鈥淲e were here before the airport was. They forget that,鈥� says Rosario-Maria Medina, a community activist in the South Seattle neighborhood of Georgetown, just north of bustling Boeing Field. When Seattle鈥檚 first commercial airport opened in 1928, Georgetown had been a vibrant community for more than half a century.
We鈥檙e sitting in the house that once belonged to her grandfather Ismael Barron, who moved from Texas to Georgetown in 1959. Barron joined his brother Manuel, who鈥檇 arrived in the 1940s and, like Manuel, set up a barbershop in what was becoming one of Seattle鈥檚 most diverse areas. Georgetown and adjoining South Park had significant numbers of Latino, African American, Asian and Pacific Island residents, while the Seattle metropolitan area remained overwhelmingly White.
Medina, board president for the Friends of Georgetown History, says the Barron barbershops were, for many years, among the only in Seattle that served people of color. .
The roar of airplanes punctuates our conversation. To Medina, the sonic interruptions are a persistent reminder of how decades of development practices allowed the airport, industrial facilities and freeways to encroach on the community. By the time her grandfather arrived, the local library and movie theater had closed, and the . 鈥淭hey knew these areas were mostly immigrants and refugees, so they knew they could do what they wanted,鈥� says Medina.
Along with the noise, chemical pollutants rain down on the community. The residential mix of Georgetown and South Park remains diverse: 70% Black, Indigenous and other people of color; 42% foreign born; and 71.7% low income 鈥� and they suffer health problems from that pollution. Soot causes a host of heart and respiratory issues, and the toxic lead that causes developmental delays in children is still added to the aviation gas burned by small planes, decades after being banned from North America鈥檚 roads.
Emissions of carbon dioxide, meanwhile, dissolve into the atmosphere, contributing to the climate-change-driven heat waves, flooding and other weather extremes that already disproportionately affect marginalized communities.
On this October morning, planes are coming from the north, not just landing a few blocks away at King County International Airport-Boeing Field (the county-owned airport鈥檚 full name), but also descending toward Seattle-Tacoma International Airport (Sea-Tac), the Puget Sound area鈥檚 regional airport 5 miles to the south. We hear passenger jets, corporate jets and cargo jets 鈥� United Parcel Service is Boeing Field鈥檚 largest tenant 鈥� along with the occasional small prop planes.
Medina鈥檚 triple-layer windows, mandated to mitigate noise, can鈥檛 keep their engines at bay.
In 1999, the Georgetown community lost a fight against a Boeing Field expansion plan. And in 2008, Sea-Tac added a third runway. The noise seems to get worse every year. Takeoffs and landings at the county airfield rose 12.6% between 2015 and 2019.
In response, Medina joined a coalition that鈥檚 standing up against further increases in flights 鈥� an alliance that鈥檚 notched several wins over the past 12 months against one of the region鈥檚 core industries. It鈥檚 something that鈥檚 increasingly common across Cascadia: In Oregon, Washington and British Columbia, local activists fighting for quality-of-life issues are teaming up with climate activists and using their collective strength to sway local governments.
And they are winning. Local leaders are responding to this pressure 鈥� often backed by the rising moral and legal authority of Indigenous tribes and nations 鈥� by passing ordinances and implementing rules that deliver on their stated commitments to address climate change and environmental injustice, including rules to phase out gas heating, ban new refineries and chemical plants, and more.
鈥淭hese rules just change the whole game,鈥� says Matt Krogh, a campaign director for Stand.Earth, a climate action group based in Vancouver, British Columbia, and Bellingham, Washington. Krogh says hurdles to oil, gas and coal developments have more than a practical, legal impact. They also puncture the sense of inevitability that鈥檚 surrounded fossil fuel expansion 鈥渆ver since oil got big鈥� at the dawn of the 20th century.
Communities that ban yesterday鈥檚 dirty energy, says Krogh, begin to imagine another 鈥渋nevitable path鈥� 鈥� one toward clean energy: 鈥淚t鈥檚 changing how people are thinking about the future and what鈥檚 going to happen.鈥�
Thinking globally, acting locally
The King County International Airport Community Coalition organized last year in response to a $282 million crafted by Boeing Field that foresaw more jet flights and thus more noise in Georgetown, higher emissions of carbon dioxide and, likely, rising air pollution as well. Led by former state representative and labor organizer Velma Veloria, the coalition united groups representing Georgetown and neighboring communities, such as the Beacon Hill Council, with environmental groups such as 350 Seattle.
The coalition called for the county鈥檚 elected officials to fulfill recent promises to fight climate change and environmental injustice by blocking the airport鈥檚 expansion.
Veloria carried a powerful message about the health status of those living in the lowlands around Boeing Field: When the Filipina activist left the Legislature in 2004, residents had a life expectancy that was five years shorter than people 鈥渦p the hill鈥� in wealthier Seattle neighborhoods. 鈥淣ow, it鈥檚 a 13-year difference,鈥� says Veloria. Thanks to earlier advocacy by social justice group El Centro de la Raza and the Beacon Hill Council, the coalition had on hand .
Meanwhile, 350 Seattle鈥檚 volunteer aviation team helped make the climate connection. Its members documented how aviation generates 2.5% of global CO2 emissions but 3.5% of global warming, thanks to the vapor contrails created by jets, which also trap heat in Earth鈥檚 atmosphere.
The coalition and El Centro de la Raza scored its first victory in December 2020 when King County鈥檚 elected executive, Dow Constantine, promised that the county鈥檚 2021 greenhouse gas inventory would count emissions from all fuel pumped at airports in the county. Another win came in May, when the county鈥檚 updated climate action plan called for cutting aircraft emissions 鈥� which Boeing Field鈥檚 growth plan anticipated would increase 30% between 2018 and 2035. That could help the county meet its self-imposed mandate to cut emissions 50% from 2007 levels by 2030.
The big win came on the third day of this summer鈥檚 heat dome event, at 2:26 p.m. on June 28, when Constantine called Veloria to say the airport鈥檚 master plan update was off the table.
Another victory for citizen activists came a few weeks later when Whatcom County, Washington 鈥� home to two large refineries 鈥� passed sweeping land-use rules that ban new processing plants, such as crude-oil refineries and chemical plants.
There are more bans in the works.
Plastic bag bans are proliferating. [1] Natural gas appliances and furnaces have been banned from certain new buildings in Cascadian jurisdictions such as Vancouver, B.C., Seattle and Multnomah County, which includes Portland. And in May, Eugene, Oregon, allowed its gas supplier鈥檚 franchise agreement to expire, threatening Portland-based NW Natural鈥檚 legal authority to lay new gas pipes under city streets.
States, provinces and national governments are reluctant to push fossil fuels off the table; in fact, . But a tougher approach is crucial for [2] decarbonization, says Eric de Place, who leads energy policy work for the Sightline Institute, a Seattle-based think tank. Most state, provincial and federal energy policies aimed at addressing climate change provide incentives to build more 鈥渃lean鈥� stuff, like renewable power plants, low-carbon fuels and electric vehicles. But he sees local action constraining infrastructure as crucial because only less consumption of fossil fuels actually reduces greenhouse gas emissions.
鈥淚鈥檒l be in the bleachers applauding for the clean energy stuff,鈥� says de Place, "but I鈥檒l be in the streets for stopping fossil fuels.鈥�
Wrestling Big Oil to the table in Whatcom
Over more than a decade, Cascadia-centered activism to the world. That movement, known as the 鈥淭hin Green Line," is widely seen as Cascadia鈥檚 most effective climate action to date.
Today鈥檚 activism marks a pivot. Thin Green Line activists faced a seemingly endless number of fossil fuel export projects. These days, activists are forcing changes in the rules that govern all development in a local area, and it is the fossil fuel industry that finds itself playing whack-a-mole.
It鈥檚 no surprise that Whatcom County, immediately south of the Canadian border, is taking a leading role. The county has been fighting the hazards accompanying fossil fuels since a devastating pipeline accident in 1999 in Bellingham, the county seat. A poorly maintained pipeline from the refineries at Cherry Point split and poured more than 200,000 gallons of gasoline into a creek in central Bellingham.
When the fuel ignited, explosions reverberated along several miles of creek, killing two young boys and a teenager, destroying homes and sending up a mushroom cloud. 鈥淚t looked like an atomic bomb,鈥� recalls Carl Weimer, a longtime resident and former Whatcom County Council member.
When the pipeline鈥檚 owners pushed to quickly patch it and restart, the city 鈥� in an unprecedented move 鈥� forced them to shut it down. The Olympic Pipeline stayed off-line for two years, the longest pipeline closure in U.S. history. And the settlement of more than $100 million provided funds to launch a national pipeline watchdog.
The Bellingham-based Pipeline Safety Trust, which Weimer ran for years, still drives pipeline safety policy 22 years later. And city residents still remember and discuss the explosion. 鈥淭hat pipeline accident united the community. It didn鈥檛 matter if you were a Republican or a Democrat,鈥� says Weimer. 鈥淚t really did organize people and made them start thinking about fossil fuels and the risks around fossil fuels.鈥�
More recently, Whatcom County鈥檚 Cherry Point industrial zone was the site of a major win in Thin Green Line battles that galvanized local environmental activism. That collision pitted environmental activists and the Lummi Nation 鈥� whose reservation sits just south of Cherry Point 鈥� against a massive coal terminal that . The fight ended five years ago, when the Lummi convinced federal authorities that the terminal鈥檚 3,000-foot wharf would violate an 1855 treaty that protected the tribe鈥檚 right to fish forever in its traditional territories.
That fight led to electoral wins by progressives who used their majority on the Whatcom County Council in 2016 to institute a temporary moratorium on new and expanded fossil-fuel-related industries at Cherry Point.
For the next five years, the moratorium was repeatedly renewed as Cherry Point鈥檚 refinery owners, BP and Phillips 66, along with county business groups and unions representing refinery workers, fought attempts to make the bans permanent. They issued studies claiming the rules would hamstring the refineries, costing the county thousands of high-paying jobs. They backed industry-friendly candidates for county council. And they failed.
Tim Johnson, spokesperson for the Phillips 66 refinery, explains that the industry 鈥渄idn鈥檛 feel like our voices were being heard.鈥�
Weimer, who was on the county council at the time, disputes that. He says they invited the industry to work with them to craft rules that wouldn鈥檛 hamper improvements to the existing refinery operations. 鈥淭hey would not come and even talk to us. They wanted to play the politics game,鈥� recalls Weimer.
Last year, the refineries finally came to the table. Facilitated by Eddy Ury with Bellingham-based advocacy group RE Sources for Sustainable Communities, a small group of stakeholders that included refinery officials, came to consensus on strong rules crafted by the county鈥檚 planning commission. It was the group鈥檚 final language that Whatcom County commissioners unanimously approved this summer.
The rules ban a slew of new developments, from crude oil refining and gas-fired power generation to plastics manufacturing, and they create a robust and transparent framework for evaluating whether to accept non-fossil-fuel developments or expansion of existing facilities 鈥� a framework that will take greenhouse gas emissions into account.
Activists such as de Place say Whatcom鈥檚 vote marks the first time in North America (and maybe worldwide) that a locale with a heavy presence of the fossil fuel industry has permanently prohibited essentially any major fossil fuel development and tightly restricted expansion of existing facilities.
BP and Phillips 66 say they came to the table to ensure that the rules would make it clear that they could maintain and upgrade their refineries and seize an emerging opportunity: refining animal fats and vegetable oils, instead of crude oil, to produce biofuels. These alternative fuels have their own environmental drawbacks, but while electric vehicles ramp up in the decades ahead.
BP announced a $269 million package of investments at Cherry Point less than six weeks after Whatcom鈥檚 vote. The investment will more than double its production of renewable diesel to 2.6 million barrels a year 鈥� about 3% of the refinery鈥檚 output 鈥� and cut the refinery鈥檚 [3] carbon emissions by about 7%. A corporate statement said the projects would create more than 300 local jobs over the next three years.
Reorienting the City of Destiny
Movements to enforce local limits on new fossil fuel facilities also are unfolding in other jurisdictions, including Vancouver, Washington, and Portland. Last year, Vancouver, B.C., became the first jurisdiction in Cascadia to endorse , a pledge to phase out fossil fuel infrastructure that was kicked off in a 2015 declaration by Pacific island nations threatened by sea level rise. Vancouver鈥檚 council motion instructed city staff to seek ways to reduce fossil fuel supply within the city.
In some places, fossil industries are still fighting hard, testing local elected officials who have been exhausted by other issues, such as pandemic restrictions, homelessness, street drugs and crime. The hottest conflict is in Tacoma, where an interim city ordinance akin to Whatcom County鈥檚 new rules expires on Dec. 2. Partisans are fighting down to the wire over permanent rules.
Melissa Malott, executive director of Tacoma-based environmental group Communities for a Healthy Bay, admits to experiencing panic attacks as the city debates the rules.
All sides profess support for transforming Tacoma into a production hub for such lower-carbon energy as biofuels or [4] hydrogen produced from electricity. But they are fighting over two key questions: What fuels are clean enough? And must fossil fuel expansion be stopped to secure cleaner investments?
Tacoma鈥檚 fight centers on the future of the city鈥檚 Tideflats, once an ecologically rich estuary deeded to the Puyallup Tribe in 1854, then , filled in and industrialized. That transformation began in 1871, when President Ulysses Grant signed an illegal executive order designating the waters off Tacoma 鈥� [5] in the Puyallup鈥檚 native tongue, Twulshootseed 鈥� as the Pacific terminus of North America鈥檚 fifth transcontinental railroad. Thanks to Grant鈥檚 treachery, Tacoma beat out Seattle for the rail line and gained the moniker 鈥淐ity of Destiny.鈥�
Polluting facilities grew up around the railroad, among them a large paper mill, whose odor still hangs over the city; a number of shipping operations and fuel terminals; a [6] liquefied natural gas (LNG) terminal; and a refinery that processes 42,000 barrels of crude oil daily 鈥� increasingly carbon-intensive crude delivered by rail from Canada鈥檚 tar sands.
Five years ago, amid bids to add that LNG terminal and other fossil fuel operations on the Tideflats, local activists teamed up to call for a moratorium. The coalition ultimately included environmental organizations, the Puyallup Tribe, and cargo-handling longshore workers who were losing work as crude oil shipments clogged rail lines and interrupted grain and container shipments.
In 2017, the Tacoma City Council passed a broad, one-year moratorium that鈥檚 been rolling over ever since. The interim rules put new industry on hold, but do not prevent existing facilities from expanding.
This spring, Tacoma seemed poised to finalize its Tideflats restrictions. After extensive outreach, Tacoma鈥檚 planning commission concluded that both new and expanded fossil fuel processing would increase the risk of a catastrophic spill; threaten salmon and thus the Puyallups鈥� treaty rights; 鈥渃ircumvent鈥� the city鈥檚 climate action goals; and preclude growth of non-fossil-fuel businesses that promise more jobs.
The planning commission proposed rules banning fossil fuel developments and establishing a robust process to evaluate other options, including proposals to produce lower-carbon fuels held up by the interim rules.
Business groups and unions representing trades fought back, conjuring up worst-case scenarios. For example, a community representative from the neighboring city of Lakewood spread the word that the region鈥檚 U.S. military base might shut down because the planning commission鈥檚 rules threatened its fuel supply. When asked if the economically important base鈥檚 existence is threatened, a spokesperson for Joint Base Lewis-McChord replied concisely, 鈥淛BLM is not closing.鈥�
Malott's panic attacks and sleepless nights began late this summer when a Tacoma City Council committee weakened the commission鈥檚 proposed rules, restoring opportunities for fossil fuel growth. The committee鈥檚 amendments would allow expanded handling of fossil fuels that Washington state considers 鈥渃leaner鈥� than petroleum. This list includes LNG, which is mostly methane, a potent greenhouse gas that causes over 80 times more warming than CO2 during its first 20 years in the atmosphere.
Not surprisingly, the amended rules are supported by Puget Sound Energy (PSE), the Seattle-based utility that鈥檚 in the process of starting up the LNG plant. PSE says the weaker rules would allow it to double output from the LNG storage and ship-fueling facility to 500,000 gallons per day. It says reducing use of bunker fuel to power ships would cut carbon emissions, citing a 2018 finding by the Puget Sound Clean Air Agency .
International energy researchers, however, say the methane leaks upstream of LNG plants diminish its climate advantage over bunker fuel. An , advising governments against 鈥渘ew public policy supports鈥� for maritime LNG.
For activists like Malott, the Puyallup Tribe is the last hope for stronger rules.
The tribe gets a say, thanks to a 1990 land claims settlement that bought out the Puyallups鈥� title claims to the Tideflats, but also mandated that they be consulted over the area鈥檚 ongoing development. Last month, Tacoma Mayor Victoria Woodards delayed council votes until November to allow time to first consult with the tribe.
Tribal Council member Annette Bryan is one of the Puyallups鈥� go-to speakers on the subject of the Tideflats. Bryan has a master鈥檚 degree in civil and environmental engineering and spent a decade as a tribal coordinator for the federal EPA. She says she knows that toxic plumes from Tideflats industries are spreading under Tacoma鈥檚 harbor, threatening its 鈥渇inned people.鈥� And she sees such legacy threats to fish and other aquatic life compounded by warming waters and rising sea levels: 鈥淲hat鈥檚 causing it is fossil fuels.鈥�
Bryan says the Puyallups鈥� message about the Tideflats鈥� future is clear: There鈥檚 zero time for more fossil fuel development, and thus zero room for what she terms the council鈥檚 recently inserted 鈥渓oopholes.鈥�
That message aligns with goals for reducing global emissions, according to the Paris-based International Energy Agency, whose projections are considered a gold standard for corporations and government. In May, the organization said that 鈥渇rom today,鈥� there could be 鈥渘o investment in new fossil fuel supply projects.鈥�
Revoking fossil fuels鈥� free ride
Regional activists are busy thinking up new targets, beyond large industrial facilities, to challenge the dominance of fossil energy.
Krogh, at Stand.Earth, says many opportunities involve using building codes, land-use ordinances and other measures to restrict the growth of fossil fuel consumption that pervades civic life 鈥� or even to start ramping it down.
Widespread examples are local plastic bag bans, such as those in Washington state that led to last month鈥檚 statewide ban. Bag bans, which often focus on the potential to slash plastic pollution, can simultaneously constrain demand for plastics. And fossil fuel producers of gas, petroleum and coal as the world shifts to renewable power, battery vehicles and all-electric buildings. By one estimate, carbon emissions from the plastic industry .
A newer set of battles over the use of fossil fuels seeks to cap the consumption of natural gas in buildings. Bans on gas appliances and furnaces in new construction have in at least nine cities and counties in Cascadia. That鈥檚 in spite of heavy regional advertising by the Affordable Energy Coalition, a utility- and labor-backed campaign to protect natural gas heating.
Other recent battlefronts are neighborhood service stations. In August, the Comox Valley Regional District on Vancouver Island instructed staff to consider options for restricting new gasoline and diesel pumps 鈥� a strategy that gained traction this year in California after a small town north of San Francisco became .
Comox Regional Director Daniel Arbour got the ball rolling in August, proposing the removal of petroleum sales from the list of allowable uses for an automotive service station. Making gasoline and diesel less convenient, he says, could encourage more people to cut carbon emissions by switching to electric vehicles.
British Columbia, Washington and Oregon all have laws that require distributors of motor fuels to steadily reduce the carbon intensity of their products. But biofuels may prove hard to produce in sufficient volume because it is difficult to harvest enough feedstocks, such as wood and vegetable oils, without driving up food costs or degrading carbon-absorbing forests. As a result, Cascadia鈥檚 governments are seeking to push drivers into battery-powered cars and trucks as soon as possible and reserve biofuels for heavier vehicles that are harder to electrify.
Last month, British Columbia announced that it would be accelerating its phaseout of conventional cars and trucks, seeking to triple the proportion of electric car sales required in 2030 from 30% to 90%.
Hemming in Boeing Field
Arbour鈥檚 proposal to ban new gas pumps on Vancouver Island is partly about starting a conversation that connects petroleum use with climate events, such as the heat wave that . 鈥淲e鈥檙e trying to do something that might be a little more aggressive and challenging to our usual thinking,鈥� he says.
The fight to constrain airport growth in the Puget Sound region also challenges conventional wisdom. The King County International Airport Community Coalition鈥檚 call to stop aviation growth runs directly counter to the expansion ethic under which public airports operate and plan for the future 鈥� a growth doctrine that鈥檚 particularly strong in Washington state, with its extensive aerospace industry centered around Boeing.
Allowing flights to keep on increasing 鈥� which they have done steadily except during the early months of the COVID pandemic 鈥� means carbon emissions might continue to increase for the foreseeable future, despite significant industry efficiency measures. That鈥檚 what the county airfield鈥檚 plan projected, and the airport鈥檚 recent track record suggests reality could significantly exceed its projections.
According to , the steady increase in traffic at Boeing Field between 2015 and 2019 was forecast to be a 2.9% decline.
And the airport鈥檚 plan downplayed its pollution impacts. It reported . It also minimized climate impacts in several ways. The plan counted only the 10% of fuel burned during takeoffs and landings, rather than all of the fuel the airport pumps for planes鈥� full journeys. It also ignored additional warming caused by exhaust-induced clouds, or contrails. Add them up, and than it estimates.
While that airport鈥檚 growth plans have been grounded for the time being, activists will face a tougher fight taking on Sea-Tac, a regional hub that is well on the way to completing a growth plan of its own. And Sea-Tac answers to the Port of Seattle, whose enabling statutes enshrine economic growth as a priority.
Activists鈥� best hope for Sea-Tac may be electing progressive candidates to the port鈥檚 independent governing commission. All three of the winning candidates in last week's commission election , including two women of color who unseated incumbent commissioners.
Activists also have to contend with plans for a second Sea-Tac. In 2019, the Washington Legislature voted unanimously to create a commission tasked with finding short-term expansion opportunities at the state鈥檚 congested airports and picking a site for a new regional hub. The new hub would pave the way for decades of aviation 鈥� and emissions 鈥� expansion.
Seattle attorney Sarah Shifley, co-founder of the volunteer aviation team for 350 Seattle, calls that 鈥渇labbergasting鈥� after the June heat dome, this summer鈥檚 fires and Hurricane Ida, which caused more than 鈥� all events attributed to climate change and thus driven, in part, by historic aviation emissions. 鈥淚 actually think it鈥檚 insane,鈥� says Shifley, without a hint of hyperbole.
Washington Gov. Jay Inslee, like Boeing Field director John Parrott and the global aviation industry, sees fuels with a lower carbon footprint than jet fuel 鈥� so-called 鈥渟ustainable aviation fuels鈥� 鈥� as the best way to square aviation growth with their commitments to decarbonize.
In , the governor鈥檚 office noted that stopping aviation growth could have 鈥渞epercussions鈥� for Washington鈥檚 economy and insisted that increasing aviation capacity 鈥渞emains sound.鈥� Inslee鈥檚 office identified alternative fuels as the 鈥渕ost promising鈥� , which include nascent efforts to electrify airplanes.
However, energy and climate experts doubt low-carbon fuels can deliver on such expectations, given the challenges associated with expanding biofuels and the weight of batteries needed to electrify large planes. And, as Shifley notes, focusing on 鈥渟ustainable鈥� fuels ignores the disproportionate local impacts on communities like Georgetown and Beacon Hill. The Seattle & King County Public Health study concluded that 鈥減revention and mitigation of airport-related pollution exposures鈥� was 鈥渃ritical鈥� for communities neighboring Sea-Tac.
Increasingly, even experts associated with Washington state鈥檚 extensive aviation fuel development programs say constraining aviation demand must become part of the solution.
Ross Macfarlane led Sustainable Aviation Fuels Northwest, a stakeholder group formed to create a road map for cleaner aviation fuels. He says the cost of aviation should rise to reflect its impact on climate to help drive demand for air travel toward cheaper and cleaner alternatives, such as high-speed rail and virtual business meetings. 鈥淣o sector should get a free pass,鈥� says Macfarlane.
Steven Hollenhorst, a sustainability expert who has worked on alternative jet fuels and, until recently, was dean of Western Washington University鈥檚 Huxley College of the Environment, says aviation should 鈥渄e-grow鈥� until the industry shows it can decarbonize. He thinks that鈥檚 feasible and perhaps preferable, because life under the pandemic has shown people they can conduct business effectively while flying a lot less and .
Hollenhorst sees airport expansion as something that should be 鈥渄isrupted鈥� to force social change, just as protesters are disrupting fossil fuel pipelines: 鈥淯ntil we can take carbon out of aviation, growing will just make the problem worse. I just don鈥檛 think that鈥檚 justifiable anymore.鈥�
This story is part of the series , which explores the path to low-carbon energy for British Columbia, Washington, and Oregon. This project is produced in partnership with and other media outlets and is supported in part by the Fund for Investigative Journalism.
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