niece?”
“Not at all. Louise is perfectly incredible,” he insisted. “It’s the rest of the world that has its nights and days mixed up.”
“What do you know about turbines in Stevens County?”
“Frankly, very little,” he replied. “I’m lucky if I even know what day it is. I figure I’ll have time to catch up on state news again when Louise is—oh, I don’t know—seventeen?”
“Months?” I asked.
Alan closed his eye and sighed.
“Years.”
“How the mighty Hawk has succumbed to such a tiny child,” I observed.
Both of Alan’s eyes flew open and fixed on me.
“I’m not the one who carried a sack of flour around school all day yesterday,” he reminded me. “At least my baby smiles and drools.”
“But mine made good biscuits,” I said. On second thought, I added, “Forget I said that.”
“I’m not even asking,” Alan assured me. He yawned, lifting his head from the desk and stretching his arms toward the ceiling. On their way back down, his hands smoothed over the crown of his head as my brother-in-law shook away his tiredness.
“But back to the turbines,” he continued. “As luck—and the lovely wide-awake Louise—would have it, I did happen to catch a program on public radio late last night that featured a panel discussing wind energy. Apparently, when it comes to reducing bird mortality, fewer and taller turbine towers are turning out to be a big piece of the solution out in Altamont Pass in California.”
I knew about Altamont. Set atop a ridge in central California, the Altamont Pass Wind Farm was constructed back in the 1970s as one of the first wind farms in the country in hopes of developing alternative sources of energy for a nation dependent on Mideast oil. At its peak, the farm had almost 6000 turbines in operation, making it the largest concentration of turbines in the world.
Unfortunately, its location, prime for catching electricity-generating winds from the Pacific Ocean, also was a critical corridor for raptor migration and overwintering, especially as the Golden Eagle population rebounded thanks to those same federal protection statutes that were now such an obstacle for the proposed farm in our neighboring Goodhue County. By the turn of the new century, experts around Altamont were counting 2,000 raptor deaths every year from bird-turbine collisions, in addition to some 8,000 other bird and bat victims. As a result of the carnage, alternative energy proponents and the local Audubon Society chapters determined to find a compromise that would permit wind generation with reduced avian fatalities. Last I’d heard about it, part of that compromise included replacing the old turbines with an improved design that made wind harvesting more efficient … and less deadly.
“I can understand how fewer turbines to fly into would certainly help,” I said to Alan, “but how do taller ones make a difference?”
My brother-in-law yawned again and leaned back in his chair. I thought I spotted a small dribble of dried formula on his shoulder.
“Taller towers are the reason they can go with fewer turbines,” he explained. “When the turbines are up higher where the wind is naturally faster, you don’t need as many turbines to produce the same amount of energy. For the hawks, eagles, and owls, though, taller towers are especially good news: the blades are much higher off the ground, well out of the zone where the birds fly to hunt their prey.”
“So the hawk doesn’t run into a blade that will slice him in half just as he’s diving for some dinner,” I said.
“Exactly. They’ve already seen a big drop in avian mortality at Altamont. If I’m remembering this correctly, they’re hoping for an eighty-percent decrease in bird deaths.”
The familiar sound of slamming locker doors began to echo in the school hallway. I stood up to go.
“So you’re saying that the turbine manufacturers have already been working with conservationists to come up with more
“Not at all. Louise is perfectly incredible,” he insisted. “It’s the rest of the world that has its nights and days mixed up.”
“What do you know about turbines in Stevens County?”
“Frankly, very little,” he replied. “I’m lucky if I even know what day it is. I figure I’ll have time to catch up on state news again when Louise is—oh, I don’t know—seventeen?”
“Months?” I asked.
Alan closed his eye and sighed.
“Years.”
“How the mighty Hawk has succumbed to such a tiny child,” I observed.
Both of Alan’s eyes flew open and fixed on me.
“I’m not the one who carried a sack of flour around school all day yesterday,” he reminded me. “At least my baby smiles and drools.”
“But mine made good biscuits,” I said. On second thought, I added, “Forget I said that.”
“I’m not even asking,” Alan assured me. He yawned, lifting his head from the desk and stretching his arms toward the ceiling. On their way back down, his hands smoothed over the crown of his head as my brother-in-law shook away his tiredness.
“But back to the turbines,” he continued. “As luck—and the lovely wide-awake Louise—would have it, I did happen to catch a program on public radio late last night that featured a panel discussing wind energy. Apparently, when it comes to reducing bird mortality, fewer and taller turbine towers are turning out to be a big piece of the solution out in Altamont Pass in California.”
I knew about Altamont. Set atop a ridge in central California, the Altamont Pass Wind Farm was constructed back in the 1970s as one of the first wind farms in the country in hopes of developing alternative sources of energy for a nation dependent on Mideast oil. At its peak, the farm had almost 6000 turbines in operation, making it the largest concentration of turbines in the world.
Unfortunately, its location, prime for catching electricity-generating winds from the Pacific Ocean, also was a critical corridor for raptor migration and overwintering, especially as the Golden Eagle population rebounded thanks to those same federal protection statutes that were now such an obstacle for the proposed farm in our neighboring Goodhue County. By the turn of the new century, experts around Altamont were counting 2,000 raptor deaths every year from bird-turbine collisions, in addition to some 8,000 other bird and bat victims. As a result of the carnage, alternative energy proponents and the local Audubon Society chapters determined to find a compromise that would permit wind generation with reduced avian fatalities. Last I’d heard about it, part of that compromise included replacing the old turbines with an improved design that made wind harvesting more efficient … and less deadly.
“I can understand how fewer turbines to fly into would certainly help,” I said to Alan, “but how do taller ones make a difference?”
My brother-in-law yawned again and leaned back in his chair. I thought I spotted a small dribble of dried formula on his shoulder.
“Taller towers are the reason they can go with fewer turbines,” he explained. “When the turbines are up higher where the wind is naturally faster, you don’t need as many turbines to produce the same amount of energy. For the hawks, eagles, and owls, though, taller towers are especially good news: the blades are much higher off the ground, well out of the zone where the birds fly to hunt their prey.”
“So the hawk doesn’t run into a blade that will slice him in half just as he’s diving for some dinner,” I said.
“Exactly. They’ve already seen a big drop in avian mortality at Altamont. If I’m remembering this correctly, they’re hoping for an eighty-percent decrease in bird deaths.”
The familiar sound of slamming locker doors began to echo in the school hallway. I stood up to go.
“So you’re saying that the turbine manufacturers have already been working with conservationists to come up with more
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