of the worst sins.” Then he surprised me by adding, “But a woman should be able to make that decision.”

At a pizza joint, a fourth-generation Jackson resident I’ve gotten to know, said, “I don’t think the government should have a say about your individual body… The government should be building roads. We don’t believe in big government.”

An Indigenous man in his late 20s said, “Humans should be able to make choices for their own human bodies. Otherwise, we’re going back to slavery.”

Still, I get the sense that many well-intentioned men, trying to be supportive of the women around them, are opting to step back and let women fight this battle. This reticence has started to feel like men are saying, “Not my body, not my problem.” Perhaps our state legislators recognize this reluctance to get involved, thus freeing them to vote against women’s rights.

Sometimes an abortion is unwanted but necessary for a woman’s health. Sometimes an abortion is wanted but will now be illegal. I think whatever a woman decides must be her decision, not a ruling from the out-of-touch Supreme Court or from a male-dominated state legislature.

Five years ago, a friend was forced to travel to a Wyoming clinic to get an abortion after a doctor in Idaho told her that abortion was “wrong.” She was angry, and later when she told her father, he said he was proud of her for “sticking up for herself.”

“It was the best money I’ve ever spent,” my friend told me later. “I wouldn’t be half the person I hope to be without making that decision.”

Men retain control over their bodies, but in too many parts of this country, women no longer can. Deciding whether to bear a child is perhaps the biggest decision in any woman’s life. Controlling and criminalizing a woman’s choice is a tragic mistake.

Rebecca (Bex) Johnson is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She works and writes in Jackson, Wyoming.

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Split into basins by an imaginary border at Lees Ferry, Arizona, each state can share blame for the rapid depletion of reservoirs that once held over four years’ flow of the Colorado River. But now, Lake Powell and Lake Mead edge closer to empty. With water savings gone, the Lower Basin has been trying to cope, though the Upper Basin carries on business as usual. Meanwhile, 40 millions Americans depend on flows from this over-diverted river.

So far, leaders in the Upper Basin states of Colorado, New Mexico, Utah and Wyoming appear to be hoping that their counterparts will agree to use less water. This is hardly a useful strategy and seems a lot like a dangerous game of chicken.

The brunt of low flows has been borne by the Lower Basin states of Arizona, Nevada and California. Thanks to a series of agreements between 2007 and 2021, by the end of this year the three states will curtail their river use by more than 1 million acre-feet — 325 billion gallons. But it’s likely these cuts won’t change much.

Federal data released last month predict that Lake Mead, the largest reservoir in the nation and the Lower Basin’s water savings account, will continue to lose water for years to come. Lake Powell, the Upper Basin’s savings account, is also vulnerable. But that raises the obvious question: What are Colorado, Wyoming, Utah and New Mexico doing to limit their water use and conserve? The answer is not much.

In the Upper Basin’s four states there are no self-imposed curtailments of Colorado River allocations — no blockbuster, big-city conservation initiatives, no real signs that leaders are convinced that climate change is not only happening but also a major threat to the region.

More discouraging is that in 2016, the interstate collective of Upper Basin officials, known as the Upper Colorado River Commission, officially decided to take more water out of the river. That decision stands today.

Some of the largest projects on the Upper Basin’s wish list include the Lake Powell Pipeline, Green River Block Exchange, Wolf Creek Reservoir, and the Fontenelle Dam expansion. These proposed projects would drain billions of gallons from the system, reports the nonprofit Save the Colorado.

Does anyone think that extra water exists?

The Bureau of Reclamation, which manages the Colorado River’s infrastructure, released a report in mid-February that predicts Lake Mead will drop another 30 feet by the end of 2023 –– leaving the reservoir 160 feet lower than in the year 2000. It also predicts more cuts for Nevada’s and Arizona’s shares of the river, as well as for California.

In the Upper Basin, where the Colorado River begins, no cuts are proposed. And according to a new report from the Utah River’s Council, a nonprofit fiscal and water watchdog, most of the Upper Basin states continue to use more than their share of the river, even though drought and aridity have reduced river flows.

While the three Lower Basin states use more water than the drought-stricken Colorado can deliver annually, leaders in Arizona, Nevada and California share a spirit of sacrifice when it comes to limiting water use. From my experience running a nonprofit river-protection group, I know that collaboration toward these efforts represents a resolve to act.

The Lower Basin states, for example, are working to fund a water-recycling facility near Los Angeles. The plant would reduce California’s reliance on the Colorado River and give Nevada and Arizona some of that river water in return for their joint funding. Collaborations like this need to start happening in the Upper Basin, but where are the examples?

Water managers in both basins tell folks they are doing their best to deal with the river’s decline, but only the Lower Basin’s actions can be quantified. It’s time for the Upper Basin to blink in this game of chicken and ensure equitable and prudent uses of the river. The lines dividing the states are invisible, but bathtub rings on Lake Powell and Lake Mead are all too visible.

Kyle Roerink is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, a nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is the executive director of the Great Basin Water Network, a nonprofit that defends water supplies from undue political and corporate influence in the nation’s two driest states, Nevada and Utah.

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Nestled in the Northern Sierras, Butte County is home to Chico State University, Sierra Nevada Brewing Co., and portions of two national forests. Almost half its 220,000 residents live in metro Chico. Over the past four years, the county has now become known for the wildfires that keep coming back.

This summer, the Dixie Fire torched more than 559,000 acres of pine, cedar and fir, 1,000 homes and pushed deep into neighboring Plumas County.

Last year, the lightning-ignited Bear Fire merged with others to become the 318,000-acre North Complex fire. It killed 16, injured 100 and burned up several towns.

In 2018, the 150,000-acre Camp Fire proved a holocaust: 85 people died, the town of Paradise famously was engulfed in flames, and more than 18,000 structures burned. It was the deadliest and most destructive inferno in California history.

Unfortunately, these almost-annual fires in Butte County have become part of the larger pattern across the 21^st-century West. A new wrinkle is that these three fires even re-burned some acreage burned earlier. And it will happen again.

That’s one of the takeaways from the recent report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, containing some of the most-dire warnings this UN organization has ever issued.

By century’s end, the planet may have warmed by 5.4 degrees Fahrenheit. A hotter Earth will trigger “progressively serious, centuries’ long and, in some cases, irreversible consequences.”

Wildland wildfire is a lead indicator. By now, every Westerner knows that our climate-driven drought, when combined with skyrocketing temperatures (Portland hit 113 degrees in June), has extended fire seasons and accelerated fire intensity. The UN’s Climate Change report adds that these factors may double the potential burnable areas.

Butte County’s harrowing experience underscores this prediction. To date, the National Interagency Fire Center reports more than 39,590 fires nationally have burned 3.7 million acres. Of the 108 major fires burning in mid-August, Montana led the pack with 25, Idaho had 21, Oregon and Washington each had 14, and California had 11.

The expansiveness of these wildfires is also evident in their smoke plumes. Particulate matter from the 410,000-acre Bootleg Fire, still chewing through Oregon’s Fremont-Winema National Forest, first spilled into western Washington, Nevada, Idaho and Montana, producing some of the nation’s worst air quality index readings.

It then wafted east to darken New England’s skies before drifting over Europe. Western fires have a very long reach. Their extent will soon be amplified. The remarkably hot and dry conditions, from the Rockies to the Cascades, sucked moisture out of the soil and desiccated chaparral and sage, pine, oak and fir.

As in the past, California may suffer the most damage; traditionally its mega-blazes erupt between August and November. Yet that tradition has been badly singed: Significant fires now ignite every month of the year.

Since January 2021, more than 6,272 fires have burned 917,000 acres in California. Climate change is causing these earlier burns, according to CAL FIRE, the state’s firefighting agency: “Warmer spring and summer temperatures, reduced snowpack, and earlier spring snowmelt create longer and more intense dry seasons that increase moisture stress on vegetation and make forests more susceptible to severe wildfire.” These factors have increased the Sierras’ fire season by 75 days.

There are no easy fixes to this crisis exacerbated by human-caused climate change. But there are three interventions we can put into effect right now:

• Accelerate the careful reinsertion of fire into the landscape, as Indigenous fire managers have long practiced. It brings significant cultural, ecological and forest benefits.

• Radically reduce greenhouse gas emissions wherever possible. Over time, this should moderate some of their generative impact on Western wildfires.

• Enact rigorous limitations on new housing in fire zones. States with sprawling foothill and canyon developments would do well to copy California, which this spring took part in a lawsuit challenging the construction of a massive subdivision. The houses are slated for a High Severity Fire Zone in frequently burned Lake County.

Whatever the effectiveness of these and other strategies, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change is clear about the consequences of continued inaction. The rising generation will shoulder the heavy costs resulting from our indecision.

As the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel put it baldly, “Life on Earth can recover from a drastic climate shift by evolving into new species and creating new ecosystems. Humans cannot.”

Char Miller is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.com, a nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is a writer and professor of environmental analysis and history at Pomona College in Claremont, California.

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 The downwind consequences shouldn’t come as a shock, either: Toxic plumes have darkened the skies of the small Oregon town of Sisters as well as the metropolitan areas of Seattle, Portland, the San Francisco Bay Area and Los Angeles.

 The least surprising thing about this summer’s conflagrations is that we have done this to ourselves. We are the architects of the world that is now going up in smoke.

 Picture this Los Angeles Times photograph: a paint-stripped car resting on its buckled roof, its tires and hubcaps incinerated, windows shattered, and wheels weirdly melted. Framing the backdrop are the ash-white remains of a Sierran forest.

 The photograph was snapped in the furious aftermath of the Bear Fire, since subsumed into the North Complex Fire, which has burned 250,000 acres in California’s Plumas National Forest. But it could have been taken at any of this summer’s infernos, because its symbolism is impossible to ignore.

 Even as we fear for the owners of these abandoned automobiles, and are astounded at the intensity of heat that could turn tempered steel molten, we can’t miss how burned-out cars explain our fiery circumstances. After all, no sooner had this four-wheeled, fossil-fueled, late-19th-century technology been invented, than it became one of the icons of the Industrial Revolution, a sign of economic prosperity.

 But the greenhouse gases spewing from these vehicles’ tailpipes have contributed to the profound change in the Earth’s climate. As a result of planetary warming, large swaths of the West have been drying out. Since the 1980s, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Nevada and California have borne the brunt of this process, according to the Palmer Drought Severity Index; and the pace has quickened over the past two decades.

 Other EPA data indicates that warmer and drier conditions will persist for the rest of the century, altering vegetation cover, endangering wildlife and sparking a significant increase in intense fire activity. The result is anthropogenic, meaning “we did it.”

Less well understood is that this rapidly evolving human geography has forged a close link between sprawl and wildland fire. Consider that booming Clackamas County near Portland and fast-growing Deschutes County in eastern Oregon are both under a fire-siege.

Los Angeles is the poster-child for the history of this larger western experience. Between the 1950s and 1970s, for example, its elite began to build mansions in the Hollywood and Beverly Hills. No sooner had celebrities set up house there than devastating fires ripped through the neighborhoods. In 1961, a tie-wearing Richard Nixon was photographed atop his Bel Air home, hose in hand, wetting down its shake-shingled roof.

Since then, a migratory surge has flowed out on a dense freeway network, whose every exit contains an interlocking set of subdivisions, gas stations, restaurants and big-box centers. Fire mitigation has not been high on residents’ agenda, and these insta-towns, some with low-income residents, have generated the same smoke-filled results. Fires have swept through the town of Sylmar, located in northern Los Angeles County, four times since 2008.

This pattern of build-and-burn will continue in Southern California and elsewhere because city representatives and county commissioners, along with those developers who underwrite their political campaigns, green light housing projects. This includes some that are slotted into high-severity fire zones. One example is the gargantuan 12,000-acre planned community called Centennial that is being built in the flammable foothills of the Sierra Pelona and Tehachapi mountains. When completed, it will be home to 60,000 people, many of whom will commute into Los Angeles on an already gridlocked I-5.

 What could halt this suburbanizing march into the woods throughout the West? Stronger local control over new development with a hand from insurance companies, weary from shelling out money to subsidize building again and again in fire zones.

 Everything else seems to have failed.

 Meanwhile, a bit of unsolicited advice to residents of California, Oregon and Washington: Better keep a go-bag handy so you’re ready when told to evacuate.

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