October/November 2006

Water Markets /Water Wars And a small island called Arcata, California
Jim Tobin

Taking to the Streets to Raise Awareness of Global Warming
Bill McKibben

Interview with Bill McKibben
Meteor Blades

My Low-Carbon Diet
Seth Zuckerman

A Conversation with David Ward
Jody Woodruff

In Tune With the Sacred
Raina Hassan Sanderson

Democracy and the Middle Class
Thom Hartmann

The Great Turning From Empire to Earth Community
David Korten

The McKenzie River Gathering Foundation Turns 30
Richard Moeschl

Transformation Through Film
Marla Estes

Mixed Media Reviews
Debi Weiss

Cosmic Calendar
Salina Rain

BACK TO TOP

My Low-Carbon Diet
From gas gluttony to fuel fitness in three weeks

By Seth Zuckerman

The first thing I noticed was the view. I’d never driven a sport-utility vehicle across Seattle’s Lake Washington before; with an extra foot or two under my rump, the vista of sailboats and lakeside homes was grand. Still, it was a bit unnerving to thread through traffic in a Chevrolet TrailBlazer, about a foot wider than my usual econo car. Driving a two-ton SUV was not my forte, but I had undertaken this trip in a spirit of inquiry, after confronting some mind-boggling statistics: The average American dumps five times as much climate-altering carbon dioxide into the atmosphere as the typical world citizen. But even the world average isn’t compatible with a stable climate. Earth’s natural systems can remove only about a third of the carbon dioxide humans are emitting daily.

Weather patterns are changing accordingly. Levels of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere have increased by 38 percent since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution, when humanity’s fossil-fuel binge began. As a consequence, the planet’s climate is more volatile than ever, racked by intensified hurricanes and droughts, early snowmelt, and unseasonable heat waves.

With those trends in mind, I wondered what it would mean to live within the planet’s capacities. I suspected it wouldn’t be easy. After all, Morocco and Indonesia emit only as much carbon dioxide per capita as Earth can absorb—and they’re hardly known for their high standard of living. Is impoverishment the only way to bring our carbon bender under control?

To find some answers, I decided to try three carbon dioxide diets. First, that of the typical American. I would see how my consumption measures up to the national average and attempt (briefly) to burn as much fuel as my fellow citizens. Next, I’d investigate what it would take to bring my emissions down to the world average, the level of countries such as Jamaica and Romania. Finally, I’d try to produce no more than my share of what Earth’s natural systems can handle.

For this journey into the thicket of tons, BTUs, and kilowatts, I would need a guide. I recruited Jon Koomey, an energy and climate researcher at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory and Stanford University, who was eager to be my wise man. “I’ve always wanted to play Yoda,” he said.

We reviewed my initial assets and handicaps. It turned out that several factors made my carbon dioxide output leaner than the average American’s. I live in a city, so I don’t have to travel far for daily necessities. That city is Seattle, where subfreezing weather is uncommon and mild summers make air-conditioning unnecessary. At the time of my experiment, I worked at home, so my commute was carbon free. To top it off, my wife, Jen, and I occupied an apartment in a 28-unit building, whose shared walls reduce the energy needed for wintertime heating. Reaching the all-American consumption level seemed well-nigh impossible.

“Maybe you should just buy some gasoline and torch it,” Jon said with a chuckle. That seemed to contradict the spirit of the game, though, so I laid down some ground rules: I wouldn’t waste energy on purpose, and I would ignore the fact that Seattle gets almost all of its electricity from carbon-free hydropower. That’s a source so much less polluting than the coal and natural gas that power most US homes, it would be cheating to rely on it.

Jon offered a framework of his own. He explained that nearly half of the average US carbon dioxide emissions of 122 pounds per person per day come from industry and businesses. In theory, my share includes carbon from the movie theaters, supermarkets, and cafes I patronize. It also includes the carbon emitted to manufacture the building materials that shelter me from the elements—spread out over the lifetime of the buildings. “Calculating those would be an endless swamp,” Jon warned. Instead, he suggested that I concern myself only with the emissions under my direct control—what I use at home and on the road. While mimicking the average American, I’d have the much more manageable goal of 65 pounds per day. In week two, my goal would be 13 pounds per day (an equivalent share of the world average of 24 pounds), and in week three, 5 pounds per day (a share of the 9 pounds Earth can handle).

With the ground rules defined, we did the numbers. My apartment building relies on natural gas for its water heaters, radiators, and clothes dryers. Jon calculated that the boilers and dryers in the basement belch an average of 11 pounds of carbon dioxide daily for each resident. Based on my electric bills, he estimated I was responsible for another 4 pounds for cooking, lights, and appliances, for a not-so-grand total of 15. How would I ever get to 65? The answer lay behind the wheel of an automobile.

Week One: Aiming for Excess

I gave up bikes and buses and drove whenever I could. Jen wanted a ride to the bus? Sure. A candidate for public office was coming to town to unveil his energy policy? I fired up the Volkswagen Golf and headed down to the waterfront. It seemed hypocritical to drive solo to a speech on energy policy, but when the candidate’s entourage zipped past in a motorcade of three Chevrolet Suburbans, I realized that I wasn’t alone in my inconsistencies. I even drove to my martial arts class six blocks from home. At the end of the day, I’d notched 7.4 miles and burned roughly a third of a gallon, adding about seven pounds of carbon dioxide to the atmosphere. That brought my daily total to a mere 22 pounds—pathetically un-American.

Fortunately, the weekend was coming up, and Jen and I decided to escape the city—as always, the main use of our auto. We strapped a kayak to the roof, which I hoped would make the car less aerodynamic and more fuel-hungry. Eighteen miles later, we were on the ferry dock, bound for our friends’ cabin on the shores of Hood Canal 30 miles beyond. With this jaunt and an earlier errand, we managed to burn a little more than a gallon apiece. But where I really racked up the carbon points was during the ferry crossing, on a boat that devours seven gallons of diesel per minute. Even with a hundred other cars on board, my share was about a gallon. Finally, I thought, I’m getting somewhere. Between the diesel and gasoline usage and the energy required for around-the-clock heating and refrigeration in my apartment, I finally hit my target, although I had to spend a couple of hours in transit to achieve it. It wasn’t easy being an average American.

For the rest of my high-carbon week, I had to drive everywhere to get anywhere near my goal. Even a stunt like running a load of laundry in hot wash and warm rinse (instead of warm wash and cold rinse) was worth only about three pounds of carbon dioxide—about as much as a five-mile car trip but not nearly as useful. As long as I had plenty of driving to do, my consumption hovered around the target. But if a carless day passed, my emissions sagged.

And so it was that I became an SUV driver for a day. I only had a 26-mile round-trip ahead of me, to a research library across the lake. In the 27-mpg VW, I would chalk up a shamefully small fraction of what I needed to stay on course. So I called around for the biggest SUV I could find on short notice. In a rented midsize 17-mpg TrailBlazer, I’d burn about 60 percent more fuel than in my Golf and get 29 pounds closer to my target. It was the best I could do, although it fell short of the eight-mile-per-gallon Hummer I would have needed to attain my goal.

At the end of the week, I checked in with Jon. For all my efforts, I still averaged only 33 pounds of carbon dioxide per day, making me even with the Germans and Taiwanese but only half as polluting as the average American.

Jon soothed my feelings of inadequacy by pointing out how strongly the basic facts of where I live and how my life is organized affect my consumption. To reach my target, I’d have to commute solo to a job half an hour away and house-sit a conventional suburban home. But he warned me not to get too self-righteous. Next it would be time to rein in my carbon emissions.

Week Two: Curbing My Appetite

Jon and I concocted a plan to bring my carbon dioxide emissions down to the world average. I had to use 80 percent less energy than the typical American, which meant lowering the emissions under my control to 13 pounds a day.

I read my apartment building’s gas meter daily, probably stirring suspicions from neighbors who saw me skulking behind the dumpster with my notebook. Jon used those readings to figure out my share of the steam heat during Seattle’s cool, rainy spring. I couldn’t do much to reduce that, since heating is controlled centrally for the whole building, but it ate up a quarter of my carbon dioxide budget all the same. So I became even more determined to limit my other uses of natural gas. I monitored how much hot water I drew in the shower and at the kitchen sink and converted those gallons into carbon dioxide emissions. Here my training from living through droughts in California came in handy. It was no hardship to fill a basin with soapy water and rinse dishes in cold water, and it did save a few ounces of carbon dioxide each day. Turning off the water while shampooing or soaping saved gas, but at a considerable cost to pleasure. I opted instead just to hurry through my bathing routine.

As for electricity, I converted nearly all our incandescent light bulbs to compact fluorescents, which use a quarter to a third as much juice. Millions of these lights, distributed for free, had been part of California’s survival strategy during the 2000-01 electricity crisis, and now they were part of mine. I became ultra-vigilant about turning the lights off when Jen and I weren’t using them.

Parts of our power appetite would be hard to control. A plug-in kilowatt-hour meter revealed that the fridge alone was responsible for more than two pounds of carbon dioxide daily. As tenants, we weren’t about to replace it with a more efficient model, nor would we install a gas range, which emits about a third as much carbon as our electric one.

Beyond that, my wife and I hardly use enough electricity to conserve. We drag our TV out of the closet a couple of times a month, and the Pacific Ocean is our air conditioner, providing a temperate and cooling breeze. Our computers are both laptops, which use about 20 percent as much power as a desktop with a standard monitor.
When it came to transportation, my mission was clear. I biked or walked whenever possible. Nearly every day, an appointment drew me halfway across town. Once I got past the dread of biking back up the hill to my neighborhood at the end of a jaunt, ten-mile round-trips didn’t seem like a big deal anymore. (I did learn the hard way, however, to cushion strawberries before returning from the farmers’ market.) Jen and I relished our half-hour walk to a jazz club downtown. It was especially good for my carbon budget, since those short trips in town depress gas mileage. Plus, I felt invigorated at the end of each journey. Unlike the Navy-style showers, this was a change I might actually make permanent.

Still, I wasn’t planning any heroics. When we had to cross the lake again (12 miles each way) and then head in the opposite direction for a picnic on the shores of Puget Sound, it was obvious that we were going to need a car. The only way we could cover the necessary ground and stay within my carbon parameters would be to drive a car that was twice as efficient as our VW. So a peppy Prius it was, and 44 miles later, we had used less than a gallon of gas and each added just nine pounds of carbon dioxide to the air—our splurge for the week.

The next day, when Jon toted up my carbon dioxide emissions, he didn’t cut me any slack. “It’s just chance that you’re doing this in May,” he said and forced me to count the average yearly consumption for the steam radiators that keep our building warm in winter. Even so, it turned out that I’d beaten my 13-pound goal, cutting my daily emissions to a mere 10 pounds, less than a sixth of the average American’s personal emissions. That put me on par with the typical Mongolian and 20 percent below the world average.

But my carbon coach wouldn’t let me savor the accomplishment for too long. Jon pointed out that trips I had planned outside the Seattle area would quickly gobble up those extra few pounds of carbon dioxide. A three-and-a-half-hour train ride to Portland, Oregon, and back would cost me 100 pounds—meaning I could afford it barely once a month. Driving with my wife to the Northern California coast would ding each of us four times as much. And jet travel, at an average of more than half a pound of carbon dioxide per person per mile, is the height of carbon extravagance because the miles add up so quickly. A round-trip to visit my brother in Los Angeles? Some 1,100 pounds of carbon dioxide. The East Coast? Almost 3,000 pounds. A rendezvous in Paris, at 5,600 pounds of climate-sizzling carbon dioxide, would by itself account for as much carbon emissions as the average human is responsible for in eight months. Paging through my frequent-flier statements suddenly became a climatically humbling experience.

Week Three: How Low Can I Go?

I didn’t see how I could reduce my consumption much further. After the exacting efforts to bring my emissions down to ten pounds of carbon dioxide daily, getting to my share of what Earth can absorb—five pounds—seemed impossible.

Jon was merciful. Instead of telling me to adopt a raw-food diet, unplug the refrigerator, and move into a yurt, he sent me to see a former neighbor on California’s northern coast, who had severed many of the bonds that tied him to the fossil-fuel economy. Michael Evenson—a used-lumber broker whose 40 cows enjoy one of the world’s best views from his seaside ranch—showed me around the homestead he shares with his partner, Ellen. Their refrigerator, lights, and appliances run on solar photovoltaic cells and a miniature hydroelectric installation. No climate-changing carbon in this part of the operation. Winter warmth comes from a cast-iron stove, stoked with wood he cuts on the other side of the river. Although burning wood emits carbon dioxide, it is later removed from the air as new trees grow into the spaces created by the thinning. Another zero-carbon arrangement.

I was impressed. Perhaps here was a household spewing no more than its fair share of carbon dioxide. But one large carbon drain remained: driving. The general store and post office are five miles away, which means that Michael’s typical daily trip to the village center by diesel truck accounts for 12 pounds of carbon dioxide. Add to that his weekly trip to the county seat in Eureka, and his emissions top the world average, even without counting the propane he uses to cook and heat water. Yes, the rural subsistence lifestyle can remain in balance with the climate—but only for the hardy few who go back to the land and stay there.

If Michael couldn’t get his emissions down to what the planet can absorb on his behalf, I concluded that few people outside Amish country could either. Besides, there isn’t enough productive land for every family in the United States to have a spread like Michael and Ellen’s. And in a city, wood smoke wouldn’t just perfume the air; it would pollute it.

But perhaps thinking about individual lifestyles was the wrong approach. Take electricity: The carbon dioxide implicit in nearly every kilowatt-hour is the result of policies set by utilities, regulatory commissions, and federal tax bills. I could reduce my personal demand only so far. Jon had suggested that I calculate the national average of one and a half pounds of carbon dioxide for each kilowatt-hour. But in the coal-rich Midwest, the true number is two pounds, while on the West Coast, where coal power is scarce and hydroelectricity plentiful, it is just half a pound. As more wind, solar, and geothermal energy comes onto the grid, that number will decrease even further and give us better choices.

The same need for sensible energy policies applies on the road. When Jen and I went looking for an affordable, gas-sipping car a few years ago, our hopes were dashed. The federal government hadn’t significantly advanced fuel-economy standards in nearly two decades. We wanted to buy a used hybrid, but they had come on the US market only two years before and were too pricey for our budget. Better mileage standards could mean more fuel-efficient options.

There is some sound government policy, and we’re already profiting by it. Our refrigerator would have drawn two or three times more power were it not for efficiency standards enacted in the 1980s and ‘90s. The zoning laws that limit sprawl in Washington State have probably helped maintain the vibrancy of our inner Seattle neighborhood, reducing my need to travel. A dense network of frequent public buses can make mass transit as quick and convenient as driving, especially where traffic and parking are hassles.

Bringing my life into balance with the climate was clearly not a challenge I could solve all on my own. This was somewhat of a relief because my carbon dieting had grown tiresome. Almost everything I do involves emissions, even such subtle choices as buying local food or food that has to be hauled long distances to market. Monitoring each decision felt like such an obsession that I worried psychiatrists would name a syndrome after me.

I wanted utilities to provide low-carbon electricity for everyone and carmakers to offer a minimum of 40 miles per gallon. I wanted the cost of spewing carbon dioxide into the air reflected in the prices I pay, so that someone else would be keeping track. Then everyone would pay attention, not just odd carbon neurotics like me. It would take concerted political action to get there, and I was ready to pitch in. But first, I had to straddle my bike and pedal off to my evening class.

To calculate your own emissions and share carbon-dieting tips with other Sierra readers, go to sierraclub.org/sierra/diet.

Seth Zuckerman is coauthor and coeditor of Salmon Nation: People, Fish and Our Common Home (Ecotrust 1999, revised 2003). Widely published as a freelance writer, Seth is former chairman of the Mattole Restoration Council in the Mattole watershed in northern California near Cape Mendocino, was a founding member of the Institute for Sustainable Forestry’s advisory board, and also serves periodically as a facilitator for groups that make use of consensus decision-making. For the last twelve years he has managed a small organic orchard that includes apples, pears, and what may be the most northerly sweet oranges of the coastal temperate rain forest bioregion. He is currently on leave from his work in the Mattole for a stay in the Puget Sound region.