The Climate in Emergency

A weekly blog on science, news, and ideas related to climate change


Leave a comment

Groundhog’s Day!

The following is a slightly re-edited version of an older, but clearly seasonal post. I’ve always liked this time of year–it feels optimistic, when optimism can be hard to come by.

-C.

This weekend was Groundhog Day, the day when, supposedly, a groundhog in Pennsylvania predicts the weather by seeing or not seeing his shadow. It’s the closest we have to a climate-related holiday.

It’s an odd holiday–never mind how a groundhog could predict the weather, how can one groundhog give a single prediction for the entire country? And why six weeks? We can explore these questions briefly and then I’ll get back to talking about climate.

Groundhog Day itself goes back to Europe, where a group of interrelated traditions had various animals–hedgehogs, bears, badgers, perhaps even snakes–breaking hibernation in February to predict the remaining length of winter. The underlying idea is that clear weather in early February is, counter-intuitively, a sign of a late spring. And that association may well hold, at least in parts of Europe, for all I know.

February 1st or 2nd is also a cross-quarter day, one of the four days per year mid-way between a solstice and an equinox (the solstices and equinoxes are the quarters). The other three are May 1st, August 1st, and November 1st. All four were holidays in at least some of the pre-Christian European religions and all four survive as folk traditions and Christian holidays. All four are also holidays within the modern religion of Wicca. So today or yesterday is not just Groundhog Day but also Candlemas, Brigid, or Imbolg, depending on your persuasion, and all involve the beginning of spring. I have always heard that in European pagan tradition, the seasons begin on the cross-quarters, not the quarters–thus, spring begins not on the Spring Equinox but on the previous cross-quarter, in February. I’ve always wondered if perhaps “six more weeks of winter” is a remnant of cultural indecision as to which calendar was correct–whether spring should begin in February or six weeks later, in March.

In any case, we in America got Groundhog’s Day when German immigrants in Pennsylvania adapted their tradition to the New World–Germans looked to hedgehogs as prognosticators, but hedgehogs don’t live in America (porcupines are entirely unrelated). Groundhogs do. In the late 1800’s, the community of Punxsutawny announced that THEIR groundhog, named Phil, was the one and only official groundhog for everybody, thus utterly divorcing the tradition from any concern with local weather. There are rival Groundhog’s Day ceremonies, but Phil is still the primary one.

Groundhogs (which are the same thing as woodchucks) do sometimes take breaks from hibernation, though they don’t necessarily leave their burrows. There are various theories as to why, but most involve the need to perform various bodily processes that hibernation precludes–including, perhaps, sleep. Hibernation is not the same as sleep, after all. But there is evidence that male groundhogs spend some of their time off in late winter defending their territories and visiting females. They actually mate after hibernation ends for the year, but apparently female groundhogs don’t like strangers. Thus, it is actually appropriate that Phil is male–the groundhogs who come out of their holes in February are.

Anyway, underneath the silliness at Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawny, Groundhog’s Day is about a cultural awareness of weather patterns and animal behavior. Certain times of the year are cold and other times are not, dependably. If we pay attention, we can know what to expect and we can organize holidays and cultural observances around that knowing. In this sense, then, Groundhog’s Day is not about weather but about climate. Climate is the roughly stable pattern that makes it possible for ordinary people who don’t have supercomputers or satellites to predict the weather simply by watching the world around them.

We’re losing that, now. It’s fifty degrees outside, where I live. In February. And while warm, springlike weather is pleasant and I intend to go out in it as soon as I’m done writing this, there’s always something unnerving about unseasonable conditions. But the patterns our cultural traditions are build on–climate–are eroding. The world is getting less reliable, less like home.

It’s a little thing, as consequences from climate go, but one likely to have a profound effect on us psychologically. There is still time to do something about it. Get involved politically, support climate-sane candidates.

Now.

Advertisements


Leave a comment

How Do You Know?

We’re in the deep freeze, thanks to a destabilized polar vortex, and predictably, certain people are publicly complaining that the cold disproves climate change, not realizing that this weather pattern is, in fact, a symptom of change.

Old news.

In the meantime, I’ve been thinking about uncertainty, and how climate deniers sometimes use the fact that climatologists don’t know everything to argue that they don’t know anything.

Actually, it’s a fair question. While no one could fairly expect any expert to literally know everything in their field, how can climatologists be so sure of some things and so unsure of others? When a climate denier makes a wild claim (for example, that climate change on Earth can’t be due to carbon dioxide emissions because other planets are warming, too–which, by the way, they mostly aren’t), how can the rest of us be sure it is wild?

I thought of an analogy.

Imagine someone says to you “I just saw someone walk by the window, but I can’t be sure who it is.”

So, you start asking questions–what gender, what age, what clothing–and the person isn’t sure. “I think it was a man, but I’m not sure. Dark hair, blue clothing? I really didn’t get a good look.”

You then ask “OK, what about skin color? Was the skin purple?”

Even though your informant knows very little, the question is ridiculous, because humans can’t have purple skin. Three nipples, sometimes. Four kidneys, occasionally. But not purple skin, and we’re all familiar enough with our own species that we never ask if barely-glimpsed people have purple skin.

Knowledge comes in different levels–for any topic, some types of information are superficial, while others are fundamental. If you know those fundamentals, and a claim violates those fundamentals (as any suggestion that rising carbon dioxide levels aren’t causing warming does) then you don’t need to do any research on the specifics to know the claim is false.

Now, most of us don’t know the fundamentals about climate–it’s not difficult to study up, but not everybody has the energy or the time. If that’s your position, then you can’t identify wild claims as balderdash on your own–but you can trust that the genuine experts are not being arbitrary when they call foul.

This trust is important. I do not mean thoughtless trust, I mean informed trust, based on a carefully-developed capacity to identify which people have the fundamental knowledge and the understanding that such knowledge isn’t universal. There are things we really do need experts for–like performing surgery, flying airplanes, and sorting out real science from hooey.

Such trust makes us smarter, not dumber, because it means we don’t have to make sense of the world alone.


Leave a comment

The Carbon Footprint of a Beagle

So, we just got a beagle.

We already had one beagle, but after the death of her co-dog (a Lab/pit mix) last month, she’s been lonely, so we got her a companion. His name is Reilly, and he is sweet and affectionate and already causing trouble in his distinctively charming and beaglish way.

This seems like a good time to cover a topic I’ve been interested in for a while, the relationship between climate change and pets

The Carbon Footprint of Pets

Turns out, there have been serious scientific studies of the carbon footprint of dogs and cats. Results vary, but the general consensus tends to be that pets, collectively, have a large carbon footprint because there are a lot of them and dogs and cats eat mostly meat, which is a carbon-intensive food.

There are a couple of interesting points, here.

First, these studies may be studies of the carbon footprint of pet food, not pets. One research team is quoted as having looked at dog food only, based on the assumption that other aspects of dog care have minimal impact. Their assumption may be correct, but personally I’d like to see a study that examined all aspects of dog (and cat) care so we could check the accuracy of that assumption. I’m also amused by their conclusion, that big dogs have a larger carbon footprint than small dogs, since big dogs eat more. Personally, I’m not sure why anyone would assume the non-food aspects of dog care have minimal impact (a complicated question involving lots of data most of us don’t have) but then perform and publish a formal study on whether big dogs eat more than small dogs do.

Second, sorting out the carbon footprint of food may be trickier than it appears. For example, pet food is often made, in part, from meat by-products, which humans can’t eat. By-products are essentially waste for which a market has been created, stuff that would not exist if the primary product (muscle meat for human consumption) were not being produced. So is it really fair to assign the carbon footprint of the meat by-product to the dog who eats it rather than to the human whose demand for steaks created that steer in the first place?

The carbon footprint of food can vary a lot, as we know from studies of human diets. For example, beef and lamb are much more carbon-intensive than chicken. I’d like to see a detailed break-down of several different kinds of pet food and the different aspects of their production.

To Pet or Not to Pet

What does the question “what is the carbon footprint of a pet?” really mean? We could ask about the carbon footprint of Reilly and what we, his guardians, can do to make him a “greener” dog. Alternatively, we could be asking about our own carbon footprint and whether not having Reilly would make my husband and I “greener” people.

And since Reilly’s personal impact on the climate would presumably be about the same no matter who had him, the latter question really boils down to the draconian “should Reilly be alive?”

In a similar spirit we might debate, or refuse to debate, the lives of human children. Indeed, since humans have huge carbon footprints, especially in the so-called “developed” world, some list “having a child” as the worst thing a person can do to the planet, even worse than airplane travel, car travel, or eating meat.

My husband and I don’t have children, and environmental impact is part of the reason, but phrasing the decision as a measurable reduction of our carbon footprint as a couple seems very wrong.

What if the child in question were the next generation’s Rachel Carson?

The very idea of reducing a child to a carbon footprint is offensive. Reducing Reilly in such a way is less so, but still pretty bad.

But Haven’t There Always Been Dogs?

There is an argument to be made for having fewer dogs and cats in total. Their collective environmental impact is not negligible, and most humans could get along without them quite well (I said most, not all). But if all dogs and cats suddenly vanished, would the carbon footprint of humanity really shrink? Or would some other use be found for meat by-products?

Perhaps more to the point, would climate change really slow?

This whole line of questioning reminds me of cows. There is an argument to be made for having fewer head of cattle, too, after all, since their environmental impact is quite large, and we can eat other things. But when I brought up such an argument a while back, a friend of mine posed an interesting question; haven’t there always been cows?

And yes, cows are not new. I’m fairly sure there are a lot more now than there used to be, but surely before the modern mountain of moo there were other ungulates, bison and caribou, antelopes and takhi and quagga, to take up the slack.

Ok, those last two aren’t exactly ruminants, but you get the point. The only way large herds of cattle could actually change the climate would be if the total number of ruminants, domestic or otherwise, had grown–and how would such increased stock find enough to eat if something else hadn’t changed?

The same question applies to dogs and cats. If these animals have not simply replaced their wild counterparts but actually exist now in excess of the total historical animal mass, where did the excess food come from and why isn’t it accounted for in the historical carbon balance, where the carbon each animal releases came ultimately from plants and returned to plants again for no net change?

Some other source of energy must be fueling the swelling populations, something from outside the old balance–fossil, presumably, in one way or another. In other words, if the total population of dogs (or cattle or humans) has grown too large for the planet, it is a symptom, not a cause, of our problem.

As useful as carbon footprint calculation can be, it’s possible to get lost in the weeds here and miss the larger picture, which is that the climate is changing because the concentration of greenhouse gasses is rising, period.

Reilly can’t introduce additional carbon to the system. He just can’t. If he is alive because of such an introduction, his death at some shelter would not begin to solve the problem.

Take Home Messages

Yes, certainly it makes sense to feed pets the most climate-friendly diet possible. And people who are bound and determined to buy a pet from a breeder might seriously consider a little vegetarian, like a rabbit, instead of a big carnivore, like a retriever–shift the market in a more climate-friendly direction.

But you are not going to fight climate change by not getting that beagle from the shelter.

Let’s keep our collective eye on the ball, the ball being to get off fossil fuel completely as soon as possible. Only then can we fix the problem that causes all the other problems.


Leave a comment

Giving Thanks

Here is my Thanksgiving post. I wrote it several years ago, but it’s still timely.

“It’s that time of the year again,” warns a cynical-sounding blogger, “when warmists try to link Thanksgiving and climate change.”

Nice rhetorical trick, isn’t it? Discrediting us by saying that we’ll even link climate change to Thanksgiving? The truth, of course, is that of course anything in human life can be linked to climate change, because everything we experience depends on climate somehow. It’s in the air we breathe, the water we drink, the wind that may be gentle or catastrophic as occasion allows. Climate is already everywhere, and as it changes, so must everything else.

We “warmists” didn’t make that pat up. It’s just physics.

But yes, tis the season to write holiday-themed posts. Most writers seem to cluster around one of two main narratives: Thanksgiving as an opportunity to talk about climate change and agriculture (as in turkeys could get more expensive as feed prices rise because of recurrent drought); and Thanksgiving as an opportunity to talk about communication (as in how to talk with your climate-skeptic relatives). These are excellent points and I’m not going to try to make them all over again.

Instead, I want to talk about gratitude. I want to talk about abundance.

Have you ever thought it strange that we give thanks by eating a lot? If anything, American Thanksgiving sometimes seems more a celebration of greed and gluttony, with a perfunctory discussion of life’s blessings thrown in among the other topics at the table. But gratitude is fundamentally a reaction, not an action–it is very difficult to be grateful without something to be grateful for. At Thanksgiving we revel in abundance in order to remind ourselves of everything we have to be grateful for.

What is abundance? An online dictionary provides the definition “a large amount of something,” but that’s not quite it. “Abundance of dirty dishes” sounds, at best, sarcastic, if not outright ludicrous. And while there might indeed be a large amount of sand in the Sahara, few people would describe it as a land of abundant sand, because, really, who cares how much sand it has?

To really count as abundant, something must be a) what we want, and b) what we aren’t worried of running out of.

The Thanksgiving table qualifies. You can eat as much as you want, no holds barred, and there will be left-overs. The Thanksgiving table is not infinite, it is not literally inexhaustible, but it has an almost magical quality of feeling that way. It is precisely that illusion that allows food to symbolize all the other good things in our lives, everything for which we might be grateful.

Of course, there is no such thing as a truly infinite resource; use enough of anything for long enough and eventually you will run out. Even “renewable” resources are only sustainable if you use them slowly enough that they can replenish themselves. We know from sad experience that it is indeed possible to run completely out of precious things that once seemed all but limitless. Passenger pigeons, for example. And in fact we are running out of pretty much everything we need for life and everything that gives life beauty and meaning. Often, the depletion is hidden by ever more efficient usage that keeps yields high even as the resource itself runs out. Fishing fleets use ever more powerful technology to find and capture every last fish. Ever-deepening wells chase falling water tables. Oil companies prospect in nearly inaccessible areas that would have been too expensive to bother with a generation ago. For the most part, we humans aren’t going without, yet–hunger is usually a distribution problem, not a supply problem; there are more overweight than underweight humans right now. But already the world is warping under the pressure of our need.

Want a visual? Check this out:

See how big we are, relative to the rest of the biosphere? Humans already use more than the entire ecological product of the entire planet. That is possible because we are, in effect, spending planetary capital, reducing Earth’s total richness a little more every year.

I’m not trying to be gloomy for the sake of gloominess, I’m talking about the physics of the environmental crisis, the details of how the planet works. I’ve gone into detail on this before, but the basic idea is that the planet has an energy budget and that when part of the planet (e.g., us) exceeds this budget, the planet as a whole destabilizes. The biosphere actually shrinks and loses energy, diversity, and stability.

We got into this mess by treating the entire planet as the thing a Thanksgiving feast is meant to simulate; literally endless bounty. And because we did that, our descendants will have a smaller, leaner table to set than our ancestors did–and the more we use now, the leaner that future table will get.

Does that mean we shouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving? Of course not.

Real, literal feasts are never actually about unlimited consumption. They are about abundance–about the way the illusion of inexhaustibility makes us feel. The illusion of physical abundance is a needed reminder of the truth of spiritual abundance–which is the actual point of the holiday, the thing we’re supposed to be celebrating on a certain Thursday in November.

The psychological power of the illusion does not depend on vast resources, something families of limited means understand well. By saving up and looking for deals and cooking skillfully, it is possible to produce a sumptuous feast that feels abundant and actually sticks within a fairly modest budget. The spiritual value is accomplished.

We can do the same thing as a species. We have to find a way to live within our ecological means–the first step is to get off fossil fuel–but we can work with what we have so skillfully that what we have feels like more than enough. By staying within a budget we can stop worrying about running out, and thus achieve a true, if paradoxical, abundance. Then the planet will have a chance to heal. The biosphere will grow again. And it is possible, just possible, that our descendants will live to see a more bountiful feast than we will.

And that will truly be something to be thankful for.


Leave a comment

Falling

I was going to write about solar ovens in Africa this week, but I’m still waiting for an interviewee to get back to me. So instead I’m going to talk about… leaves.

Here in Maryland, the forests still look surprisingly green. Now that we’ve had a few cold nights, some of the trees are “trying to turn,” as my husband puts it, but it doesn’t really look like fall, yet. The Weather Channel confirms that the delayed color is both regional and weather-related. That is, it’s not just my autumn that has been delayed, and the delay in foliage is, indeed, because of the extended warm weather.

But I’ve noticed that the leaves are falling.

They’re not falling heavily, yet, though at this point in the year they wouldn’t be. It’s just a few dead leaves accumulating on the sides of the roads and the edges of the sidewalk. But the funny thing is, the fallen leaves are mostly green. The trees they are falling from are also mostly green, but it is a strange green, an altered hue. I wonder–have the leaves changed after all?

“Brown-down,” the technical term for it, is a multifaceted process initiated when shortening day-length triggers the growth of the “abscission layer,” a corky section in the leaf petiole (its stem) that interferes with the flow of water and nutrients. Eventually, the cork gets thick enough to cut off the leaf entirely so it dies, and the petiole breaks neatly at the abscission layer. The leaf falls off. But before all that happens, before the cut-off is complete, the leaf continues to function. But chlorophyll breaks down as it’s used. It has to be continually replaced. With the leaf partly cut off, the chlorophyll can’t be replaced. The green fades from the leaf, revealing yellow and sometimes red pigments. Eventually, those pigments, too, break down, and the color fades.

Temperature changes help determine the speed and intensity of the color changes, even though the growth of the abscission layer itself is governed by day length.

Does this sound familiar?

Years ago, I wrote a post about spring, and how different aspects of spring (leaf-out, hatching of caterpillars, arrival of migratory songbirds) are cued by different factors. As climate change speeds up some of those factors but not others, the entire progression of spring gets out of sync. I’m wondering if the same thing is happening with fall.

If leaf-fall is triggered by day length, and the color change is triggered by temperature, then as climate change shifts the seasonal cooling later and later–and the timing of shortening days can’t change–it stands to reason autumn should get out of wack. Specifically, the leaves will fall more or less on time, but there will be little to no fall color.

Is that what we’re seeing?

I’m engaging in speculation, here, but it seems plausible. The ecological cost of climate change, and ultimately most important (that includes human ecology, FYI), but there’s a psychological cost, too. Personally, I find the weirdness of this non-fall very disturbing.


3 Comments

Update on Hurricanes

Some years ago, I wrote that although global warming seems like it should make hurricanes worse, we can’t really say that it has. Until just a few decades ago, if a hurricane happened not to pass over human observers or equipment, we might not know it existed. It’s not that we have no data before that, it’s just not a complete picture. How can we compare “before” and “after” when we don’t have a full “before”? There are other complications, too.

Of course, as I pointed out, all that applies only if “worse” is taken to mean more frequent or with higher wind-speeds. Since the most dangerous part of a hurricane is always its storm-surge, which is unambiguously worsened by sea-level rise, another answer to the question is that yes, global warming does make hurricanes worse and is going to keep doing so as long as the seas keep rising.

In any case, I didn’t expect any of that to change any time soon–but it might have just done so.

The problem of inadequate “before” data is still there, but a team from Stony Brook University has just modeled Hurricane Florence as it would have been without anthropogenic climate change–essentially, they used the models used to forecast hurricane behavior, but altered the model so as to simulate an un-warmed world. Because the same computer system was used to forecast both the real-world hurricane and the counterfactual one, the reliability of the system can be checked simply by comparing the real-world forecast with the actual behavior of Hurricane Florence–the forecast was pretty good, as it turned out.

So, all of you who were under Hurricane Florence? It’s official. Those of you who saw the heaviest rainfall–you saw 50% more of it because of climate change. And if you live on the coast, the storm was about 50 miles wider when it made landfall than it would have been, so at least some of you were hit by a storm surge that would otherwise have passed you by.

Now, when I say “it’s official,” I don’t actually know whether there is any controversy around this approach. I don’t have an inside view of either climatology or meteorology, though I do have friends I may be able to ask. So we may have to wait a while to see how this is received, but so far it seems legit to me.

While we’re discussing new hurricane research, it seems there are two more variables to how “bad” a hurricane can be, and climate change looks to be making them both worse.

One is the speed at which storms travel. The slower a hurricane is moving, the longer it takes to pass over your house and the more hurricane you get. That was part of the problem with Harvey, which simply stayed put over Houston and rained for way too long. A study just published in the journal, Nature suggests that storms are, on average, getting slower, apparently because climate change is causing weakening of the air currents that move hurricanes along.

The other variable is how fast storms intensify. We’re used to tropical systems strengthening gradually over a period of days, so that if a tropical storm (wind speed no greater than 74 mph) is pointed at you and about a day away, you can go ahead and prepare for a tropical storm, or possibly a category 1 hurricane. But occasionally a storm will undergo “rapid intensification” and you can go to bed prepared for that tropical storm and wake up to find a cat 4 bearing down on you. Scary, no?

And while nobody is actually sure yet how rapid intensification works, it does seem to be happening more and more often. A recent computer simulation shows that climate change does indeed result in more of the most severe hurricanes (categories 4 and 5) and does so specifically by making rapid intensification more frequent.

So, there you have it, folks. While I’m sure more research needs to be done (doesn’t it always?) and the picture will get clearer and more sure as we learn more, climate change is making hurricanes worse. That means worse in the future and it means worse already.

So when I say we all need to vote for climate-sane candidates willing to re-instate Paris? This is why.


Leave a comment

How Does This Read?

I have spent the last few days reworking a series of short essays intended as a kind of post-script to a novel I have just about completed. The following is one of those essays. I have covered much of the same ground in this blog before, though with a slightly different focus, but I want to try out this piece and see how it reads. Feel free to comment with any feedback.

The Post-Petroleum World

Ecological Memory depicts a world of both ox-carts and robotic exoskeletons. Some readers might ask why. Yes, this is a world without fossil fuel, but it’s clearly a technologically advanced society, so why are they stuck using ox-carts? Why not use renewable energy?

The short answer is that they can and do, but if they used enough renewable energy to fully replace fossil fuels, they’d just wreck the world again. Where energy comes from is less important than how much is used.

We’re used to telling the story of technological progress in terms of innovation; cars are more advanced than ox-carts, so they go faster. But the other side of the same story is energy. A car than ran on just a few bales of hay couldn’t go much faster than an ox, no matter how advanced it was. Greater technology has allowed us to use more and more energy and that, not innovation alone, gives us our unprecedented power.

Fossil fuel made possible our energy increases. Fossil fuel use has also caused climate change and ocean acidification, and it indirectly causes several other ills, such as biodiversity loss. The mechanisms involved should be roughly familiar to most readers. The surprise is that drawing the same amount of energy from some other source would likely cause similar problems. Only the mechanisms would be different. To understand why, we need to take a dive into complex systems science.

“Complex,” here, has a specific, technical meaning. A system is complex if it has certain properties, such as self-organization and “nestedness,” meaning a system can have smaller complex systems inside it. I am a complex system and so are you. So are cells, ecosystems, and biospheres, among other examples. Whole books have been written on these systems, and those books are worth a read, but the important thing to know is that systems science is all about the flow of energy.

Complex systems can fight entropy and win. Entropy, readers may remember, is the tendency for everything to gradually run down as energy dissipates. Complex systems also lose energy to dissipation, but they don’t run down because they can actively draw more energy in from outside. If a system is drawing in more energy than it loses, it is anti-entropic. Think of a baby, eating and eating, and turning all those calories to growth and development, or a young forest, rapidly increasing in both biomass and biodiversity. Eventually, the system reaches a point of equilibrium where energy inputs equal losses, and growth stops. That’s maturity. From the standpoint of systems science, individual humans remain mature very briefly. Almost as soon as we reach full size, our metabolisms slow and we start losing energy, what’s called the entropic phase. More colloquially, it’s called aging. If something speeds up the entropy, or causes entropy before maturity, that’s illness or injury. A system that stays entropic long enough will cease being complex. That’s death.

All complex systems go through these phases, though not all automatically become entropic at a certain age. Forests, for example, don’t get old. They can become entropic, though. A forest on fire is entropic, for example. If the fire isn’t too severe, the forest will survive and become anti-entropic again for a while as it re-grows. As Andy explains in the story, size, complexity, and stability increase and decrease together. Adults aren’t just bigger than babies, they are also smarter and more resistant to disease. And there’s a reason we sometimes call the latter part of our entropic phase the second childhood.

All this energy has to come from somewhere, and complex systems often draw energy from the larger systems they are nested within. My cells draw energy from me. I draw energy from my society (mostly by working for a living), and my society draws energy from the biosphere. The catch is that if the smaller system draws too much energy, it will force the larger system into the entropic phase.

Think about why cancer kills if it isn’t successfully treated. Think about a forest being logged at an unsustainable rate. Think about the rapid burning of fossil fuel.

The biosphere, too, is a complex system, and it, too, had an anti-entropic phase when it was actively growing and becoming more complex and more stable—we know it was growing because the carbon dioxide concentration in the air was falling. Remember that plants store solar energy in carbon compounds built out of carbon dioxide and water. Free, breathable oxygen is the byproduct. Those carbon compounds then become the biomas and energy source of the entire living world. As the biosphere grew, the supply of carbon in the atmosphere shrank. The carbon dioxide/oxygen ratio eventually stabilized as the biosphere entered maturity. In recent decades, the carbon concentration has been rising again as the Earth entered an entropic phase.

Let me repeat that; the biosphere is currently entropic because of us.

The loss of stability and complexity and size always go with the loss of mass and energy as a complex system starts to die. Erratic weather, a changing climate, and widespread biodiversity loss are simply what these familiar symptoms look like on a large scale.

That burning fossil fuel should trigger an entropic phase isn’t surprising, given that the whole point of fossil fuel use is to access a lot of energy. The biosphere provides us with an annual energy budget of less than the total solar energy we receive, solar energy that builds plant tissue, drives winds, and moves waters. Were we to stay within that energy budget, living on sustainable forestry and agriculture, plus wind, water, and solar, most of the power we take for granted today would simply be out of our reach. Fossil fuel makes it all possible, and does so by giving us energy at a higher rate than what the biosphere actually receives. Biospheric entropy is the inevitable result.

To be clear, if we stop using so much energy, the biosphere will re-enter an anti-entropic phase and recover, though it will take a very long time for full recovery, possibly millions of years. There is hope, though time is getting short.

Giving up fossil fuel entirely is probably a necessary step towards sustainability. What’s the alternative, some complicated global carbon rationing system? Who could administer such a thing? But the end of the Age of Oil alone will not protect us. Should we ever find and use an alternative energy source to again draw more energy from the biosphere than the biosphere actually has to spare, we’ll be back in the same entropic muddle we’re in now. It would be like replacing a cancerous tumor with a six-mile-long tape-worm. The patient would still die, the only difference would be the mechanism.

Energy is energy. Using too much has consequences.

We will return to an energy budget similar to what the world had prior to the Industrial Revolution. One way or another, we will have to. And that change will impose real limitations on what we can do and how we can do it.

But an energy budget is not a time machine. We will not lose the scientific and cultural advances we have made, nor will we cease advancing. We won’t return to pre-Industrial Revolution life. We will build something new. What that something might be, I can’t say. Exoskeletons and oxcarts are simply part of my guess as to one possibility.