Tag: business

  • One-Stop Guide to Development Sites in MSP

    Today was the launch of MetroMSP —  a new Web site that offers companies and site selectors instant access to comprehensive and
    crucial marketplace information about available commercial, industrial
    and retail sites in the 11-county Minneapolis Saint Paul metro region.

    The Web site covers the anchor cities of Minneapolis, Saint Paul, and
    Bloomington, as well as Anoka, Carver, Chisago, Dakota,
    Hennepin, Isanti, Ramsey, Scott, Sherburne, Washington, and Wright counties.

    The site catalogues and displays more than
    5,000 industrial, manufacturing, office, and retail properties. The
    database includes essential details about each location, including
    taxes, available utilities, legal descriptions, and photographs.

    Each property links to an interactive map that displays important
    information about the surrounding area, such as highways, airports,
    railways, lakes and rivers, educational institutions, retail centers,
    and parks. In addition, existing businesses are mapped by industry, so
    users can view the local landscape for potential partners, customers
    and competitors.

    Users also can click on links to connect them directly with a selected site’s real estate broker or city/county/chamber contact.

    Besides profiling specific development sites, MetroMSP.org showcases
    the region’s exceptional quality of life, including its high national
    rankings in categories ranging from health care to education to
    cultural amenities.

  • When Harry Met Betty

    One of life’s great truths—one that we desperately seek to avoid with proverbs and catechisms and even magazine articles—is that beneath its surface lies complexity. Our beloved fictions of heroes and villains crumble with scrutiny, leaving only convolution, shifting meanings, and unstable realities. The same is true of things. Even the simplest object has its hidden history of longing, love, and despair. Take, for example, cake. Chiffon cake.

    Ask someone who lived through the 1950s to name the icons of that era, and chances are that—along with the ’57 Chevy, Lucy and Ricky, and the cul-de-sac rambler—chiffon cake will make their list. The recipe was introduced by General Mills in 1948 with a major marketing blitz that featured Betty Crocker, another 1950s icon. Betty, of course, is the fictional marketing persona invented in the 1920s by Marjorie Child Husted, a General Mills executive who sometimes posed as her creation. With Betty’s help, chiffon became a nationwide sensation. Billed as “the first really new cake in a hundred years,” thanks to its “mystery ingredient,” chiffon was light and fluffy like angel food cake, yet also rich and moist like butter cake, and it rapidly became a favorite of housewives from Syracuse to Oceanside.

    Even today, the towering tube cake conjures a Kodachrome image of Mother, in lipstick and swing skirt, offering up love via food: the idealized feminine of mid-century America.
    But just as the post-war feminine mystique had its dark, unspoken places, so, too, had the chiffon cake. The real mystery lurking beneath its lemony glaze is not a secret ingredient, but the secret life of its reclusive inventor: the appropriately named Harry Baker.

    The shorthand version of his history, repeated in a thousand cookbooks, notes that the insurance-salesman-turned-baker invented the cake in Los Angeles in 1927. He baked his chiffon cakes in his apartment kitchen in the Windsor Square neighborhood and sold them to the glamorous Brown Derby restaurant, where they pleased the palates of Hollywood’s studio stars. In 1947, Baker sold his closely guarded recipe to General Mills for an undisclosed sum—“because,” as one General Mills publication quotes him, “I wanted Betty Crocker to give the secret to the women of America.”
    The complete version of Harry Baker’s life is more complicated, and you won’t find it in any cookbook, or anywhere else for that matter. “Just to mention his name was forbidden,” said his granddaughter, Sarah Baker, who is an attorney in Portland, Oregon. “I remember, maybe about 1964, my grandmother had a tea party for one of her sisters,” she recalled. “I had gone down to the kitchen to help her. She had her back to me, getting dishes out of a china cabinet, when I asked her, ‘Whatever happened to Grandfather Baker?’
    “She whirled around faster than I knew she could move, looked at me absolutely furiously, and said, ‘We don’t talk about him.’ ”

    Although it was wildly popular in the 1950s, the chiffon cake had been figuratively gathering dust for decades by the time I discovered the recipe in the late 1990s. It was the tail end of the glorious dot-com boom years and I, a hopeless liberal-arts kid from way back, had landed a job, mainly out of curiosity, at a prestigious design firm in downtown Minneapolis. Visions of John Cheever and Darrin Stephens launched my wife and me into a sardonic but passionate craze for everything retro-1950s. Dressed for cocktails, she would greet me at the door after work, martinis in hand; during one such happy hour, while browsing in our 1956 edition of Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book, I stumbled upon the recipe for chiffon.
    The job, the dress, the quest for fifties kitsch: forgotten. But my Betty still falls open to the creased and batter-spattered pages with the step-by-step photo directions for chiffon cake because, symbolism aside, it makes a truly splendid dessert.
    Before chiffon, there had been but two types of cake. Foam cakes, like angel food, contain no shortening and rely on eggs for leavening; while butter cakes rise with baking powder. Chiffon combines the two, relying on both eggs and baking powder, and, the clincher, adds Harry Baker’s secret ingredient: vegetable oil (or, as it was called in those days, “salad oil”—another General Mills product, as it happens). The recipe calls for seven eggs. Their yolks are mixed with flour, sugar, leavening, and the oil to make a batter, which is folded into their whipped-hard whites.

    The result delivers on every one of Betty Crocker’s promises: Chiffon is simple, virtually foolproof. Light, moist, rich. And above all, “glamorous.” The lemon version (the only one I make) speckles starry citrus against a snowy sky of sweet, voluptuous crumb. Never dry, never cloying, never dull, it is, in short, the perfect cake. And the rave reviews earned by my first attempt brought me back to it time and again. Members of our extended family bring pies to Thanksgiving dinner. I make chiffon.

    I had been an enthusiastic baker of the cake for some time when one day, drooling through back issues of Cook’s Illustrated magazine, I chanced upon an article on chiffon by food writer and Joy of Cooking contributor Stephen Schmidt. If you’ve read Cook’s Illustrated, you’ll already know that Schmidt tinkered exhaustively with the original Betty Crocker recipe to end up with something just a little better. (So he claims. I stick with the original.)

    What caught my eye, however, was a sidebar article about Harry Baker. Schmidt repeated the standard biography: insurance salesman, 1927 discovery, service to the stars, etc. But he also uncovered some new details. For one thing, he noted that Baker, during his Hollywood heyday, shared his apartment “with his aging mother.” And the sale of the recipe to General Mills took on a new twist in Schmidt’s telling: “Having been evicted from his apartment, and fearing memory loss, the usually reclusive Baker trekked uninvited to Minneapolis to sell his recipe,” he wrote.

    Every one of us is blessed with curiosity, and there are those among us who can keep it at bay. I’m not one of them. Taken together, these few scraps of information hinted at a story. One thing led to another, and eventually it turned out that I spent five years, on and off, chasing the elusive Hollywood inventor of my beloved chiffon cake.

    In 1923, Paramount released Hollywood, a silent film that follows the misadventures of Angela Whitaker, a hapless girl from “Centerville” who can’t land a film part in the land of dreams come true. The film is laced with nearly eighty cameo appearances by virtually every star of the silent era: Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, Pola Negri, Cecil B. DeMille, Will Rogers.

    That same year, tycoons who owned the Hollywoodland Real Estate erected an enormous sign to advertise their corporation. Years later, Peg Entwistle, a real-life Angela Whitaker, would throw herself off the four-story “H.” Eventually, the Hollywood chamber of commerce toppled the last four letters of the sign and it’s been an icon of American dreams ever since.

    1923 also saw the arrival of Harry Baker in Hollywood. He, too, came from Ohio. He was forty years old. Behind him he’d left his wife, Mary, and two children, Harry Jr. and Mary. His insurance business had gone sour. He was broke. Looking for a new source of cash, he turned to his lifelong hobby: fudge. A confectioner in the tony Wilshire neighborhood bought it from Baker for fifty cents a pound. It was enough to afford him a living.

    Harry also began to tinker with cake recipes, and he would have put Cook’s Illustrated’s Stephen Schmidt to shame. He devised more than four hundred different recipes in his quest to bake a sweeter, moister angel food cake. He varied ingredients, measurements, and the baking time and temperature. Nothing satisfied. In later years, he described the eureka moment that led him to salad oil in almost mystical terms: It was, he told a reporter at the Minneapolis Tribune, a “sixth sense—something cosmic” that revealed his secret ingredient. And it worked.

    During the time that Harry Baker was handing out experimental cakes to his neighbors, a handful of entrepreneurs pooled resources to launch a restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard. The Brown Derby opened for business in 1926, in a building shaped to match its name. Two years later—call it another cosmic twist—Harry Baker walked in with a sample of his unbelievable cake. It became one of the Derby’s signature dishes.

  • Gimme Grain!

    At 9:28 a.m. thirty-one grain traders are milling around a trading pit—an octagon about the size of a pontoon boat, recessed into the hardwood floor—at the Minneapolis Grain Exchange. Steps are wide and lazy, chests are thrust outward. Several of the men (and they are all men) discuss the price of downtown real estate; a few ruminate on Gophers football; nearly everyone chews gum, frantically. Then, at five seconds before 9:30, voices trail off, order books open, and feet are squared. A deep breath passes over the assembly and there’s a brief silence as attention focuses on the flutter of international commodity values changing on the price board above.
    At 9:30, exactly, a bell rings.

    “Half! Half! Half!” screams a muscular trader. His face is three inches from that of a man ten years his senior, who calmly scribbles something into a notebook. Nearby, a man in a red-and-black-checked coat bellows “Quarter!” as four traders crash toward him at the edge of the pit. Others collapse into scrums of shoving, screaming, raised arms, and pointed fingers—despite the fact that the trading floor surrounding them is a third of an acre of mostly empty, silent space. Things continue like this for roughly ten minutes, during which time approximately ten million dollars in business is done. Then, almost as suddenly as the action erupted, it subsides, and the traders mostly just stand around, watching the price fluctuations in Kansas City and Chicago, and occasionally calling out offers. By the end of a four-hour trading day, an average of a hundred million dollars has been transacted this way.

    For nearly as long as there has been a City of Minneapolis, the trading floor of the Minneapolis Grain Exchange (known as MGEX) has been located just blocks from the Mississippi River and its flour mills. But unlike the mills, which now function largely as shells for high-end lofts, MGEX has continued to thrive as a grain-based business. In fiscal 2005, alone, nearly twenty-five billion dollars in business was transacted there, most of it centered on the spring wheat that has been grown and milled in the Midwest since farmers began homesteading here in the mid-nineteenth century. And despite the advent of electronic trading and international commodity markets, most of that twenty-five billion dollars was shouted out by a few dozen Minnesotans who regularly show up to use methods and rules first devised when the exchange was founded 125 years ago.

    During the 1870s, when Minneapolis mills became the primary destination for the burgeoning Midwest wheat harvest, the Minneapolis Millers Association colluded to fix the price of the grain. Enforcement was efficient and brutal: Member mills simply refused to buy grain from any trader competing with an association agent. Enter Colonel George D. Rogers, a young grain trader from Calmar, Iowa, who arrived in Minneapolis in 1873. Determined to compete, Rogers skillfully undercut the Millers association’s pricing and thus established himself as a rare independent Minneapolis grain trader. Nevertheless, Rogers knew that he could never fully defeat the Millers unless there was a centralized Minneapolis grain market and exchange where business was conducted in the open, out of the backrooms favored by the Millers.

    During the summer of 1881, Rogers recruited a group of Minneapolis businessmen to organize an exchange, and on October 6 that year, twenty-one men signed the articles of incorporation establishing the Minneapolis Chamber of Commerce (the name was changed to the Minneapolis Grain Exchange in 1947). Within six months the chamber had 538 members—and enough money to build a headquarters, which was completed in 1884. The Exchange moved into a larger and quite lavish new building at Fourth Avenue and Fourth Street in 1902, which cost $700,000 and included interiors by John Bradstreet, the renowned local arts and crafts designer. The Chamber was justly proud of its edifice, and sang its praises in a commemorative booklet. “Its lines are beautiful, its proportions unassailable, its detail highly attractive,” claimed the author. “In fact it is, architecturally, a constantly increasing pleasure.” Pleasures aside, the building was also designed to be practical, modern, and masculine: “There is a stairway, but it is inconspicuous and little used—only fast elevators are equal to the demands of the grain men.”

    Early photos of the Chamber show dozens of traders in stiff collars and bowler hats crowded among rows of massive, altar-like wooden tables piled with samples of Midwestern grain that was in transit to Minneapolis. “The old-time buyers used to look at the actual grades,” said Randy Narloch, a trader with Archer Daniels Midland Company and a board member of MGEX. “They’d see it, smell it, even taste it.” Today, MGEX’s cash trading tables still cover more than half of the trading floor, but even when the action in the trading pits is loudest, the tables are almost completely empty. “Well, you can get a lab report on a sample faxed or emailed to your office,” Narloch sighed. “There just isn’t much reason to go down there anymore.” No surprise, General Mills and Pillsbury trust lab reports more than they do the senses of their grain traders, however experienced.

    Economic trends, too, have contributed to the decline of the rather quaint practices of the cash traders: With the advent of agricultural giants like ADM and Cargill, the small-scale, independent grain-trading company has become a thing of the past. “We lost a lot of companies to consolidation over the last twenty years,” Narloch pointed out. “Pillsbury, International Multifoods, Kellogg. Now we have maybe ten players.” Of them, “five or six” account for ninety percent of the business at MGEX’s once-crowded cash trading tables, their conversations occasionally pierced by a cry from the futures trading pits at the other end of the trading floor.

    Indeed, if MGEX merely served as a clearing house for grain shipments negotiated at cash trading tables, it would have disappeared long before the agricultural consolidations of the last twenty-five years. But grain traders and farmers are always looking for ways to manage the risk of price fluctuations between, say, planting and harvest, or shipping and delivery. As a result, in 1883, only a few years after its founding, the Chamber of Commerce authorized the trading of “futures”—essentially, a contract to buy or sell something in the future—as a hedge against the risk of price changes. Thus, a farmer concerned that the price of wheat will fall between planting and harvest can buy a contract to sell wheat at the current price before planting the crop (this is one kind of hedge; textbooks have been written about others). MGEX has marvelous archive photos dating back to the early twentieth century, and in them the blurry hands and frantic faces suggest that the business has always been loud, fast, and bruising, despite the stiff collars and Midwestern stoicism exhibited by the earliest onlookers leaning over the visitors’ balcony. A hundred years later it’s still more NYSE—New York Stock Exchange—than Minnesota Nice, with “fisticuffs every three years,” according to Mark Bagan, president of MGEX and a former floor trader.

    Every weekday, from 9:30 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., MGEX’s spring wheat futures contract is bought and sold by floor traders on behalf of themselves and clients worldwide. The futures is also popular among speculators, who trade it with little concern for their underlying commodity content. In fact, only around one percent of the contracts traded at MGEX actually result in the delivery of a train car full of wheat, and that’s because most traders regard a futures contract as merely something to trade. “It’s definitely a Type-A environment,” said Bagan. “But I don’t like to call it gambling. I call it risk management.” Whatever it is, speculators assume the risk that others hedge, and Bagan is quite clear that risk has its downside. “For every dollar made, a dollar is lost,” he said. “For every guy that makes it big, three don’t. That’s why you don’t want to get too close to anyone: You don’t know if he’ll be here tomorrow.” And if he’s not there tomorrow, members of the Exchange will be more than happy to bid-up his membership: In the last twelve months, a seat at the Exchange (they are fixed at 391) has more than doubled in price to fifty-five thousand dollars. Some members have more than one, and many never even set foot on the floor. “It’s a good investment,” Bagan said, by way of explanation.

    For a guy who was once in the trading fray himself, Bagan, who is forty-one, cuts a dashing figure: He wears good suits, his goatee is meticulously groomed, and he is soft-spoken and unfailingly polite. Nevertheless, he is an unabashed booster of the “open outcry” trading that occurs in the Grain Exchange’s futures pits, even as electronic trading overtakes the international commodities markets. In fact, ninety percent of the business done at MGEX is open outcry, despite the fact that the MGEX futures contract is available to trade electronically, worldwide. “If you know that a guy works for Cargill and you can look him in the eye—” Bagan shrugged. “That’s the sort of information you just can’t get sitting at home, trading on your PC.” He leaned against the rail of the visitor’s balcony and looked down at the trading pit. “Change isn’t always good,” he concluded with a smile.

  • Buffalo Ridge

    I’d read plenty about Buffalo Ridge, the windiest swath of Minnesota, located in the state’s grassy and treeless southwest quadrant, before I ever got there. I’d heard stories of hats blowing off, of windburn, of tumbleweeds that just kept tumbling. People living in the area are said to suffer perpetual bad hair days. But it was one thing to read about the place and quite another to be there. As I stepped out of my car, the February wind attacked viciously, whipping across my face. I was tempted to crawl back inside and duck for cover.

    But I didn’t. I was there to meet a very important person, Dan Juhl, an early pioneer of wind energy, the man who built the first commercial wind farm in Minnesota. A renowned national expert, he runs DanMar & Associates, a company that consults on matters of renewable energy and conservation, especially wind power.

    Shivering, I stepped inside the firm’s cozy office and immediately revealed myself as an out-of-towner. “Gee,” I said, “it sure is windy.”
    The secretary laughed, her hairdo surprisingly unmussed. “Everybody says that. Today isn’t even that windy.”

    At the moment, it turned out, Juhl was busy talking with a group from another blustery plains state, Nebraska. So Juhl’s twenty-six-year-old son, Tyler, offered to show me around. Tyler is tall and athletic, dressed in jeans and a quilted winter jacket. We walked through the shop, stepping over a pair of giant blades on the cement floor, ready to be installed. That job would likely fall to Tyler, who helps set up new wind turbines. “We do more in the summer,” he said. “Last summer I put up a hundred.”

    We got into Tyler’s truck and started driving. Aside from the modest, peaked-roofed building that houses DanMar & Associates, there was not much to see in any direction except endless corn fields and seventeen tall, sleek, wind turbines.

    Dan Juhl’s wind farm, one of several in the Buffalo Ridge area, is located near Woodstock, on the edge of a zone often referred to as “the Saudi Arabia of wind energy.” The wind here blows in all directions, at most times of the day and night, at an average speed of fifteen miles per hour. There are no obstacles—not a single hill, let alone a mountain—to keep it from spinning those propellers. “There’s nothing out here,” said Tyler. “If I didn’t have this job, there’s no way I’d live here.” As it is, he resides about fifteen minutes from the office, in Pipestone, a bit livelier town than Woodstock, perhaps. Tyler wistfully recalled how he almost got to live in the Virgin Islands. His dad was there, experimenting with solar power. And then, bang, just before the family moved out to join him, Hurricane Hugo hit. “Can you imagine?” he asked. “The Virgin Islands.” He looked across the empty frozen fields of Buffalo Ridge and shook his head.

    The winds are better—more forceful and consistent—in North and South Dakota than in Minnesota, the leading wind power producer in the region. But the Dakotas don’t have the wiring and other infrastructure necessary to send power anywhere. The lines that do exist are decades old and were designed to bring small amounts of energy in. New power lines are expensive, about a million dollars per mile.

    Buffalo Ridge has similar infrastructure issues, though not as severe, and hopefully now quite temporary. Xcel Energy—which has been both friend and foe when it comes to wind power—has cleared the legal and bureaucratic hurdles necessary to embark upon a $160 million project that will further hook Buffalo Ridge into the larger power grid and potentially carry an additional 825 megawatts of energy to the Twin Cities (one megawatt can power up to three hundred homes at a time). Currently, Minnesota wind plants are capable of producing just over 595 megawatts at any given moment, so the additional power lines will make a huge difference. Around 2.5 percent of the state’s energy comes from wind power.

    In the meantime, said Tyler, gesturing to a network of power lines overhead, “All these lines are filled to capacity,” like water pipes that can’t handle another drop. When there’s too much wind, the utility companies have to shut down some of the wind parks—there are almost seven hundred turbines in the state. The producers still get paid, since they typically have a contract with the utility company. “But if you’re an environmentalist, you don’t like to see a hundred turbines shut down on a windy day.”

    Tyler drove up to a cluster of turbines, which resembled giant airplane propellers mounted on towers around two hundred feet tall. In an excited gearhead fashion, he began explaining how they work. It’s simple, really: Turbines have sensors that constantly measure the speed and direction of the wind. The entire turbine can rotate depending on where the wind is coming from, and the individual blades also can tilt to maximize efficiency. As the blades spin, a generator harnesses that kinetic energy and converts it to electricity.

    Tyler unlocked one of the towers and we climbed through a narrow entryway. We were inside a skinny, vertical tunnel, a giant’s drinking straw. A ladder leads to the top, where the turbine is mounted. Tyler climbs this ladder whenever repairs are needed. In the winter, he said, “the biggest problem is icing.” Ice on the blades adds a lot of weight and drag, making the turbines slower and noisier than usual. Normally, they make only a soft whirring sound. Ice buildup is also dangerous because the turbines have been known to fling chunks of ice hundreds of feet. A buddy of Tyler’s recently had his truck totaled by a block of ice that flew from a turbine. “It was pretty wicked,” Tyler said. Fortunately, nobody was in the truck at the time.

    Dan Juhl’s office is housed in a small, one-story building heated by a corn-burning stove and powered independently of the local utility company. When he first built on the property, he was told that he’d have to pay $7,500 for a power line. Juhl more or less told the utility company to go to hell. Instead, he wired the place himself, gathering energy from his wind turbines, along with solar panels. The building is entirely self-sufficient, and Juhl hasn’t paid an electric bill in years.

    I asked Tyler how they keep the lights on and the computers running when the wind isn’t blowing. It’s a common question. Xcel spokesman Paul Alderman and others have suggested that the main problem with wind power is that wind is intermittent. “If there’s a demand for electricity and the wind stops blowing,” Alderman said, “we have to fire up other power plants to make up the difference.”

    Tyler explained away those concerns. He said that, at least as far as the DanMar office is concerned, there are a pair of batteries that store extra energy. “We can go three days without sun or wind,” he said, pointing out that such a scenario is quite unlikely, that usually there is one or the other, and often both. Theoretically, the same sort of storage technologies could be used on a larger scale to cover cities during calm days. And, besides, what’s so awful about having to power up an existing nuclear or coal plant once in the while, if we get environmentally friendly energy most of the time?

    Solar energy could be used to pick up some of the slack as well. And though solar panels are currently quite expensive, Juhl expects that the price will drop as the technology catches on. The same happened with wind power. It used to be pricey to produce. The equipment was expensive to build, the machines were primitive and inefficient, and wind power was being utilized on too small a scale to be cost-effective. But now, the cost is comparable to that of producing more traditional forms of energy, like coal.

    Wind power has become such a moneymaker, in fact, that out-of-state companies are moving in and now own about ninety percent of the wind production facilities in Minnesota. Until recently, the biggest holder was Enron, but as that company self-destructed, General Electric bought out all its wind farms, including those on Buffalo Ridge.

    In the early nineties, those companies began paying farmers for the right to build and operate wind turbines scattered about on small sections of their farms—up to two thousand dollars per year per turbine. The farmers, struggling merely to stay alive, were thrilled. Many of them made more per year on these wind deals than they did from their crops. Nobody knew then how profitable wind energy, which big power companies are obligated to purchase, would become. Now many farmers are hoping to finance their own turbines.

    They are a market Dan Juhl hopes to serve. His company is now focused on helping local owners set up personal wind farms. That’s not to say that Juhl isn’t friendly with larger corporations, too. His goal is to promote renewable energy in whatever manner he can, and to ensure that it is widely available as soon as possible, especially as global oil reserves run dry.

    Dan Juhl, a native Minnesotan, got renewable energy fever in the late seventies, after a global oil crisis left people waiting in line for hours to get gas. “I actually started just after Tyler was born,” he told me, in his naturally low-key manner. “It might have been a subconscious thing, just the thought that there has to be something better than this, there has to be a better way than the way we’re doing things.” He worked with others in the industry to design and build some of the first wind turbines. At the time, he says, “They seemed gigantic. By today’s standards, of course, they were very small.”

    He got all the usual flack. People—friends, politicians, potential financial backers—thought he was out of his mind. He said it was that sort of skepticism that doomed North Dakota, for example, which could have been a wind power leader. “For years they pooh-poohed the idea of wind power, because of the politics of the coal companies,” he said. “And now they’re crying.” With Minnesota so far ahead, largely thanks to Juhl, he doesn’t see much chance of North or South Dakota ever catching up. Since Minnesota has the potential to generate seventeen times more power from wind than we would ever likely consume, it’s improbable that major urban areas like the Twin Cities or Chicago would turn to the lagging Dakotas to meet their wind energy needs.

    Of course, Minnesota is far from tapping its full potential. It is, however, making good headway. The state is the third largest wind-power producer in the nation, after California and Texas. “Environmentalists would like to see it all done at once,” said Juhl. “I’m more practical. Do it slowly; make sure it’s done right.”

    Juhl knows what he’s talking about. He’s seen plenty of examples of blocked efforts, screw-ups, and stupidity. During the wind craze of the early 1980s, he briefly lived in California. Wind production at the time cost around thirty-eight cents per kilowatt-hour—more than thirteen times what it costs now, and quite a bit more than it cost then to produce a kilowatt-hour by more traditional means. But the government was trying to be progressive, so it subsidized wind power with huge tax breaks. Unfortunately, the breaks were based on how much an investor spent, rather than how much energy was produced, so building the most efficient systems was not the priority. There were also environmental problems. For example, many turbines were placed along migratory paths, and birds were being chopped to pieces by the machines’ blades.

    In 1986, the investment tax credits program expired, so California investors dropped wind power and moved on to the next fad.
    By that time, Northern States Power Company, now Xcel Energy, was running three tiny turbines in Minnesota, on Buffalo Ridge. The turbines were a fraction of the size of the latest models and could kick out a maximum of only sixty-five kilowatts each (today’s turbines produce about twenty-five times that). NSP also participated in an early government study that pinpointed Buffalo Ridge as Minnesota’s prime spot for wind energy.

    Though NSP showed early interest in wind power, the company ultimately opted to play it safe. “It’s quite easy to throw vast sums of money at high-visibility, high-glitz programs that merely make rates go higher and higher,” a company spokesman told the Star Tribune in 1992. “We don’t want to be leading-edge on some of these, but we don’t want to be left behind, either.”

    Where NSP saw hassle, Dan Juhl saw potential and moved back to Minnesota in the late 1980s. In 1992, he constructed the state’s first commercial wind farm, setting up five turbines outside Marshall. The local city government agreed to buy the energy. The power still cost two to three times what it does today, but, as Juhl explained, “Cost-effective can mean different things. Some people spend thirty thousand dollars on a boat and a motor they use twice a year. Or twenty thousand dollars on a diamond.” Wind power was something Juhl believed in, and unlike NSP, he was confident that it would soon be profitable.

    NSP quickly jumped back into the game, but some would say for the wrong reasons. In 1994, the company used wind power as a bargaining chip in an attempt to convince the Legislature to allow it to store nuclear waste in outdoor casks at its Prairie Island nuclear power plant near Hastings. A contentious, high-profile political battle ensued, the utility company on one side and environmentalists and American Indians living near Prairie Island on the other.

    In the end, the Legislature granted NSP the right to fill up to seventeen casks. But for every cask of waste, NSP would have to donate half a million dollars a year to a renewable energy development fund—meaning that by the time all seventeen were full, the company would be paying $8.5 million per year. On top of that, NSP was required to generate a minimum of 425 megawatts of wind energy at any given time by the end of 2002. The Legislature also said that if by 2002 the Public Utilities Commission, the federal agency that oversees the nation’s power supply, had determined wind power to be a cost-effective source of energy, NSP would have to increase its wind energy capacity by four hundred megawatts by 2012. Finally, NSP officials had to promise never to ask permission to store more nuclear waste—a promise they would break in 2003.

    As far as wind energy was concerned, the deal worked wonders. Minnesota became the national leader in new wind tower installations. As people experimented and learned the finer points, the technology improved, and the cost of producing power declined dramatically. Wind farms proved to be an economic boon to the rural communities that hosted them, creating construction jobs, filling bars and hotels with out-of-town contractors, and even drawing a small trickle of curious onlookers.

    Wind energy’s biggest problem to date is how to transport the power from where it’s produced to where it’s needed. Thanks to shortsightedness or carelessness or even defiance, the necessary wiring wasn’t being constructed along with the towers. “NSP should have known,” said Juhl. “They were putting out these contracts to satisfy the Prairie Island agreement. I’m not sure if they didn’t think it would be as successful or what, but for whatever reason, ten years later they don’t have a way to get the power out of here.” Xcel plans to start construction this year on new power lines out of Buffalo Ridge. This is promising, but the lines should have been built years ago.

    One can’t help feeling the company is a chronic foot-dragger on innovation in the area of renewable energy. For instance, in 1999, when the PUC finally declared wind energy cost-effective, meaning that NSP would have to increase its investment in this energy source, Jim Alders, the company’s manager of regulatory projects, called the decision “a mistake.” Still, activists like Michael Noble, the executive director of Minnesotans for an Energy Efficient Economy, admit the company has made progress—but only because it had to, when the state took the company by the collar. “They keep proving they need to be pushed along step by step,” Noble said. Since wind energy has now become cost-effective, he said he feels as though he’s battling inertia. “Sometimes it seems like it just comes down to old-time utility culture, like, ‘We burn stuff for a living, and what are we going to burn next?’”

    Noble lamented that “Denmark today gets twenty percent of their total energy from wind power. It’s much, much windier here, and wind power is much more cost effective here. But they have public policy that nurtures it along, and we have roadblocks.”

    Juhl is more optimistic, as inventors so often are, as they have to be in order to envision bold solutions. Things could be better, sure. But “Minnesota is doing well,” he told me. “We’re developing our own resources and keeping a lot of those development dollars within the state.”

    And lawmakers may give renewables another boost: In March, two DFL legislators proposed a bill that would require the state to get twenty percent of its energy from renewable sources by 2020.

    Wind power eventually will be a necessity, said Juhl. “More and more utilities are switching to natural gas. Well, the experts say that will run out in twenty to thirty years, and what then?” That, according to Juhl, is when renewable energy will take over.

    “We only have ‘cheap’ energy because we’re not putting the real cost on the table,” he said. “Everybody says coal is so cheap, but you look at the smog, the acid rain, the lung disease, and global climate change—put a value on that. We don’t put that in the electric bill. If we did, if we put the real price of energy on the table, renewable energy would be hands-down the winner.”