Brad Worsley and Alan Reidhead

Brad Worsley and Alan Reidhead attended a recent conference on forest health held in Payson to discuss the critical need to support bioenergy and forest products industries.

WHITE MOUNTAINS — Environmentalists, politicians, bureaucrats and foresters alike maintain that a properly reinvented timber industry can save us before we all burn down.

Well, maybe. But it’s complicated.

Just ask Alan Reidhead – whose family has operated sawmills in Arizona for six generations. Reidhead was one of the key speakers at a recent forest health conference in Payson. He asked some tough questions.

“It’s not just you — or me — that’s going to make the difference, but the community coming together so we can protect ourselves and protect towns like Payson or Show Low. We’re just one match, one lightning strike away from being lost. What do the Powers That Be really want? Do you want to save that watershed? But what are you willing to do?”


Forest thinning projects have stalled for a lack of market for the biomass.

And maybe also talk to Brad Worsley, trying desperately to save the only biomass-burning power plant in Arizona – which holds the economic key to forest thinning efforts across a vast swath of unhealthy, over-crowded, wildfire-prone land in Northern Arizona.

“We’ve burned to the ground one quarter of our National Forests in just 20 years. That’s not sustainable. I can’t imagine any business that could see this kind of catastrophic failure in its execution and not recognize we’re in a dramatic state of emergency,” said the NovoPower chief executive.

He spoke in the shadow of the Arizona Corporation Commission’s recent decision to not require Arizona Public Service to generate some 60 megawatts of power annually from biomass. The decision could force the shutdown of the NovoPower biomass power plant in three years, unless Salt River Project or some other power company decides to pay more for biomass power to save the watershed and reduce the risk of megafires.

“On every given acre, half of the biomass has little to no value,” said Worsley. “That kind of mass will bury any business in the forest industry. There’s just not sufficient margin, when you can be out of work for five months (in the winter) and housing drops and wood values plummet. If you want a model that works, you can’t have the albatross of low-value biomass around the neck of an industry that’s struggling to survive.”

Novo BioPower

The Novo BioPower facility near Snowflake can turn the brush and wood scraps from 15,000 acres of thinned forest into electricity.

The day-long conference mostly focused on what it would take to revive the timber industry and meet the ambitious, 50,000-acre-a-year target set by the 4-Forests Restoration Initiative (4FRI). After eight years and four changes of contractors, 4FRI has thinned only about 15,000 acres in the Flagstaff area. Repeatedly, the small-scale and limited experience of the contractors has been compounded by the lack of a market for the biomass they must remove to restore the forest.

By contrast, in the same time the sawmill and the NovoPower biomass power plant they operate have sustained thinning efforts that have cleared more than 70,000-acres in the White Mountains. Reidhead and Worsley both spoke at the Payson forest health conference organized by the University of Arizona Cooperative Extension at Gila Community College. They provided a gritty dose of reality when talking about what it will take to reduce tree densities on four million acres from 1,000 trees per acre to 100 per acre.

The two hard-headed businessmen said those thinning efforts will determine whether Payson and Show Low and Pinetop and Pine go the way of Paradise, California. Last year, 85 people died when a wildfire burned Paradise to the ground — a catastrophe all the experts predicted would play out some day in the West.

Worsley and Reidhead both rejected the polarizing narrative that blames either the lawsuits of environmentalists or the greed of industry for the plight of the forests today.

Reidhead put the evolution of the forest products industry in Arizona into perspective.

“I’m a sixth-generation forester. Sawmills are kind of in my blood. My first memories are being out in the forest with my dad and the stories he would tell me about hauling logs with draft horses.”

His family started in the business when loggers were cutting down huge, centuries-old ponderosa pines “with a value of $5,000 a load. It was a different dynamic — a lot of little contractors. Like when my grandpa started out, it was just him and his boys — but that operation grew to 30 or 40 employees.”

He remembers the “timber wars” with environmentalists trying to restrict logging and the forest industry still focused on the dwindling number of old-growth trees.

“It started to become one or the other — close the forest, don’t touch it, or we have to make as much money as possible and to do that we have to get the wood out that we can make money on.”

But ultimately, the changes in the forest changed the economics of the forest industry.

“We were at the end of the 300 or 400-year life cycle of the big, high-value trees. You’d go back to an area you’d worked and there were just three big trees left – 80 feet tall – 30 inch diameter. One was dead on the ground and the next one was dying, dropping needles. They were getting to where we just didn’t have enough water to support some of the larger trees – there weren’t any harvestable trees left, so the timber industry had to change.”

“After the timber wars and the Endangered Species Act, they saw there was no future in putting millions and millions back into the industry — so everything closed. We went from hundreds of loads and 350 million board feet to almost zero coming off,” he recalled.

His family moved to the Valley and took up clearing desert land for big subdivisions.

Now, loggers, environmentalists, local officials and the Forest Service all agree on the need for a forest industry that can make a profit on the millions of tons of small trees choking almost every acre of forest land — trees from 8 to 18 inches in diameter. Along with those trees comes the brush, branches and debris that constitute the biomass – roughly half of the material that needs to be removed.

His family came back to the White Mountains and opened a sawmill, thanks largely to the White Mountain Stewardship Project, which ended up thinning some 71,303 acres in 10 years. In that case, the Forest Service paid a subsidy, about $499 per acre to deal with the biomass and the retooled sawmill turned the small trees into profitable products.

“People started to look at each other and say, ‘I don’t want the forest to burn and you don’t want the forest to burn — so why don’t we come together and do something?’. But one of the hardest challenges is that it’s all government land. Who’s going to risk millions of dollars in a government-operated forest? I’ve talked to people nationwide and they say, you’re crazy. But here’s what makes it happen: We’ve all come together.”

Worslely came to a similar conclusion, seeing the effect that operating a biomass power plant had on thinning efforts in the White Mountains and the group of small companies nurtured by the White Mountain Stewardship Program.

“We need to build an industry that can clear 50,000 acres a year sustainably,” he said.

For now, that means creating a market for biomass power plants – even if the energy costs more than power generated by natural gas. While the idea of other products produced from biomass have been proposed, none has yet proved financially feasible.

“If someone had some way to magically turn the biomass into jet fuel or biochar, they would have a wonderful business and be very wealthy – but that’s not how it’s working,” Worsley said.

The inexorable economics of generating power from biomass means someone must provide a subsidy for high-cost biomass to compete with natural gas or solar energy. That subsidy can come in the form of power companies paying more and passing the cost along to customers or federal and state grants.

“This will only happen if there’s the political will to do so. If we don’t, we’ll burn. If we had happen here what happened in Paradise – Arizona could have the solutions in place in 30 days. We know what’s sustainable, what is executable. We need to burn a million green tons of biomass every year,” Worsley concluded.

Next: Politics and blame-placing play out on a panel of experts.

Peter Aleshire covers county government and other topics for the Independent. He is the former editor of the Payson Roundup. Reach him at

Peter Aleshire covers county government and other topics for the Independent. He is the former editor of the Payson Roundup. Reach him at

(2) comments


I can understand how there has become a lack of trust between all parties involved. And it doesn’t help the trust level when the Forest Service wants to make even more cuts to the opportunity for the public to comment on its decision-making process.


We need to get in there and thin our forest down. Why not use the wood for biomass fuel. Sounds like a win, win to me. People need to see pictures of our past to see what it should be like around here. Our forest floor is out of control, and I don’t want to end up like California.

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