For Audrey Speyer, founder of PuriFungi, seeing fungi blooming on cigarette butts is proof that they’re at work, doing what they do best: decomposing matter. Her Belgian start-up cultivates mycelium—the thread-like root structure of fungus—using the plastic- and toxin-laden stubs as fodder.

As digestive enzymes break down the hazardous mix, the mycelium grows into a lightweight, styrofoam-like material that gets molded into ashtrays. Distributed at music festivals and public events and in municipalities throughout Belgium, France and Luxembourg, the upcycled product, which looks like a hollowed-out wheel of camembert, brings the process full circle by reining in the world’s most discarded waste item.

Since the dawn of civilization, humans have harnessed the remarkable power of fungi—an entire kingdom of multicellular organisms that includes mold, mushrooms and truffles—to digest complex organic matter into simpler structures. Yeast feeds on sugars, for example, to produce alcohol, while certain mold strains churn out penicillin and other antibiotics. And mushrooms of all kinds sprout as they feast on crop waste, coffee grounds and horse manure.

More recently, mycologists have been unleashing fungi on common industrial and consumer waste. With a voracious appetite for environmental pollutants such as petroleum, plastics and chemicals, these natural bioreactors safely digest and transform toxins into mycelium. Along with ashtrays, the lightweight, durable and fire-resistant substrate can be molded and fabricated into an array of applications such as insulation panels, a leather alternative and even a biodegradable casket.

“Fungi are nature’s recyclers,” says Speyer. Cost-effective and low-impact, she and other mycoenthusiasts see huge potential for mushrooms to power a full-circle economy, creating a renewable material source while extinguishing common sources of toxic waste.

Mycelium breaks down the toxins in cigarette butts and grows into a styrofoam-like material that can be molded into different shapes. (Photos courtesy of PuriFungi)

No silver bullet

Mycoremediation—the practice of using fungi to clean up pollutants such as petroleum, chemicals and plastics—has long been studied as a promising solution to decontaminating oil spills, pesticide-laced soil and toxic wildfire ash. But, so far, efforts have been limited mostly to small-scale and trial applications.

“Contamination is not a straightforward problem,” says Kawina Robichaud, a mycologist at Biopterre, a Quebec-based research center specializing in bio-industrial innovation. Addressing site-specific variables—including the mix and concentration of contaminants, soil composition, climate and temperature—often requires a highly tailored approach to remediation, so “there’s no silver bullet,” she says.

One of Robichaud’s research projects explored the clean-up of a remote Yukon Territory site worthy of a Superfund designation: an abandoned waste oil dump built over an old copper mine. Besides foraging for fungi adapted to the subarctic environment, taming the stew of toxins required a larger bioremediation strategy, using local willows to concentrate inorganic contaminants such as heavy metals, as well as municipal compost, which added microbes and nutrients to help spur decomposition. (Inorganic compounds, by nature, don’t decompose but can be sequestered by organisms including mushrooms, plants and animals.)

The results were encouraging, says Robichaud, with test plots showing a 75-percent decrease in petroleum hydrocarbons. Yet, they also underscored the fact that, in nature, “fungi don’t work alone,” so site remediation tends to take “a community of organisms” to get the job done.

However, the ecosystem-based approach inherently comes with unknowns in consistency and timeline—factors that can make on-site applications a difficult business model, says Robichaud, especially in situations that call for quick and aggressive responses. “Nature takes time,” she adds. “That’s often not compatible with the world that we live in, where we want things fixed now.”

Still, the field holds clear advantages over conventional practices, which frequently involve chemical treatments and resource-intensive pumping, dredging and extraction. Using local resources to remediate waste, particularly in remote regions, also means “we’re not trucking raw materials hundreds of kilometers,” says Robichaud, “burning fuel to clean up fuel.”

For now, mycoremediation may be most effective when targeted on a singular waste source. Robichaud is currently studying the mycoremediation of retired railroad ties laced with creosote, a toxic compound used to make heavy lumber rot-resistant. The selective emphasis on one material allows for a controllable, predictable and scalable means of managing pollutants—an approach more amenable, she says, to garnering industry support.

Narrowing the scope

Because pollutant-laden waste is everywhere, narrow targets can still have huge impact, says PuriFungi’s Speyer. Take cigarette butts: With more than 4,000 contaminants, including 50 known carcinogens, “it’s a big cocktail of very bad things that spreads everywhere,” she says, noting that one stub can pollute 500 liters (132 gallons) of water. And the recent rise in smoking only heightens the need to find safe and effective ways to treat toxic waste that’s literally “under our feet.”

A designer by training, Speyer stumbled on fungi while searching for a sustainable and easy-to-cultivate material. In addition to being durable, fast-growing and adaptable to a range of applications, discovering that mycelium could render pollutants safe made it an attractive bio-based product, she says.

“Fungi are nature’s recyclers,” says PuriFungi’s Audrey Speyer. (Photo courtesy of PuriFungi)

Speyer and her crew cultivate fungi in a humidity- and temperature-controlled environment much like an indoor mushroom farm, inoculating a mix of cigarette butts and hemp with oyster mushroom spores. After the initial incubation period, they break up the substrate by hand and set the clumps into molds. Over the next few weeks, the mycelium grows as it eats away at organic pollutants and fruit mushrooms that concentrate heavy metals. As it fills into its prescribed shape, the fruits are plucked away; the final product is then heat pasteurized to completion.

Speckled with straw-like remnants of disintegrated butts, PuriFungi’s bloomy rind-covered ashtrays have steadily caught the eyes of municipal officials and event organizers looking to promote awareness—and develop outlets—for proper cigarette disposal. And as consumers learn about their provenance, it helps spur responsible behavior towards curbing litter, says Speyer.

With more reliable outcomes, waste-specific approaches to mycoremediation may make it an easier sell to industry. Robichaud’s lab recently partnered with Atelier du Partage, a Goodwill-like organization based outside of Quebec, to find an alternative to disposing the 66 percent of donated clothing that the non-profit is unable to sell—a staggering amount that totals nearly 30 tons every year. Using fungi to decompose the heaps of fabric keeps plastic fibers, fire retardants and other pollutants out of landfills and incinerators, says Robichaud. And as a bonus, the mycelium-treated threads, which retain some of their original colors, mold into shabby chic Christmas tree ornaments, making for a surprise hit among Atelier shoppers last holiday season.

With clothing and textiles responsible for 20 percent of global refuse, it’s an end-of-life solution that, at scale, could chart a new course for the high-volume waste stream.

Left: Native fungus isolated from creosote-treated wood. Right: Mycelium-treated threads molded into Christmas ornaments. (Photos courtesy of Biopterre)

The fungi-powered circular economy is also taking root in the construction industry, which produces nearly a third of the nation’s waste, contributing vast amounts of material produced from petrochemicals. Tech giant Meta has partnered with a mycoproduct company to upcycle demolished drywall from its Tennessee data center into new insulation and acoustic panels, and Lendlease, a military housing developer, is embarking on a similar venture using old asphalt shingles.

Despite the mushrooming waste problem generated by industry, the current push towards sustainable waste solutions is largely driven by external forces. But really, it’s “the [product] producers who have a responsibility to make it happen,” says Speyer. She sees the broader extension of Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) policies, which hold manufacturers responsible for collection, recycling and disposal of their products, as key to fueling regenerative waste management practices and supply chains.

Although EPR mandates have taken effect in an increasing range of countries and jurisdictions, including the European Union, Canadian provinces and a handful of US states, most focus on single-use plastics and packaging materials. Last year, the EU extended the obligation to tobacco manufacturers, although critics report that the regulations lack teeth.

Nevertheless, Speyer notes that a few cigarette companies have expressed interest in PuriFungi’s technology—although that’s posed a certain dilemma, she says, because “you don’t want to give them an excuse to keep producing more [of the same].” Ultimately, she’d like to see the development of a non-toxic, naturally biodegradable product.

While that might run counter to her current business model, “the [waste] problem is at such a massive scale,” says Speyer, that, at this point, there’s really no shortage of solutions.

The post Can Mushrooms Help Extinguish Toxic Waste? appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Recently, these unassuming spaces are cultivating a new trend in home-grown businesses. Armed with little more than ingenuity and entrepreneurial drive, microgreen growers are transforming the unused corners of their dwellings into profitable farming operations.

Using minimal inputs and resources such as water, energy and land, microgreens can offer a consistent and hyperlocal source of fresh, nutrient-dense produce, especially in urban settings. And done right, they allow farmers to reap a meaningful livelihood—an important consideration in a profession known for grueling demands and razor-thin margins.

“It’s a great gateway crop,” says Don DiLillo, owner of Finest Foods in Huntington, New York, for ushering in a new breed of novice farmers. After finishing college seven years ago, the “video game-playing, beer-drinking kid” dusted off a section of his parents’ Long Island cellar to launch his micro farm. With $3,000 allocated for equipment and many hours spent watching YouTube tutorials, he built a steady farmers market following, selling tender, week-old pea, sunflower, radish and broccoli sprouts.

Now 27, DiLillo has seen his business blossom. After expanding to a vacant neighborhood deli in 2019, he’s since set up shop in his grandparents’ former home, which he shares with his girlfriend and fellow farmer, Alissa Yasinsky. The 800-square-foot basement and garage provide ample space for germination, cultivation and packaging, he says, with the vertical shelf configuration leaving plenty of room to grow. “I could triple [production] and still be able to operate it from my home,” says DiLillo.

Given the cost of Long Island real estate, the space efficiency is “one of the great benefits of [farming] microgreens,” says DiLillo. Plus, he adds, “I can do farm chores in my pajamas.”

Photography submitted by Don DiLillo, Finest Foods.

Small footprint, big potential

“Microgreens” is a term used to describe the tender, edible seedlings of various herbs, vegetables and grains typically seeded in shallow, soil-filled trays, grown under natural or artificial light, then harvested within two weeks of germination. Packed with vivid colors, a fresh crunch and intense flavors that can range from sweet to peppery, San Francisco chefs popularized them in the 1980s to liven up fancy dishes.

Although the specialty greens have maintained their trendy reputation, research has also shed light on their health benefits, finding that the nutrient density of sprouts is often higher than that of mature plants. And because they grow quickly with minimal resources—and without herbicides or pesticides—scientists point to their potential to help bolster nutritional security, hedge against disruptions in the food supply chain and even generate fresh produce on long-term space missions.

Retired army veteran Gerry Mateo started farming microgreens in the garage of his Bakersfield, California home as a way to combat anxiety and depression. It’s proven to be a calming and grounding endeavor, he says, and it has also helped improve his diet. 

When he launched FilAm Vets Hydroponics Farm in 2021, Mateo was overweight and suffering from high blood pressure and diabetes, he says. But a daily dose of his own fresh produce has made him much healthier and lowered his cholesterol. “You can only eat lettuce in a salad or sandwich,” he says. Microgreens are highly versatile, pairing well with—but not overpowering—various dishes and blending easily into smoothies.

Mateo, who also farms leafy vegetables such as basil, kale and arugula hydroponically, was surprised to find high demand for his produce—especially given his Central Valley location. Yet with California’s agricultural hub dominated by large-scale farms and commodity crops, he’s found a comfortable niche at his local farmers market.

Customers now include nearby restaurants, and with business booming, he’s put a 10-by-20-foot greenhouse in the backyard and hopes to upgrade to a larger vertical farming structure in the near future. With arable land at a premium—urban sprawl is a growing threat to the farming region—“I’m lucky to have a big yard,” says Mateo. 

Over the last decade, the appeal of consistent and efficient crop production—made increasingly so by precision technology, AI platforms and data analytics—has spurred a boom in Controlled Environment Agriculture (CEA). By regulating temperature, humidity and light in an enclosed space, CEA structures, which can include everything from tunnel houses to warehouses, can pump out a reliable stream of fresh produce regardless of season, weather or location, often using far less water, soil and inputs than traditional farming.

Despite promises of fortifying and climate-proofing local food production, however, not everybody is convinced about the sustainability of CEA, particularly at scale. Critics equate large ventures to indoor agribusiness: Often backed by companies and private investors with little experience in commercial agriculture, some factory-like facilities can span multiple acres and consume vast amounts of energy. Opponents also question the taste, nutritional value and long-term health implications of crops grown in this artificial setting.

Photography submitted by Don DiLillo, Finest Foods.

But for micro producers, their environmental impacts match their minimal footprint, says DiLillo, of Finest Foods. His energy costs, for instance, are nominal: Although New York ranks among the most expensive states for electricity, his monthly bill, which covers both home and farm, hovers around $300 in the winter and doubles in the summer with air conditioning—in line with the national household average of $430 a month. And with weekly deliveries contained in a 20-mile radius, his transport footprint is super light, he notes.

DiLillo has also focused on eliminating the sore spot of retail microgreens: plastic packaging. He dropped single-use clamshell boxes for a biodegradable and compostable, plant-based alternative, and he even closed his health food store accounts, which require water-resistant adhesive labels. His subscription-based residential customers and chefs don’t miss the vinyl stickers, he says, because “they know exactly what they’re getting every week.”

As for the artificial environment, “I’m not here to tell you that [LED] lights are better than the sun,” says DiLillo. Yet, “the beauty of microgreens comes from the seeds,” he adds, noting that the just-germinated sprouts retain much of their seminal nutrients, thriving under artificial light in the short duration before harvest.

Microgreens at Kupu Place. Photography by author.

The local edge

Hawaii’s year-round temperate climate, however, is ideal for farming microgreens outdoors. Cousins Anthony Mau and Steven Yee established Kupu Place in 2017 as a side gig in the backyard of their family home in Honolulu. (Kupu is Hawaiian for sprout; the property is located on Kupu Place.) Given the sliver of land—about a 16th of an acre—the duo initially had doubts about the business’ profitability. But armed with advanced degrees in agricultural sciences, they started with aquaponics, growing leafy vegetables in tilapia tanks, adding hydroponically grown edible flowers before expanding to microgreens.

“Per square foot, it’s obvious which one is more profitable,” says Mau.

As Kupu’s revenues moved into the black, the space limitations became more apparent. Two years ago, after a grueling search in Oahu’s tight real estate market, the cousins landed on a residential property in Kahaluu, on the island’s windward coast. Once home to orchid farms, the neighborhood, which lies about half an hour from downtown Honolulu, still retains a rural air, complete with roaming chickens, despite an influx of residential development. Because the sellers wanted to keep the land productive, Mau thinks it made their offer attractive.

The 1.5-acre lot has ample space for the growing business. Along with the home that Mau and his wife share with Yee (luckily, “it wasn’t a tear-down,” says Mau), there’s a storage room with refrigerators, sinks and germination shelves, while the yard has two 20-by-40-foot shade houses with room for another. Naturally vented and sunlit, the wooden structures display a colorful patchwork of microgreens in local flavors such as red shiso, lemon balm and tatsoi.

Although Kupu’s competition comes from California, on-island production gives the business a tremendous edge, says Mau. Along with lead times of hours instead of weeks, they’re able to accommodate last-minute orders and high levels of customization. And with nearly 90 percent of Hawaii’s food consumption reliant on imports, any boost in homegrown crops for the local market benefits the state’s food security, says Mau.

Since the move, Kupu has become Mau’s full-time endeavor (Yee still runs his landscaping company), and, at 32, he’s in it for the long haul. Microgreen farming is particularly suited to career longevity, he says, as farming at waist height is simply more manageable.

Kaʻinapu Cavasso agrees. One of Kupu’s two employees, she started orchard farming at 16. But the constant repetition of bending down to plant, weed and set up irrigation and looking up to prune trees and harvest fruit became taxing, she says. Now 20, her new job is “a lot more mellow, ergonomic and efficient,” she says. “I love farming…so I hope to [continue] this for a long time.”

The post Cultivating Profits in a Compact Crop appeared first on Modern Farmer.

In 2001, executive director Kanekoa Shultz, a marine biologist and seaweed expert, helped rebuild the adjacent Paepae o Heʻeia fishpond. Originally constructed by Native Hawaiians hundreds of years before colonization, the effort resurrected a 1.3-mile rock-walled lagoon used for aquaculture. Yet, when heavy rains repeatedly choked the basin with sediment, Shultz realized that the pond was but one piece of a larger ecosystem in dire need of rehabilitation.

Six years later, Shultz went on to establish Kakoʻo ʻOʻiwi (the name roughly translates to “Helping Native Hawaiians”) on an untended, 405-acre parcel located directly across from the fishpond. Since then, he’s led the incremental effort to restore the fallowed land into loʻi kalo, the traditional Hawaiian irrigation system used to grow kalo, the Indigenous name for taro.

Enlisting a staff of 16 and an army of volunteers, the organization cultivates the crop in knee-deep water diverted from Heʻeia stream. In addition to supplying the community with fresh corms and spinach-like leaves high in calcium and fiber, an on-site kitchen churns out value-added products such as poi, or taro pounded into a starchy staple, and kulolo, a traditional pudding sweetened with coconut milk and raw sugar.

Kakoʻo Oʻiwi’s efforts, however, extend far beyond promoting Native farming traditions and nourishing the community. Its farming practices also help re-establish a vital ecological role: The irrigated ponds absorb floodwater and filter sediment flowing to the sea while the crops create wildlife habitat and curb invasive plant growth. As stewards of both island culture and terrain, “we’re restoring pono—restoring balance to the land,” says Shultz.

Shultz (right) leads volunteers in shredding taro. (Photo: Naoki Nitta)

Funded largely by private and community donors, it’s a tall order for the scrappy non-profit, which operates under a 38-year lease granted by the state in 2009. The focus on conservation, however, is imperative, he adds, for undoing decades of neglect and mitigating the challenges of a rapidly changing climate.

Heavy, angry water

As a primary food source, kalo holds a reverent place in Native Hawaiian culture, playing a prominent role in its origin story. Before the prevalence of large-scale, Western agriculture, “every valley that had a stream had a kalo plantation,” says Derek Kekaulike Mar, as he helps peel piles of raw taro tagged for a batch of kulolo. A childhood friend of Shultz’s, the frequent volunteer works for a subsidiary of the Hawaiian Native Corporation, a Native-run, nonprofit community impact organization and a Kakoʻo Oʻiwi donor.

Hawaiians traditionally divided land into ahupuaʻa, or self-sustaining units of agricultural production that stretch between the mountains and the ocean. Along with taro patches, the triangular swaths encompassed a range of terrain, from upland timber forests to rain-fed crop fields and orchards in the lowlands. And in many places, they extended to a fishpond—ancient Hawaiians built nearly 500 throughout the islands—with all the pieces connected by a stream.

Recent research has shown that this agricultural system, while only consuming six percent of land, allowed the islands to be self-sufficient in feeding an estimated pre-colonial population of 1.2 million. The study, which was conducted through Kamehameha Schools, a private school system dedicated to educating children with Hawaiian ancestry, concludes that the same methods could feed 86 percent of the state’s current population of 1.4 million—a striking finding for an archipelago that now imports nearly 90 percent of its food while exporting 80 percent of its crops.

Staff member and Farmer Specialist Nick Reppun steams loʻi. (Photo: Naoki Nitta)

Within each ahupuaʻa, a network of taro ponds functioned as surrogate wetlands, regulating the flux of water and removing contaminants flowing downstream. “So the health of the kalo is an indicator of health for the whole ecosystem,” Mar explains.

Colonization and the imposition of private land ownership created seismic shifts in both Native culture and the landscape. As large-scale sugarcane and pineapple plantations began flourishing in the mid-19th century, they consumed land by the tens of thousands of acres and siphoned water supplies, eventually drying up the majority of loʻi kalo throughout the islands. 

In the ahupuaʻa of Heʻeia, numerous taro fields had laid fallow since the 1940s, until Kakoʻo Oʻiwi began restoration. Those efforts, however, are integral to a greater system: They bridge the work of Papahana Kuaola, an educational non-profit that keeps upstream waters and forests free of debris and invasive, non-native flora, with the working fishpond located downstream.

Together, the triad works to maintain a clean water supply for the estuary while nourishing a range of Native crops. Besides kalo, both inland organizations cultivate ulu (breadfruit), sweet potatoes and bananas, while the ponds nurture herbivorous fish such as ‘ama’ama (striped mullet), awa (milkfish) and pualu (surgeonfish), as well as crab and shrimp.

Loʻi kalo at Kakoʻo ʻOʻiwi. (Photo: Naoki Nitta)

The traditional agricultural system also supports native fauna, including the endangered ‘alae ‘ula (Hawaiian moorhen). The red-beaked waterbird, whose population hovers around 1,000, nests in taro patches, making the loʻi kalo a crucial habitat.

Increasingly erratic weather patterns have also made taro farming central to maintaining the health of the ecosystem. The past eight years have brought “more rain bombs,” says Shultz. While rain falls with less frequency, each storm carries more volume, upping the potential for “heavy, angry water.”

Because flood pulses suffocate the estuary, the health of the fishpond and reef beyond is directly dependent on the filtration system, says Shultz. Moreover, kalo fields are remarkably effective at absorbing floodwater. “One acre can bank about a foot of water,” he says. “If you multiply that over a hundred acres—that’s over 30 million gallons of water [banked] per rain event.” Achieve that, and “now you’re actually starting to create some [meaningful] climate adaptation.”

Building a balanced system

Currently, the 50 acres of fields yield approximately 600 pounds of taro a week. Although Shultz’s goal is to triple production, scaling up has its challenges: Cultivation is a year-round, labor-intensive job that involves planting 1,000 bulbs weekly, in standing water, and harvesting an equal amount.

In addition to selling poi and kulolo, the farm is diversifying its revenue stream by incorporating non-traditional practices. “We’re taking care of the land that’s sustained us for thousands of years—in a contemporary system,” says Shultz. “It’s a balance,” much like him, he adds—a Native Hawaiian and a blend of other ethnicities. Along with a mushroom-growing facility in the works, he’s added high-value timber such as mahogany trees; 90 heads of sheep that mow down weeds and other invasive plants; and pigs that consume food and crop scraps such as tough and hairy taro peels. “We’ll be eating those buggers soon,” he says of the livestock. “We sell them, we trade them, we give them away.”

Despite these endeavors, the non-profit currently remains 90 percent dependent on grants. Still, “the biological returns far outpace our agricultural revenues,” says Shultz, and the investment in the land extends far beyond the reaches of the ahupuaʻa.

Between food sovereignty, climate resilience and reviving cultural practices, “you can put all kinds of labels” on these efforts, says Shultz. But, ultimately, they all support one goal: “It’s the ability for us to determine our own future.”

The post Meet the Taro Farmer Restoring an Ecosystem Through Native Hawaiian Practices appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Suffering from severe post-traumatic stress, Archipley was ready to retire after his four-year enlistment. “You don’t come back without damage from that,” says Karen. Yet checking out of the armed forces, the couple came to find, was a shockingly abrupt procedure with scant support. At that time, the Department of Defense’s (DoD) Transition Assistance Program, which was developed in 1991 to smooth the shift from active duty to civilian life, extended just four days. “It was harsh,” she says. They were left to navigate a lot on their own, including finding doctors familiar with combat-related conditions while trying to secure appointments at the Veterans Administration—on top of figuring out Archipley’s next career step.

Fortunately, the couple had invested in a 2.5-acre farm in Escondido, near Camp Pendleton, in between tours. “Farming turned out to be really healing,” says Karen, allowing her husband to decompress outdoors through physically demanding but rewarding challenges. After ending his service in 2006, Archipley and his wife established Archi’s Acres, an organic hydroponic farm that supplies basil and other specialty crops to local restaurants and stores.

Inside the Archi’s Acres greenhouse. (Photo courtesy AiSA)

With the successful launch of the business and a renewed sense of purpose, the couple looked to extend their reach. In 2007, they established the Veteran’s Sustainable Agriculture Training program, since renamed as Archi’s Institute for Sustainable Agriculture (AiSA), an agricultural training program designed to transition active and former armed force members into growers. Like a boot camp of sorts, the six-week intensive program immerses students in all aspects of sustainable farming and entrepreneurship and ushers them into viable, agriculture-based careers.

Along the way, it’s also become a platform—one that the Archipleys have leveraged to advocate for stronger government support in transitioning troops out of uniform.

A mission-driven attitude

In recent years, the unemployment rate among veterans has dipped dramatically, generally falling below the national rate. But, according to a study commissioned by the Office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD), historically, vets under the age of 24 have faced higher rates, which hit 29 percent in 2011. The gap closes quickly, however, with age and time out of uniform, the report suggests, and with proper education and training, former service members are quick to overcome skill deficits.

“[Those] leaving the military need a new purpose,” says Jeanette Lombardo, executive director of Farmer Veteran Coalition. The non-profit organization supports veterans in their transition to agricultural careers and provides tuition grants to several training programs, including AiSA. The armed forces instill “grit and a mission-driven attitude,” she says, so the challenging nature of farming—the weather, pests and disease, the market—is often a good fit. 

Service members also tend to be well versed in technology, Lombardo notes, making skills such as piloting drones readily transferable to the climate-smart and precision ag sectors. And disabled veterans are just as capable, she adds, particularly in marketing, logistics, distribution and compliance. “It’s a huge talent pool.”

Colin Archipley (far left) and Karen Archipley (far right) with a recent crop of students. (Photo courtesy AiSA)

The armed force’s emphasis on leadership training also helps stoke an entrepreneurial spirit. With a full military career under their belt, “many vets want to be their own boss,” says Tony Lattner, AiSA’s director of education and a retired Marine, “or [move on to] some type of supervisory role.” He notes that of the 600 or so program graduates, more than two-thirds either own their own farm or business or manage an operation.

Along with teaching agronomics, soil health and sustainable farming practices, AiSA places a big emphasis on developing an agriculture-related enterprise. Over six weeks, the curriculum covers the full seed-to-market process including access to financing, food safety and building a business plan around a farming operation. The program, which is also open to civilians, moved completely online in 2020 during the COVID-19 pandemic to better accommodate service members spread throughout the world. (Local students still have the option of additional, on-site training.)

The class culminates in a final exam and a Shark Tank-style pitch to a jury of food professionals, industry leaders and investors. In addition to farming, graduates have gone on to launch successful ventures such as a chain of empanada stores in San Diego and a custom meat-processing facility serving small-scale ranchers in Lancaster, Kentucky.

The fast pace translates to three hours of classes twice a week and around five hours of daily reading and assignments. “It’s like a full-time job,” says Arlet Galindo, a current student. A human resources specialist in the Air Force, she’d been stationed in Turkey for her final assignment and has been juggling her studies while settling into life back home in Los Angeles. But organization, structure and time management come with the territory, she says. “That’s the military mentality—you just have to get it done. Failure is not an option,” she adds with a laugh.

The AiSA program places a big emphasis on developing an agriculture-related enterprise. (Photo courtesy AiSA)

Galindo is one of a number of students in the 15-person class attending the course through SkillBridge, a DoD career transition program. Established in 2011, it allows service members to acquire civilian work experience through training, internships and apprenticeships during the final 180 days of their enlistment. Although the positions are unpaid, troops are relieved of their military duties and receive pay and benefits throughout the transition period.

The scaffolding is essential to post-service success, says Karen Archipley. Before SkillBridge, troops were being pushed out of the military with little civilian experience and a lot of vulnerability. “People often took any job they could get because they had families to support or medical needs to cover,” she says, recalling an early AiSA graduate who attended the class while homeless. In 2013, in a plea to bolster career transition support for veterans, the Archipleys presented his story and other similar cases to then-OSD director Frank DiGiovanni—leading the White House to later recognize their efforts.

A new call to service

In 2016, AiSA became a college credit program through Cal Poly Extended Extension, a move that allowed service members to tap their GI Bill benefits for tuition. But as of last year, a new partnership with the University of Minnesota Crookston gives program graduates a fully accredited agricultural certificate—a credential that equates to a year’s worth of working experience when applying for the USDA’s Farm Service Agency’s (FSA) Beginning Farmer loan.

Along with helping students leverage their military background to access capital, the program also emphasizes market viability. As a course requirement, students submit a comprehensive business plan at the end of the term—one that can be handed over to a loan officer or used to attract investors. “The whole idea is that their [venture] is sustainable, both financially and resource-wise,” says Lattner, the educational director. “If you have to get a second job to run the farm, it defeats the purpose.”

Tony Lattner points out student projects. (Photo: Naoki Nitta)

Samantha Stephens, a recent AiSA graduate winding down a decade-long career in the Marines, was startled to find out what it would take to run her husband’s family ranch in Georgia. While the mother of two—with a third on the way—will concentrate on parenting for the next few years, the couple’s long-term plan is to expand the two-acre llama, goat and sheep farm to include cows, chickens and a greenhouse. Understanding the breadth of compliance, taxes and regulations “opened my eyes to how much we’ll need to produce to justify doing the business,” she says.

Still, students see their service background as an apt segue to farming. There are obvious parallels in decision-making and prioritization, says Grant Taute. The current student and Osprey pilot is hanging up his wings after 20 years in the Marine Corps to become an avocado and specialty crop farmer outside of San Diego. Despite a very different professional pace, he says, the process is similar. “Whether it’s water, time or money, you constantly have to decide, ‘how am I going to best expend this resource?’”

And, ultimately, many service members see farming as yet another calling. Erick Raymundo-Vidrio, an aircraft technician retiring from a seven-year career in the Air Force, is planning to start a container farm. By bolstering food security for his community, he says, “I still feel like I’m answering a call to serve. Just at a smaller scale.”

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From breeding and cultivation to testing and delivery, the cannabis blockchain captures a digital snapshot of every major step of production, distribution and sale, locking them into an immutable digital ledger. By leaving a transparent data trail that originates at the farm and ends with the buyer, the openly visible platform promises clear accountability of sourcing and product safety, as well as fair compensation and due credit.

Still, for a community with a long history of operating in the shadows, the budding technology has drawn its share of skeptics. Greater transparency, however, is paramount to protecting the livelihood of small-scale, legacy cultivators, says Kennedy, as many get priced out of a crowded market—one increasingly dominated by large and, at times, unscrupulous players. Opening the books boosts the integrity of small batch producers, he adds, and keeps them better connected to aficionados who appreciate their craft.

“Most deals are done with a handshake and loose contract,” adds Kennedy. “This sets everything in stone”—for all to see.

An open ledger

With supply chains becoming ever more complex, tracking the source and path of agricultural products is essential to food safety and quality. Yet, companies can be hard-pressed to trace, say, lettuce in a salad mix back to a specific farm, while farmers may be just as unclear about where their crops end up. Consumers also take a leap of faith when buying products that carry nebulous claims of being sustainably grown, ethically sourced or humanely raised—all of which can cast doubt on the true appellation of San Marzano tomatoes or who really benefits from fair trade coffee.

Blockchain technology can keep tabs on any number of defined points along the supply chain, with a time-stamped certificate capturing everything from crop genetics and field location to compliance history and packaging details. At each stage, users upload an indelible block of information to a decentralized ledger, one mirrored across a network of computers, with easy and speedy access.

The open-source system is fundamentally democratic, says Daniela Barbosa, executive director of the Hyperledger Foundation. As an umbrella project of the non-profit Linux Foundation, the organization supports and coordinates the collaborative development of blockchain technology. Although user communities and enterprises can develop distinct platforms, there’s no single company driving its development, she explains in an email, and “the code is there for anyone to use and adapt.”

Absent a centralized certificate authority and a singular database, all data are verified through consensus mechanisms, or rules and protocols that validate each transaction, which reduces the risk of cyberattacks and insider fraud. Some validation methods require heavy computation—Bitcoin, a digital currency built on blockchain technology, is notoriously energy-intensive in this regard—but those used in supply chains are much lighter on the grid, says Barbosa.

By scanning QR codes or other tags with smartphones, most food producers, sellers and buyers can readily tap into an established blockchain platform. The low technical and economic bar “wrings out costs,” she notes, “and helps make issues such as ethical and sustainable sourcing real.”

Nevertheless, even the best technology can’t absolutely guarantee that crops weren’t grown on razed rainforests or harvested with child labor. While the blockchain adds transparency to the process, every step including tagging, sensors and inspections needs to be well designed and implemented, says Barbosa. “Garbage in means garbage out,” she adds; in other words, the quality of output depends on the structure of the input.

A full seed-to-sale account

The recent spread of legal cannabis throughout pockets of the U.S. elicited high hopes for bolstering the supply of high-grade weed. Yet, amid skyrocketing demand—in 2020, nationwide sales increased by 67 percent—the field has become flooded with greater numbers of large-scale producers, resulting in a market glut and a collapse in wholesale prices, with little oversight of quality standards.

In California, which produces nearly 60 percent of the nation’s total yield, the state’s excessive taxes and regulations have hit small-scale cannabis farmers particularly hard, including industry veterans in the fertile Emerald Triangle of Humboldt, Trinity and Mendocino counties. Many of the area’s 20,000 estimated growers have operated in this remote Northern California region for decades—either under the radar or under Proposition 215, a somewhat vague law that legalized medical cannabis in the state in 1996—but have made significant investments to bring their business completely above board since full legalization in 2016.

These legacy farmers have long set the benchmark for quality, says EMTRI’s Kennedy. “These guys are producing sun-and-earth grown, medicinal grade cannabis” sustainably, in small batches. “We want to keep them at the top of the food chain,” he says.

Doc Ray has been breeding and cultivating medical cannabis strains for nearly 50 years. (Photo courtesy of Doc Ray)

Along with most other states where cannabis is legal, California relies on Marijuana Enforcement Tracking Reporting Compliance (METRC), a government-contracted enterprise system, to monitor and regulate various aspects of production, distribution and sales. METRC maintains records such as the Certificate of Analysis (COA), the official test results of a given harvest that includes cannabinoid content and any presence of pesticide, herbicide and toxin residues. 

However, there’s little transparency built into the centralized platform, says Kennedy. With hazy quarantine periods for COA testing, no open access to records and data entered manually, the system leaves huge room for error, and even manipulation. The industry lacks standards for differentiating between medical and recreational strains or indoor and sun-grown products, he adds, creating challenges in verifying the value, authenticity or even the shelf-life of artisanal cannabis.

“We want farmers to maximize on their grow methods, on their IP [intellectual property],” says Kennedy. Legacy growers tend to “really care about the land,” relying on the sun and rich soil to cultivate a single annual harvest. And over the years, many have developed specialized varietals, fine-tuning aroma and flavor as well as the chemical profiles responsible for the psychoactive and therapeutic properties of cannabis.

These heirloom strains, which include legendary buds such as Blue Skunk and Girl Scout Cookies, “represent the extensive handiwork of breeders,” says Jed Davis, farmer and owner of Mendocino Clone Company, a commercial nursery supplying cloned, or propagated, cannabis seedlings. Yet those breeders have few measures in staking their claim, he says. “Once you give [the plant] to someone else to grow, that person can easily change the name,” take credit for the cultivar or cross-breed it into a new varietal. Consumers are often in the dark about what they’re truly smoking, he adds, noting that the industry is rife with questionable farming methods, product potency and safety issues.

Cannabis seedlings. (Photo: Shutterstock)

Earlier this year, Davis started tracking his seedlings on the blockchain. Each plant receives a unique block identity that stores its history accessible via a tagged QR code, starting with its origin and genetic heritage. As it moves along the chain of custody, growers add timestamped documentation of farm and location, a timeline of inputs, planting and harvest dates and even photographs. By the time it reaches the dispensary, a customer can pull up a bud’s full profile, including COA results, organic certification and shelf life, all via a simple scan.

In addition to providing a full seed-to-sale account, the secure open ledger “guarantees the customer that they know what they’re buying, where it came from and how it’s been cultivated,” says Davis. The assurance also helps build brand loyalty, he notes, while the ability for end users to leave reviews on the platform gives the farmer a feedback loop.

Growers also receive a financial incentive to join the blockchain via EMTRI’s own cryptocurrency. Similar to receiving company equity for each transaction, the virtual reward could provide a nest egg as well as a hedge against crop damage and other unforeseen circumstances. (Unlike cannabis farmed indoors, sun-grown crops are much more costly to insure; the lack of federal recognition also makes cannabis ineligible for U.S. assistance programs.)

Ultimately, the onus of honestly capturing the various steps falls on the individual players, says Davis. Although certain attestations can be collaborated with COA results, he sees an open ledger encouraging public accountability. “A lot of [small-scale] cultivators take a lot of pride in their craft,” he adds, and cherish their reputation as responsible farmers. “And that’s what a lot of customers really want to see.”

Building the chain of trust

Ironically, the wide-open nature of the platform may be off-putting to those in the field. “This community’s already leery of all that kind of stuff,” says Doc Ray, founder of Doc Ray Genetics, who still goes by his nickname—a common practice in the days before legalization. The self-professed old-timer has been breeding and cultivating medical cannabis strains for nearly 50 years, and was one of the first to openly farm cannabis under Prop 215.

Despite the seemingly straightforward and secure nature of the blockchain, many are wary of registering personal information tied to an industry with no federal recognition. And it’s no wonder, says Ray, recalling the era of federal raids on pot farms. “We’re the ones that have been handcuffed, had our kids displaced and our possessions taken from us.” (Although users can operate anonymously or under an account name, they still need to register an account on the platform; anti-money laundering regulations further require identity verification when handling cryptocurrency.)

Doc Ray, a self-professed old-timer, is an advocate of IP protection in the cannabis industry. (Photo courtesy of Doc Ray)

Ray holds several genetic patents on his cultivars (developed for his fellow veterans, some hold cult status for providing relief from post-traumatic stress, pain and insomnia) and is an ardent advocate of IP protection. And while he believes that the transparent nature of the blockchain is a valuable tool for staking public claims, the chain of trust, he adds, “is only as good as the operators on both sides of the coin.”

Patent infringement runs rampant these days, says Ray. “Even though we used to be the outlaws, we at least had a code of honor and rules that we lived by.” The boom in legalized recreational cannabis has emboldened many unscrupulous players, and most small-scale farmers lack the resources to go after the law breakers. “It’s just a brutal time right now for the craft cannabis industry,” he adds.

Regardless, there’s strength in unity, says EMTRI’s Kennedy. To date, the startup has onboarded seven farmers and has 10 more in the pipeline, and supplies a growing number of distributors throughout California. Linking more farmers to the blockchain, he adds, helps build a network of resilience against market forces and regulatory burdens. “It’s a completely new way of cultivating relationships.”

This story is part of ‘Phonies, Fakes and Food Fraud’, a special Modern Farmer series. See the full series here.

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“The fire burned right around them,” says the 73-year old rancher and owner of Diamond B Ranch, noting the intact areas—some as big as a quarter acre. “It’s all grazed pasture,” he says, spared “because the fuel load was low.”

But elsewhere, fields of fire-prone grasses had made conditions ripe for combustion, says Balthazar. Introduced to the islands decades ago as livestock forage, invasive vegetation such as Guinea grass and buffelgrass proliferate in the islands, largely on unmanaged agricultural land. And with the state in prolonged drought, the dense, often chest-high growth has turned vast swaths of land, he says, into “one tinder box.”

Some areas of grazed pasture on Diamond B Ranch went unburned. (Photo: Jasmine Pankratz)

Once home to large-scale plantations and ranches that dominated the landscape for more than 160 years, the steep and steady decline of Hawaiian agriculture has left fields and pastures idle by thousands of acres, often in close proximity to residential development. Left unchecked, they’re fertile ground, experts say, for harboring fecund grasses and other non-native plants, trees and even deer.

Amid a warming planet and increasingly volatile climate patterns, many see the role of agriculture as essential in minimizing the threats facing the remote archipelago. Keeping fields productive is an essential land management strategy, experts say, while encouraging a diversity of agricultural uses builds resilience in both the land and Hawaii’s food system.

Still, “ag here is a tough business,” says Balthazar. Earlier this year, he lost nearly 60 percent of his land after the lease owner, a private family trust, sold the property to the state. With thick groves of wattle trees, blackberry bushes and other invasive plants “infesting” nearby Polipoli State Park, he has little faith that the 2,100-acre parcel will be properly managed, he says, and fears that he’ll be facing greater fire risk.

“That’s the fight I’m in,” Balthazar adds. “And remember, we live on an island. We only have so much ag land, and we keep losing it.”

Brendan Balthazar surveys the fire impacts on the land he manages. (Photo: Jasmine Pankratz)

Wildfires, for most of Hawaii’s history, have been rare. But in the past decade, decreasing rainfall and climbing temperatures have left the drier, leeward stretches of its islands—areas in the rain shadow of steep, volcanic mountains—increasingly parched. Meanwhile, the prevalence of intense tropical storms has been ticking up; many are unseasonal, and kick up gale-force winds that can easily stoke a blaze across the arid landscape.

Climate variability has an undeniable role in setting the scene, says Giuseppe Torri, professor of atmospheric sciences at the University of Hawaii (UH) at Mānoa. Some factors are human-induced, while others fall into natural cycles; El Niño, for instance, creates periodic swings in ocean surface temperatures, creating global impact on weather and precipitation patterns. 

Nevertheless, tracing the origins of the recent fires to any one cause is difficult, says Torri. Ultimately, hurricanes and high-pressure systems are “large-scale dynamics that occur at a planetary scale”—and unlikely to be influenced by local processes.

Any modification in land use, however, has an impact on the islands, says Torri. “Urbanization, the conversion of native forest to agricultural land, these are all factors that must have played some role not necessarily on the wildfires but on the climate of Hawaii.”

Regardless, “islands are extremely vulnerable to extreme climates and weather phenomena,” says Torri. With average temperatures and sea level both predicted to rise, disasters can come in many forms. “Preparedness seems like a pretty big topic for an island chain in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

Doug Wagner stands next to what’s left of his home in Kula. (Photo: Jasmine Pankratz)

The colonization of Hawaii in the 19th century led to a dramatic transformation in the island landscape. The privatization of land in the 1850s gave rise to large sugarcane and pineapple plantations—a huge divergence from Native practices of sustainable and diverse farming on communally held plots.

The sugar industry soon dominated the island economy. By the early 20th century, Hawaii was home to 14 commercial sugarcane plantations; at its peak, the crop covered 89,000 acres on Maui alone or nearly a fifth of the island. Yet, falling sugar prices in the 1970s—a result of foreign competition and the elimination of import restrictions and excise taxes—marked the eventual demise of the industry.

In 2016, HC&S, the state’s last sugar plantation, shuttered its Maui operations. Although Hawaii’s overall agricultural footprint had been shrinking for nearly four decades, the closure took nearly 38,000 acres of fields out of production in one fell swoop. According to a UH study, that contributed to an 82-percent drop in Maui’s active cropland between 2015 and 2020—despite a 3,000-acre increase in diversified crops during the same time period.

“When the last sugarcane plantation closed, there was real concern about what that landscape would become,” says Laura Brewington, an Arizona State University professor and co-director of the Pacific Research on Island Solutions for Adaptation (Pacific RISA) in Honolulu. Straddled in the flat valley between Maui’s two mountains, directly downslope from Balthazar’s cattle ranch, the region “is a very dry area,” she notes, requiring constant irrigation to cultivate crops.

The rolling hills of Brendan Balthazar’s leased pasture up the mountain in Kula are lined with invasive trees that are difficult to maintain. (Photo: Jasmine Pankratz)

While Central Maui has a few pockets of diversified farms, seed production and pastures, most fields have simply been abandoned—only to be taken over by hardy, invasive grasses. Many hail from the African savannah, and are well-adapted to flourishing in arid, leeward regions.

With an intricately connected root system, “they do quite well when there’s a fire,” says Brewington, springing back to life stronger than ever. “So, you just get this vicious cycle of fire and grass like we’re seeing right now,” one that fuels the spread of “a grassland monoculture” that chokes out native vegetation.

Over the last 50 years, the highly flammable grasses have spread to nearly a quarter of the state, states Flint Hughes, a scientist at the USDA Forest Service (FS). “In the absence of those non-native invasive grass species, the wildfire threat in Hawaii would likely be minimal,” he adds.

Eradication efforts, however, aren’t always consistent or cohesive. Land designation and ownership run the gamut—the state’s large landholders include federal and state agencies, non-profit trusts and private holdings—and making uniform stewardship strategies across hundreds of properties a daunting proposition, says Teya Penniman, acting manager of the Maui Invasive Species Committee (MISC). (And unlike the islands of Oahu, Kauai and Hawaii, Maui has no military land, which further affects how major parcels are managed.)

Yet, “invasive species don’t care about political or legal boundaries,” she says. Each island has its own Invasive Species Committee (ISC) that identifies and prioritizes local threats, then works with private and public landowners and communities to target them. There have been success stories: MISC has almost eradicated fountain grass from Maui, although it still plagues Hawaii Island. And FS’s Flint reports that targeted control of albizia, a brittle and fast-sprouting non-native tree that easily topples during tropical storms, has helped minimize its spread.

Dry grass stubble between the hard rocks that cover Brendan Balthazar’s pasture, leased from the Haleakala Ranch. (Photo: Jasmine Pankratz)

But as a program of the UH-Pacific Cooperative Studies Unit, ISCs operate without legal authority and solid funding, notes Penniman, who sees Hawaii lagging behind other states in providing adequate support, resources and initiatives. And invasive species control and fire prevention typically fall to individual landowners with little state or local direction and oversight, much less legal consequences for inadequate control. “I have never seen the political will to take on an approach like that,” adds Penniman.

And that makes agriculture all the more important as a land management strategy. Productive fields and pastures require maintenance and investment in the land—a benefit that even large-scale plantations once provided, says Hunter Heaivilin, Hawaii Farmers Union United’s (HFUU) advocacy director, despite their extractive and exploitative, mono-cropping practices. “When there’s hundreds of acres of sugarcane that is actively and intensively managed, it’s harder for invasive species to march across that,” he says.

When farmland and pastures turn idle, the economics often make land use changes tempting, says Heaivilin. And once a large parcel gets subdivided and up-zoned into more profitable uses, it rarely reverts back to farmland or pasture, he adds. “It’s a one-way valve.”

At its peak, sugar cane covered nearly a fifth of the island of Maui. (Photo: Shutterstock)

In 2018, Mahi Pono, a joint venture between a California-based, agricultural management company and a Canadian pension fund, acquired the entirety of fields left bare by HC&S. Having proclaimed a mission to practice sustainable agriculture and increase the supply of locally grown food, the company has, to date, put 10,000 acres of fields back into production with diverse crops and trees, and 9,000 acres of pasture for its cattle operation, per its website.

The agri-giant has its share of critics, who have accused Mahi Pono of everything from attempting to influence local politics to using restricted pesticides and diverting water from recent firefighting efforts. (Mahi Pono did not respond to interview requests from Modern Farmer.)

Despite the controversy, keeping thousands of acres in active production has indisputable value, says Heaivilin. But while continuity in agricultural land use is important, so is supporting a diverse mix of farms and ranches, he adds—both in crop selection and in size. Supporting small operations and multi-generational producers as well as Native homestead and traditional cultivation is crucial, not just for building resilience in the land amid a changing climate, but for ensuring food security on a remote archipelago that imports more than 80 percent of its supply.

In the meantime, as the ashes and embers settle across the island, “there’s going to be a lot of Monday morning quarterbacking,” says Balthazar, the rancher. Yet there’s no doubt in his mind as to what drove the disaster.

“If there was [proper] land management,” he says, “there wouldn’t be the fuel to create these huge flames traveling down the highways.”

The post In Fire-Stricken Maui, Sustainable Land Management Is Key appeared first on Modern Farmer.

But the epic flooding this past March was simply unprecedented, says the owner of Lerda-Goni Farms. After a winter of record snow in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, a sudden warm spell melted the lower reaches, unleashing nearly 40,000 acre-feet of water—a volume equal to more than a tenth of Las Vegas’ annual supply—in 48 hours. The torrent overwhelmed dams, swelled rivers and crumbled levees, inundating entire farming communities, including Lerda-Goni and a dozen other ranches, and reawakening a long-dormant lake lying beneath the vast agricultural region.

With floodwater breaching six-foot high banks, “I don’t know what we could have done to prevent it,” says Goni. “It was just an insane amount of water in such a short amount of time.” Months later, he’s still shell-shocked from having to relocate his herd of 2,400 cows in the middle of the night—a Herculean effort pulled off by his team of 11 long-time employees, neighbors and countless volunteers, some who hailed from as far away as Nevada.

The reemergent Tulare Lake is not expected to drain for up to two years. (Photo courtesy of Lerda-Goni Farms)

All told, one official estimate pegs the dairy industry’s losses at $10 billion. While the lake has drained down to about 168 square miles, a chilly spring also kept the high-elevation snowpack at a slow melt, helping to avert an even greater calamity in the low-slung basin. Yet, as whole farming communities dig themselves out of the muddy ruins, the growing uncertainty of climate change is darkening a cloud over the future of the region’s largest industry—one valued at nearly $2 billion annually.

Following multiple years of drought, the diluvian whiplash is just the latest in a mounting list of burdens facing the basin’s largest industry, which pumps out 54 percent of California’s milk supply. As environmental adversity—along with the strain of rising costs and regulations—tightens the squeeze, many smaller, family-owned ranches have been caving to consolidation pressure. And that’s tipping the landscape in favor of mega-dairies—the large-scale operations that critics point to as disproportionate contributors of human-induced climate change.

At this point, “our farm is pretty self-sufficient,” says Goni, as he rushed to plant summer feed corn on his barely dry fields. His 580-acre farm grows enough forage to supply the herd, so “I’m good with where I’m at,” he adds. Still, the trend of getting big or getting out is all too real, adds the farmer, who’s seen plenty of small dairies pushed out in his lifetime. “But I’ll leave that [decision] for my nephews, for the next generation.”

Located in the southern reaches of the San Joaquin Valley, about 200 miles north of Los Angeles, Tulare Lake was once the largest body of freshwater west of the Mississippi River. Fed by four rivers flowing from the Sierra Nevadas, the shallow inland sea covered 1,000 square miles—more than four times the surface area of Lake Tahoe. Vast tule marshes surrounded its banks, creating a rich ecosystem teeming with fish and birds that, in turn, supported the Tachi Yokut and other Native American communities.

As westward expansion swept across the region in the late 1800s, settlers began draining the 40-foot deep lake for farmland. Within decades, a network of dams, levees and canals had dried up the basin, transforming the fertile crater into an agricultural hub. Today, the four counties sitting in the lake bed account for more than $25 billion in food and crop production, with Tulare County ranking number one in the nation for milk and oranges. Neighboring Fresno and Kern Counties top the list for almonds, while Kings County rules the state in cotton production.

But thirsty crops and cattle have taken their toll: Amid California’s cycles of drought, excessive groundwater pumping has left Central Valley basins the most overdrafted in the state. Although California’s Sustainable Groundwater Management Act (SGMA) aims to recharge them by regulating draws, the dried-up lake bed has long been collapsing under the massive weight of industrialized agriculture—to the tune of a couple of inches per month.

As climate change fuels more extreme swings in weather patterns, subsidence further compounds the region’s issues, says John Abatzoglou, professor of climatology at University of California, Merced, with arid years advancing the sink and wet ones expanding flood risk.

The tanking basin is also wreaking havoc on the region’s extensive canal system and levees. Corcoran, a community of 22,000 in Kings County with a sizable population of agricultural laborers and a large state prison, is scrambling to raise its 14-mile-long embankment, which has already collapsed by several feet since getting a $10-million boost just five years ago. As future deluges become more severe, maintaining, repairing and upgrading valley infrastructure will require greater investment, says Abatzoglou. 

Dairy farmer Joseph Goni’s grandfather witnessed the 1955 deluge that flooded their farm. (Photo courtesy of Lerda-Goni Farms)

Since the 1983 flood, changes in farming patterns have also raised the basin’s economic risk, he notes. Orchards, vines and other perennials cultivated as long-term investments have steadily replaced ephemeral crops such as tomatoes and cotton, which are far less costly to sacrifice or replace. Meanwhile, the consolidation of dairies has led to a sharp increase in herd size despite a plummeting number of farms, reflecting a national trend. 

“It’s a different playing field,” says Abatzoglou. Ultimately, the altered landscape means that climate-related disasters including floods, wildfires and drought will all take a deeper toll on agriculture—fruit and nut farmers having to abandon decade-old trees, for instance, or cattle ranchers needing to relocate hundreds of thousands of cows at a moment’s notice. And that’s on top of less snowpack and quicker melts thanks to a warming climate, as well as shrinking milk production from heat-stressed herds.

As individual farmers reel from the most recent disaster, many are up against the consequences of a new normal, says Anja Raudabaugh, chief executive officer of Western United Dairies, a Fresno-based industry trade organization. “Insurance carriers are not going to tolerate this again,” she adds, so farmers in floodplains are bracing themselves for a range of costly upgrades, including raising the elevation of entire feed lots and barns. 

In an industry known for razor-thin margins and a grueling, 365-days-a-year schedule, Raudabaugh sees consolidation accelerating. Although herds of 1,200 used to be the norm not too long ago, small family dairies are increasingly merging into 4,000- to 6,000-head operations. Larger players have more buying power and efficiency to manage rising operational costs, she says, so “becoming bigger is like a risk buffer.”

And in recent years, the soaring cost of feed and water scarcity—both compounded by drought and SGMA regulations—have made consolidation pressure all the more acute in California. “Despite the resilience of family [farms], the mega-trend is undeniable,” says Raudabaugh.

With the growing scale comes a ballooning environmental footprint: More inputs of feed and water increase output, which includes greater methane emissions. Dairy and livestock account for more than half of California’s production of the powerful greenhouse gas (GHG), one that traps 84 times more heat than carbon dioxide.

In Tulare County, where nearly half a million milk cows live on 222 dairies, the sheer density of large operations also magnifies other impacts, says Andrew deCoriolis, executive director of Farm Forward, a Portland-based humane farming advocacy organization. Concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs) have been linked to numerous environmental issues such as nitrate contamination of groundwater and bacterial runoff, as well as dust storms and poor air quality (the county ranks among the worst in the nation).

“On a local and regional [level], it would be hard to point to another industry—except maybe oil and gas refining—with as much emissions and pollution,” he adds.

For their part, dairy farmers are duly engaged in sustainability efforts, says Raudabaugh. She points to wide-scale implementation of anaerobic digesters, which capture methane from sealed manure lagoons to create biogas. “They’re currently the only technology in the entire state that reduces methane,” she adds. Under a California Department of Food and Agriculture (CDFA) program aimed at slashing the state’s GHG emissions by 40 percent, she estimates that dairy farms have installed more than 200 projects, with an additional 25 currently in development.

Bio-digesters can help dairies cut emissions, but they’re costly. Critics say they create the wrong incentives. (Photo: Shutterstock)

A recent County report shows that, in the last decade, bio-digesters helped Tulare’s dairies and feedlots reduce their emissions by nearly 20 percent. And because the entire system is sealed, dairy digesters went unscathed during the spring floods, Raudabaugh notes, preventing vast acres of effluent from escaping.

Harnessing methane also helps farmers build economic resilience. At the federal level, participants can earn clean fuel credits through the Renewable Fuel Standard program, while in California, biogas producers can also sell their carbon credits to oil and gas companies. All told, the added revenue could boost a dairy’s earnings by as much as 50 percent.

Critics, however, remain skeptical. With one digester costing anywhere from $400,000 to $5 million to install and operate, smaller operations often find them cost prohibitive. Yet for those that can afford them, it’s an enticing cash cow, says DeCoriolis, with a return on investment that scales up with increased methane production. “The value of the energy is great enough that it’s creating these perverse incentives to grow CAFOs.” 

And it’s not just the manure, he adds—cows also burp 220 pounds of methane annually. “We’re subsidizing [the expansion of] these megadairy operations, all [in the name of] renewable energy,” says DeCoriolis. “And it isn’t going to do anything to reduce the other negative impacts.”

Size is relative, says Daniel Sumner, professor of agricultural and resource economics at the University of California, Davis. With the country’s average herd ranging around 300 heads, “just about all dairies in California are considered large by U.S. standards,” he writes in an email. But, he adds, the scale helps keep the Golden State’s dairy prices in check.

California’s small, pasture-based, organic dairies—many of which are clustered on the state’s North Coast—have a lighter environmental footprint, and they contribute just a sliver of the industry’s overall methane emissions. Yet that comes with high production costs that run 50 percent greater than Tulare County operations, says Sumner.

Although the premium operations fill a niche market, large-scale ones keep dairy accessible to Californians far beyond the grocery aisle, says Western United’s Raudabaugh. Consumer groups include food assistance services, including school nutrition and the Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) programs, as well as food banks, prisons and other public institutions. “There’s more cheese, yogurt and milk being consumed in these [services] than ever before,” she adds.

Dairy is also tightly woven into the fabric of California agriculture. Despite competing for land and water, the region’s orchards and milk farms have developed an unlikely partnership, says Sumner. Cows consume vast amounts of agricultural by-products, including almond hulls, citrus peel and other food-processing leftovers; the supplemental feed keeps crop waste out of landfill and “the dairy business afloat in the Valley,” he adds.

The field is further ingrained in the local and state economy. California produces nearly 42 billion pounds of milk annually, which, together with dairy products, total nearly 15 percent of California’s $51-billion annual agricultural production. And because the fresh fluid is costly to transport, dairy processing is highly regional, says Sumner. Statewide, the industry is responsible for almost 180,000 jobs, he notes, and supports another 132,000 indirect ones through trucking and hauling, veterinary services and other ancillary sectors.

Nearly half a million milk cows live on 222 dairies in Tulare County. (Photo: Shutterstock)

But a resilient industry needs a strong foundation to keep it from getting too top-heavy. And that means fostering a diverse range in the scale of farms, says Jeanne Merrill, the former policy director for the California Climate and Agriculture Network. “Agriculture [prospers] when small and mid-scale family operations can not just survive but thrive economically.” In other words, policy measures aimed at sustainability need to also support economic viability.

Merrill points to CDFA’s suite of climate smart solutions that promote agronomic benefits through financial incentives. The multi-pronged approach fosters conservation management practices that improve soil health and sequester carbon, as well as irrigation measures that reduce on-farm water and energy use. The Alternative Manure Management Program also offers a more cost-effective and greener alternative to bio-digesters, minimizing methane at the source by up to 90 percent and simultaneously generating compost.

And dairy farmers are increasingly engaging in recharging over-pumped basins. The California Department of Water Resources LandFlex program incentivizes growers to fallow fields during drought or, as the case may be this year, flooding them in years with heavy rain to replenish regional aquifers.

These state incentive programs all help to keep family farms in business while advancing innovations. “It keeps the land [active] and on [a farmer’s] asset sheet,” says Raudabaugh, “so he can still pay his employees, bank notes and property taxes—all of which keep the local community going.”

The programs also help mitigate some of the risks of implementing innovation, adds Merrill. California farmers are a highly motivated group, she says. With program demand far exceeding available funding, “we’re seeing that they really want to engage in practices that’ll make a difference on their operations.”

Still, the looming challenges of climate change are daunting, Merrill concedes, and require much more ambitious action. “We have to bend that emissions curve in order to avoid some of the worst impacts, and in agriculture… these changes take time,” she says. “So, we have to invest now in order to reap the rewards later.”

ThThis story is part of State of Abundance, a five-part series about California agriculture and climate change. See the full series here.

The post ‘An Insane Amount of Water’: What Climate Change Means For California’s Biggest Dairy District appeared first on Modern Farmer.

When the 57-year-old lost her job back in February, she wanted to prioritize spending more time on her family’s fourth generation farm near Guymon, in the Oklahoma panhandle. As an experienced flier who’d obtained her sport pilot’s license back in high school, seeing drones at an agricultural training seminar “really piqued my interest,” she recalls. 

Beer realized that unmanned aerial spraying systems (UASS), designed to haul and disperse tanks of herbicide, fertilizer and seeds across vast fields, could fill a job once reserved for large-rig ground sprayers and crop dusters. Using her family’s 3,000-acre corn, wheat and grain fields as a training ground, “it was the perfect opportunity to explore something new,” she says—and help wean the farm off conventional spraying methods.

In addition to making operations more efficient, spray drones lighten the environmental impacts of agriculture through precise aerial applications and a drastically lighter footprint. And they’re also helping farmers boost their bottom line while luring a fresh crop of tech- and aviation-minded peers into a shrinking profession.

The technology also gives growers a new level of autonomy, says Beer, who’s started a drone spraying business with her sister. “When there’s a [crop] issue, you need to get someone in to spray, and you need it done now—along with everyone else in the county,” she adds. “But rather than having to get in line and wait [for a plane], you can fly your drone immediately.”

Besides, flying one is an amazing experience, she says. Despite its 12-foot wingspan, the dragonfly-like contraption zooms, hovers and turns on a dime. “It’s so maneuverable and graceful.”

“This was a complete career change,” says Tracye Beer. (Photo: Gerald Beer)

According to the Association for Uncrewed Vehicle Systems International (AUVSI), a nonprofit trade group, agriculture could soon account for 80 percent of the global commercial drone market. 

Governmental regulations, including environmental restrictions on aerial spraying, largely dictate adoption. In drone-friendly China, UASS use has soared, particularly on small farms where large mechanical equipment is either too costly or impractical. On the other hand, France—which has recently seen a significant jump in herbicide and pesticide use—restricts drones from spraying over concerns about drifting mist. That’s similar to Canada, where the Pest Management Regulatory Agency currently limits them to research purposes.

In the US, both the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) and Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) have approved remote aerial spraying by licensed drone operators. That’s liberated many row crop farmers from the costly burden of hiring planes and helicopters, says Taylor Moreland, owner of Agri Spray Drones, a Missouri-based agricultural drone dealer.

A large share of Moreland’s customers are small-scale Midwestern corn growers with 200- to 500-acre farms. With tassels growing 10 feet or higher, ground spraying isn’t an option, he says, so most farms typically hire aircraft to blanket crops with herbicide, fungicide and pesticide. “The demand for those [services] is high, although the supply of pilots isn’t growing,” he says. “So drones are filling that gap.”

The Agras T40—Beer’s new baby and the biggest model Moreland offers—is a flying workhorse. Capable of hauling 10 gallons of herbicide or 115 pounds of fertilizer or seeds on a single charge, it can cover up to eight acres before boomeranging back to base for a battery swap and resupply.

A full package, which includes spare batteries, recharger and tanks, as well as in-house training and FAA licensing, runs about $35,000. Compared to the trucks, tractors and half-a-million-dollar combines required in commodity farming, that’s a much more reasonable investment for small- and medium-scale growers, says Moreland.

Still, there’re only so many acres that one drone can blanket with any efficiency. Along with corn, broad-acre fields growing wheat, soybeans and barley often measure in the thousands—or even tens of thousands—of acres. Here, high-clearance ground rigs are standard equipment: Using 120-foot booms, these million-dollar sprayers blanket fields with chemicals using overlapping, redundant nozzles to ensure maximum coverage.

Weeds, however, tend to form in isolated patches, rather than across entire fields, says Terry Aberhart, a third-generation farmer in Langenburg, in eastern Saskatchewan. With herbicides accounting for a big chunk of operating costs on his family’s 18,000-acre wheat and canola farm, “it seems ludicrous to have to carpet bomb the whole field,” he says.

Those vast fields have been a testing ground for Canada-based Precision AI’s autonomous smart drones. Rigged with high-resolution cameras that track detail down to the half-pixel, the UASSs can identify any of the 19,000 plants stored in its database, then zap away weeds with 96-percent accuracy. And because the aerial sprayers hover mere feet above their mark, “we’ve drastically reduced our chemical use [while] increasing overall yields,” says Aberhart.

While each drone has a spray width of 21 feet, matching the scaled efficiency of a ground rig requires flying multiple units, says Warren Bills, vice president of business development for agriculture at Precision AI. Yet, even with the $100,000 base price, swarming three in tandem “gives you half the boom width of a high-clearance sprayer” at a third of the price, he says.

The aerial application also relieves fields of heavy, large-wheeled machinery, Bills adds, which can compact soil, trample crops and reduce yields by nearly 15 percent. “When you take crop protection to the air, that’s where you see some of the most favorable economics.”

Although AI-enabled drones can make operations more efficient, he dismisses the notion that they threaten farming jobs. Surveying crops and scouting weeds are time-consuming tasks best left to automation, says Bills. Rapid surveillance and instant plant identification give agronomists more leeway in developing effective prescriptions and timely strategies—important considerations given the short, seasonal windows farmers have for managing weeds, disease and pests.

“Rather than spending eight hours a day walking a field saying, ‘Oh, you’ve got these five weeds,’ there’re so many [other] decisions that they could be focusing on,” says Bills.

Taylor Moreland, owner of Agri Spray Drones, says drones are filling a gap for farmers who rely on aircraft to spray their crops. (Photo courtesy of AgriSpray)

Spray drones also add a job to small-scale farms and farming communities, says Agri Spray’s Moreland. The lower financial bar helps keep farmers in business, and it is luring some with a farming background back to rural areas.

The technology has also drawn a younger crowd to the field, including a 24-year-old TikToker posting her aerial escapades under the handle “CarolineTXFarmer” and a 21-year-old pilot in high demand for her accuracy on farms throughout Mexico. Beer, from Oklahoma, recalls that, in addition to several women among the 50 or so students in her training and certification class, there was also a 14-year-old accompanied by his grandfather. (The FAA’s minimum age for drone pilot certification is 16.)

As the industry continues to grapple with steep operating expenses, labor shortages and the increasing impact of climate change, drones show promising potential to enhance efficiency. Yet researchers encourage a cautious approach to implementing autonomous technology in agriculture, citing the implications of inadequate cyber-security and other potential risks to the global food system, as well as weak internet penetration and cost barriers deepening the digital divide.

Agri Spray’s Moreland acknowledges the safety concerns, although limited speeds and flight times are obvious deterrents, he notes, adding that “the information they collect is pretty minimal.” And Bills points out that drones operate independently, without an internet or data connection; even Precision AI’s data-heavy computing is all processed onboard. (That’s also practical, he notes, as large swaths of rural Canada have poor broadband and mobile coverage.)

Meanwhile, the plummeting cost of basic agricultural drones—80 percent in the past decade—seems to be pushing up demand. Like their Chinese counterparts, small-scale growers in India are abandoning hand-held sprayers for UASSs, often hiring or renting them from local service providers. Their agility also makes the technology practical for farms in a range of terrains, including steep slopes, forested areas and wetland regions.

As for Beer, she has no regrets about her midlife leap. “Sometimes, it takes getting pushed out of the nest to soar,” she says. “This was a complete career change, but I see a great future ahead.”

The post Welcome to the Next Generation of Agricultural Drones appeared first on Modern Farmer.

On busy weekends, crowds of locavores routinely swell to 15,000. “Customers come from all over,” says Gha Xiong, owner of Xiong Farm. He’s one of nearly 150 regional farmers, ranchers and food purveyors who set up Sunday shop in the sprawling parking lot, in clear view of the Prairie-style dome and spire designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

For nearly two decades, Xiong and his wife, Kou Yang, have made the weekly, three-hour trek from their family farm outside of Fresno, where they grow a diverse range of Hmong and Asian produce such as bitter melon, bok choy and daikon. While business is normally brisk, an overly wet and drawn-out winter drowned their low-lying fields and delayed spring planting by nearly six weeks. Consequently, recent offerings have been slim. “People say, ‘You sold out so early today.’ No, [it’s just that] we don’t have enough to fill our tables,” he says, gesturing to the thinning pile of greens.

The Sunday Marin Farmers Market is the third largest in California. (Photo: Naoki Nitta/Modern Farmer)

For California farmers, relentless precipitation and a late spring are just the latest in a mounting list of challenges exacerbated by extreme climate, spiraling costs and increased environmental regulations. But the pressures exact a larger toll on independent producers like Xiong, many of whom lack the resources of the industrial giants that dominate the landscape. As a result, the state loses an average of four small-scale farms every day.

The recently proposed California Local Food Producers Bill (AB 1197) aims to stop the hemorrhaging by giving independently owned farms an official state designation and better support those who grow food for their communities. Although the bill isn’t directly tied to funding or other assistance, proponents say the legal definition would help target resources, state programs and future policies to help bolster the local food economy.

Small-scale producers play a vital role in supplying not just farmers markets but restaurants, community-supported agriculture (CSA) programs and food hubs, says Jamie Fanous, policy director at Community Alliance with Family Farmers (CAFF), a California-based, non-profit advocacy group and a major bill sponsor. “This is a path to designate who they are, so we can figure out how to protect those facing the highest pressures.”

A top-heavy landscape

The bill assigns values to “Local Food Producers,” defining them as independently owned farms in California that operate on less than 500 acres and sell more than 75 percent of products to their local community. (“Local,” however, remains a less-precise category, extending to the whole state.) The California Cattlemen’s Association, a non-profit trade group representing the state’s beef and dairy interests, has opposed the acreage limit, citing greater land needs for grazing cattle. In response, Assemblymember Gary Hart (D), who introduced the bill, is working to create a separate threshold to accommodate ranchers. “I am confident we will find the common ground to earn [their] support,” he told Modern Farmer in an email.

According to the 2017 Census of Agriculture, farms measuring less than 500 acres make up the backbone of U.S. agriculture, accounting for 85 percent of the overall landscape. Although that number inches up to 90 percent in California, two-thirds of its growers operate on less than 50 acres, helping to make the country’s biggest food producer also its most diverse.

Yet the largest five percent of properties make up more than half of the Golden State’s nearly 25 million acres of cropland, while 37 percent of fields and pastures are leased out by non-farmers. “So there’s a pretty significant power imbalance, where the majority of land is really owned by a few [parties],” says Fanous.

That shifts the foundations of California’s agricultural system away from individual and family growers to large companies and absentee landlords, many with weak ties to the local community. Often backed by speculative investment and run by farm management companies, she adds that these deep-pocketed operations are better equipped to weather the challenges of farming. 

California faces a particularly unique set of issues that heighten the impacts. Like the rest of the nation, the state contends with extreme weather and temperatures, pest infestations and decreased crop resilience. “But our farmers are constantly dealing with the whiplash of drought, wildfires and floods,” says Fanous. “It seems like every two to three months, there’s something new.”

Additionally, development pressure gobbles up 50,000 acres of cropland every year. And for independent growers, the majority of whom lease their fields, skyrocketing land prices continue to take a larger bite out of their profit margins; Xiong, the Fresno farmer, reports that the rent on his five-acre farm has nearly tripled in the last decade.

“And we only anticipate things to get worse as a result of the Sustainable Groundwater Management Act,” adds Fanous, referencing California’s strict limits on pumping groundwater. Enacted to replenish the state’s overtapped basins, research shows that the regulations could end up fallowing as much as 900,000 acres of farmland along the way.

Many small-scale growers—immigrants and historically underrepresented groups in particular—lack robust safety nets, says Fanous. Only eight percent of California farms receive public subsidies, few carry crop insurance and government aid is often laden with paperwork, bureaucracy and delayed payouts. That leaves them highly vulnerable to consolidation, which, she notes, has ramped up in recent years, further tipping the balance of power in favor of big industry.

Labels matter

“It often feels like we go from one [crowdfunding] to another, just so we can keep farmers in California,” says Andy Naja-Riese, chief executive director of the Agricultural Institute of Marin (AIM). The non-profit operates nine farmers markets throughout the San Francisco Bay Area, including its flagship at the Marin County Civic Center, drawing more than 350 farmers, food purveyors and artisans from 40 California counties. They also serve 47,000 shoppers who use CalFresh—California’s version of Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP)—annually.

A recent survey reveals that this past winter’s storms hit AIM vendors hard: More than 75 percent missed market days, with a quarter experiencing property damage and 40 percent losing inventory. “The majority of producers rely on the markets and other local sales outlets to make their living,” says Naja-Riese. With many operating on razor-thin margins, “missed days and delayed sales have a huge impact on their business.”

Crop Swap LA operates three micro farms located in residential yards. (Photo courtesy Crop Swap LA)

In the past decade, California has seen nearly a fifth of its farmers markets and a third of its certified producers vanish. Giving local producers a legal designation is a key step in reversing the trend, says Fanous. “In order to protect a community, you need to first define [them], then map them to know where they are.”

The Farmer Equity Act, for instance, set the foundation for promoting equitable agricultural policies by identifying socially disadvantaged groups. Similarly, a local food producer designation allows effective inclusion or exclusion in measures such as water restrictions, grant and relief programs and technical resources, adds Fanous. “We could utilize this definition to exempt these producers from X, or prioritize for Y when it comes to, say, water or land issues.”

The label is every bit as relevant to urban growers and their communities, says Jamiah Hargins, executive director of Crop Swap LA, another bill supporter. The South Los Angeles-based CSA operates three micro farms located on slivers of residential yards. At just over one acre, Crop Swap LA grows a range of produce such as leafy greens, tomatoes and okra and distributes them weekly to 70 families within a tight, one-mile radius. The hyper-local system, says Hargins, ensures subscribers—many from underserved communities of color—with direct and reliable access to fresh, affordable and sustainably grown food.

Urban farms are an important investment in not just food security but community well-being and the local economy, says Hargins. “But in a city like LA, [real estate] is a money game,” he says, of the relentless threat that development poses to their existence. “So, hopefully, the bill will create a solid structure that helps us hold onto and guarantee our gains.”

While California grows most of the country’s produce, “the whole food system is set up to support industrial agriculture,” adds AIM’s Naja-Riese. “We can create better standards for what it means to feed your local community and put some meaning behind that.”

The post California’s ‘Local Food Producers’ Hope Proposed New Label Will Boost Support  appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Although diesel tractors are practically synonymous with farming, green technology is reshaping the relationship between farmers and these workhorses—and perhaps the nature of agriculture altogether.

An emerging fleet of whisper-silent and emissions-free tractors promises to unhitch growers from the burdens of conventional farming, far beyond its reliance on fossil fuels. By harnessing electric vehicle (EV) and robotics technology, driver-optional e-tractors help scale efficiency in all aspects of field work—from seeding and weeding to harvest and equipment repair—and may clear the path to better labor, field and sustainability practices.

“People don’t build that much in factories anymore. Machines do, and people are there to supervise them,” says Mark Schwager, co-founder and president of San Francisco Bay Area-based Monarch Tractor, which recently debuted the first-ever, autonomous e-tractor. “That’s how farming should be.”

Electric tractors have their roots in Northern California, an agriculture- and tech-heavy region. Sonoma County-based Solectrac launched the first model in 2017 and, despite a slow start—the company sold about two dozen vehicles in its first four years—sales finally gained traction last year, helped by state grants and increased manufacturing capacity.

The development of e-tractors trails the EV industry, says Schwager, which commoditized the production of lithium-ion batteries, motors and power components. Monarch was founded in 2018, miles from Tesla’s Fremont factory, allowing it to tap into the established manufacturing base.

Monarch’s Mark-V model incorporates autonomous EV technology. (Photo courtesy of Monarch Tractor)

Zero emissions is a key selling point of any plug-in vehicle. But with a diesel tractor spewing carbon and particulate volumes equal to that of 14 cars, replacing one with an electric version can have remarkably scaled impact, says Schwager, with no change in productivity. 

The auto-sized battery can last up to 14 hours on a single 5.5-hour charge (Schwager notes that barns are generally equipped with 220-volt plugs), and it has a lifespan of 15 to 25 years depending on frequency of use. An optional cart for toting a spare battery allows for quick, in-field swaps during power-intensive operations.

Eliminating emissions is only part of the package. Equipped with sensory cameras and a fully digital interface, Monarch’s debut model, the compact Mark-V, incorporates autonomous EV technology: The driver-optional tractor can be programmed for automated runs, guided remotely through fields and orchards to spray, disk or harrow or follow workers as they move along a row of crops, carrying supplies or hauling a harvest.

In an industry plagued with labor shortages and a rapidly aging workforce, “it’s going to fill jobs that can’t be filled,” says Schwager. Using the autonomous capabilities, for example, one person can control a fleet of tractors from a screen to oversee multiple tasks spread throughout a farm.

Automation could also help relieve workers from laboring in inclement conditions, he adds, and encourage growers to adopt greener practices. “If mowing runs aren’t costing you anything, weeds need much less spraying.”

Photo courtesy of Monarch Tractor.

Domenick Buck, director of coastal services at Coastal Vineyard Care Associates in Santa Barbara, recently added 18 of the e-tractors to his vineyard management company’s fleet of 40 diesel engines. Although he’s found the EV’s weight capacity limited in towing wider and heavier implements, the fuel savings and automated features—including night vision capabilities that allow fieldwork to continue past sunset—all help the bottom line, he says. And while the technology has induced worker concerns over job security, “at this point, it’s not a replacement,” he adds. “By allocating certain tasks, it supplements what we already have,” helping to ease anxiety over the scarcity and rising cost of labor.

As an organic and biodynamic operation, “we’re also mindful of our lasting [impacts] on a property,” says Buck, “so we’re excited about reducing our carbon footprint.” And the reduced noise pollution is a bonus, he adds—instead of the roar and rumble of a diesel engine, “this thing just hums along.”

With a base price of $89,000—more than double that of a conventional compact—the savings can come at a cost. Schwager notes, however, that California offers generous rebates that can drop the price down to or lower than that of a diesel tractor. Monarch is working with other states and the federal government on similar programs, although the timeline is still unclear.

Yet the switch to electric can still work for those on a budget. With a base price of $12,990, the Amiga, a robotic micro-tractor, offers small growers a big labor solution, one that can be scaled and tailored to accommodate a wide range of needs.

Developed by farm-ng, a robotics technology company based in Watsonville, just south of Silicon Valley, the Amiga looks more moon rover than clover weeder as it zips along the rural landscape. The four-wheel platform comes with a telescoping dashboard, and it runs on swappable e-bike batteries that last up to eight hours per charge. Despite the size, the one-horsepower drivetrain can tow or haul a thousand-pound payload, and it also sports a host of autonomous and remote functions.

The Amiga with a basket weeder and driver’s seat attachments. (Photo courtesy of farm-ng)

“We’re reluctant to call it a tractor, because we’re not trying to replace them,” says business development director Nathan Dorn. “We’re replacing work that’s more precise and more difficult,” and even venturing into new territory such as greenhouses and barns.

Expandable in width from 3 to 7.5 feet, the Amiga is designed for modularity. The weldable steel frame allows multiple configurations and user customization, and it accommodates add-ons such as a precision seeder, a three-point powerlifter and even a driver’s seat. “It’s a building block for farmers,” says Dorn.

Autonomous functions include self-guided and remote navigation—farm-ng is also developing a similar technology for guiding the Blue Ghost Lunar Lander to a precise location on the moon’s surface—as well as “follow me” capabilities.

Combined with Amiga’s open-source platform, it’s a blank canvas for endless hacks, says Dorn. The camera can be used to inventory trees in an orchard or cows on a pasture, for example, or use visual clues to gauge crop ripeness. He envisions users developing, sharing and even monetizing creative software via the company’s online app store, much like a smartphone.

Jason Mellow from Axis Ag uses visual data capture on a lettuce crop in Yuma, Arizona. (Photo courtesy of farm-ng)

Despite initial skepticism from his crew around the robotic addition, “I think we pretty much have total buy-in at this point,” says Ricardo Lopez, vegetable production manager of Rancho Soquel. Located in Santa Cruz County, the 17-acre organic and regenerative ranch grows a diverse range of crops—as much as 40 varieties in a given season—including tomatoes, salad greens and snap peas.

The farm, which includes grazing pastures and an orchard, has relied on mini-tractor-like, rough terrain vehicles (RTV) to transport supplies. But RTVs weigh heavily on the fields so they’re kept to the perimeters, requiring workers to carry tools, equipment and harvests by hand.

The compact and lightweight Amiga, on the other hand, treads lightly and “gives us flexibility around specific needs like sowing and in-bed cultivation,” says Lopez. “And people are excited about not having to haul around crates anymore.”

California rebates also apply to the Amiga, notes Dorn, and can reduce the cost by as much as 90 percent. Yet switching from a diesel tractor alone carries inherent savings: A full electric charge is cheaper than a tank of gas, and not having an engine eliminates maintenance costs such as particulate filter replacements, which, according to Schwager, can run nearly $3,000. (All tractors, however, require hydraulic maintenance.)

Both Monarch and farm-ng openly support the right to repair—a seemingly rare position in the industry—and offer free, over-the-air support and updates to software and operating systems. Remote monitoring also alerts owners to issues and service needs, which, along with walk-through support, makes the technology less daunting, more accessible and more affordable.

“I’ve had robots in factories for my entire career and think it’s unfair that farmers haven’t had the same thing,” says Schwager. “So I see great potential for technology to bring farming into the twenty-first century.”

The post Electric Tractors are Rolling Out in the Field. Here’s What That Could Mean for Farmers.  appeared first on Modern Farmer.