Despite it being two weeks since the opening ceremony, it was mere days ago that the Winter Olympics in Beijing experienced its first real snow. Ironically, the artificially-created ski routes atop Xiaohaituo mountain were disrupted by the snowflakes falling from the sky. The snowfall slowed down speed-skiiers and reduced visibility to below the minimum level considered safe. What has caused the real flurry, however, is the use of entirely artificial snow throughout the Olympics. News publications and climate activists alike have decried this mass production of fake snow. The question that remains is just how bad artificial snow production really is.
As it turns out, it’s pretty bad. Though each snow machine is itself far more energy-efficient than an electrical appliance like an air conditioning unit, the energy required by more than 350 snow machines spraying a mist on a mountain daily for months adds up. Moreover, if we examine exactly how artificial snow is made, we begin to understand the widespread environmental impact the process can have on our planet.
As water evaporates, a natural cooling process, “evaporative cooling,” takes place—this is the thermoregulatory idea behind why we sweat to lower our body temperature. To apply this concept to snow creation, a fine mist is sprayed into the atmosphere, causing some of the water in each droplet to evaporate. This evaporation transfers heat from the liquid water to the newly formed vapor, and the leftover liquid water reaches a below freezing temperature to form snow.
At face value, this doesn’t seem too bad: the only energy spent in the process is used to power the machinery that sprays out the water into the air. Further, Beijing is committed to using renewable energy for all venues, meaning that these snow machines will at least be powered by solar or wind energy (depending on the specific location). This doesn’t mean artificial snow production is in the clear—energy consumption is only one part of the picture.
To achieve the right texture of snow for winter sports, snow machines typically combine water with chemicals that facilitate the formation of ice crystals, so that we end up with fresh, powdery snow rather than clumpy, frozen water. In Beijing, rather than relying on chemical substances, tiny ice crystals are used to spur crystallization. This means that an additional process is needed, where pressurized water is quickly depressurized to form tiny ice crystals, which are then mixed with the water mist to form the perfect, powdery snow.
It is, in part, this additional process that makes the water consumption required for snow creation so high. On top of that, Beijing has fewer than 32,000 gallons of water per capita (the national average is 20 times that)—the 730,000m3 of surface water being used for snow suddenly feels like even more of a luxury. Though efforts are being made to recapture the snow melt (and the water that seeps into the ground will eventually replenish groundwater), the water that we lose to evaporation—as much as 35% of all water used—is far more difficult to reuse. Moreover, artificial snow tends to melt more slowly than natural snow, disrupting natural cycles that maintain water table levels (the size of the boundary between aquifers and dry earth) in the ground.
Beyond how much water is being used, we need to consider the repercussions of where all these resources are being used—in what has increasingly become a water-scarce area in China. The water supply for Olympic artificial snow production is routed through water diversions from Beijing’s Baihebao Reservoir, which typically supplies the Miyun Reservoir, a crucial source of clean water for Beijing citizens. In the city bordering Beijing, where most of the Olympic venues are, officials in Zhangjiakou have stopped irrigating countless fields to preserve the groundwater, uprooting suburban farmers to high-rise apartments far closer to the hubbub of the city.
All this for artificial snow—which, by the way, comes nowhere close to the real thing. Artificial snow tends to be far more icy than the natural stuff, which has time to build into an airy flake as it falls hundreds of feet from the sky. While some athletes have been noted to prefer artificial snow, as it allows them to cut and glide faster down the slopes, it is undeniable that the increasing use of artificial snow in winter sports more generally represents a complete upheaval of the conditions athletes are used to.
At this year’s Olympics, some athletes have had to rely on more frequent ski-waxes to ensure traction and prevent slippage, while others have blamed the use of artificial snow on crashes and accidents that have put some participants out of commission. Whether artificial snow is better or worse, for professional athletes that have spent years honing every detail of their training and routines to a T, a change in the snow could disrupt years of planning and habituation in the years to come.
It is a plain fact that China’s artificial snow production is unsatisfactory on so many levels. Yet commentary surrounding this year’s Winter Olympics must also acknowledge the implicit political tensions that unconsciously undergird much of the reporting surrounding Beijing 2022. Though previous Winter Olympics have also relied on synthetic snow, with the Sochi & Pyeongchang games relying on 80% & 98% artificial snow, respectively, it is only this year that headlines surrounding this issue have begun to fly.
Admittedly there is something vaguely dystopian about the satellite images of the dazzlingly white ski slopes against a sea of baked, muddy brown mountains. Still, one has to wonder how the increasing antagonism towards China in the West has affected the way we frame stories on these Olympics—in writing this article I read so many others that tacitly portrayed China as an unfeeling, nationalistic machine of a country interested only in reputation and economic progress, the issue of artificial snow production seeming to reveal much about the country and government’s psyche. We only need to look back to 2018 to see that the articles written on fake snow in Pyeongchang adopt a subtle but significantly different tone—one that perhaps lacks the acerbity that characterizes many articles written today.
In some ways, the environmental and social impact of these Olympics is not unique—it speaks not only to the typically disruptive nature of the Olympics themselves, but also to how we often collectively respond to our changing climate. As warming temperatures drive up water scarcity and dry up water sources, our response is often to simply circumvent the issue and redirect resources to new projects that ostensibly use fewer resources, but fail to tackle the root of the issue itself.
All this begs the question of how far more sustainable production and planning can get us if we are unwilling to look at the fundamental problems behind some of the biggest global festivals we have. I used to love watching the Olympics—in fact, Beijing 2008 was the first Games I remember watching, my kid self glued to the TV in awe of the sheer athleticism of the participants. To a certain extent, I still do love watching the Games; for me, they represent the possibility of human endeavor in pushing the limits of nature. Yet in recent years, and perhaps most prominently at Beijing 2022, the Olympics have become a symbol of human endeavor gone too far, breaking the limits of nature for our own purposes without consideration of the consequences.
Despite it being two weeks since the opening ceremony, it was mere days ago that the Winter Olympics in Beijing experienced its first real snow. Ironically, the artificially-created ski routes atop Xiaohaituo mountain were disrupted by the snowflakes falling from the sky. The snowfall slowed down speed-skiiers and reduced visibility to below the minimum level considered safe. What has caused the real flurry, however, is the use of entirely artificial snow throughout the Olympics. News publications and climate activists alike have decried this mass production of fake snow. The question that remains is just how bad artificial snow production really is.
As it turns out, it’s pretty bad. Though each snow machine is itself far more energy-efficient than an electrical appliance like an air conditioning unit, the energy required by more than 350 snow machines spraying a mist on a mountain daily for months adds up. Moreover, if we examine exactly how artificial snow is made, we begin to understand the widespread environmental impact the process can have on our planet.
As water evaporates, a natural cooling process, “evaporative cooling,” takes place—this is the thermoregulatory idea behind why we sweat to lower our body temperature. To apply this concept to snow creation, a fine mist is sprayed into the atmosphere, causing some of the water in each droplet to evaporate. This evaporation transfers heat from the liquid water to the newly formed vapor, and the leftover liquid water reaches a below freezing temperature to form snow.
At face value, this doesn’t seem too bad: the only energy spent in the process is used to power the machinery that sprays out the water into the air. Further, Beijing is committed to using renewable energy for all venues, meaning that these snow machines will at least be powered by solar or wind energy (depending on the specific location). This doesn’t mean artificial snow production is in the clear—energy consumption is only one part of the picture.
To achieve the right texture of snow for winter sports, snow machines typically combine water with chemicals that facilitate the formation of ice crystals, so that we end up with fresh, powdery snow rather than clumpy, frozen water. In Beijing, rather than relying on chemical substances, tiny ice crystals are used to spur crystallization. This means that an additional process is needed, where pressurized water is quickly depressurized to form tiny ice crystals, which are then mixed with the water mist to form the perfect, powdery snow.
It is, in part, this additional process that makes the water consumption required for snow creation so high. On top of that, Beijing has fewer than 32,000 gallons of water per capita (the national average is 20 times that)—the 730,000m3 of surface water being used for snow suddenly feels like even more of a luxury. Though efforts are being made to recapture the snow melt (and the water that seeps into the ground will eventually replenish groundwater), the water that we lose to evaporation—as much as 35% of all water used—is far more difficult to reuse. Moreover, artificial snow tends to melt more slowly than natural snow, disrupting natural cycles that maintain water table levels (the size of the boundary between aquifers and dry earth) in the ground.
Beyond how much water is being used, we need to consider the repercussions of where all these resources are being used—in what has increasingly become a water-scarce area in China. The water supply for Olympic artificial snow production is routed through water diversions from Beijing’s Baihebao Reservoir, which typically supplies the Miyun Reservoir, a crucial source of clean water for Beijing citizens. In the city bordering Beijing, where most of the Olympic venues are, officials in Zhangjiakou have stopped irrigating countless fields to preserve the groundwater, uprooting suburban farmers to high-rise apartments far closer to the hubbub of the city.
All this for artificial snow—which, by the way, comes nowhere close to the real thing. Artificial snow tends to be far more icy than the natural stuff, which has time to build into an airy flake as it falls hundreds of feet from the sky. While some athletes have been noted to prefer artificial snow, as it allows them to cut and glide faster down the slopes, it is undeniable that the increasing use of artificial snow in winter sports more generally represents a complete upheaval of the conditions athletes are used to.
At this year’s Olympics, some athletes have had to rely on more frequent ski-waxes to ensure traction and prevent slippage, while others have blamed the use of artificial snow on crashes and accidents that have put some participants out of commission. Whether artificial snow is better or worse, for professional athletes that have spent years honing every detail of their training and routines to a T, a change in the snow could disrupt years of planning and habituation in the years to come.
It is a plain fact that China’s artificial snow production is unsatisfactory on so many levels. Yet commentary surrounding this year’s Winter Olympics must also acknowledge the implicit political tensions that unconsciously undergird much of the reporting surrounding Beijing 2022. Though previous Winter Olympics have also relied on synthetic snow, with the Sochi & Pyeongchang games relying on 80% & 98% artificial snow, respectively, it is only this year that headlines surrounding this issue have begun to fly.
Admittedly there is something vaguely dystopian about the satellite images of the dazzlingly white ski slopes against a sea of baked, muddy brown mountains. Still, one has to wonder how the increasing antagonism towards China in the West has affected the way we frame stories on these Olympics—in writing this article I read so many others that tacitly portrayed China as an unfeeling, nationalistic machine of a country interested only in reputation and economic progress, the issue of artificial snow production seeming to reveal much about the country and government’s psyche. We only need to look back to 2018 to see that the articles written on fake snow in Pyeongchang adopt a subtle but significantly different tone—one that perhaps lacks the acerbity that characterizes many articles written today.
In some ways, the environmental and social impact of these Olympics is not unique—it speaks not only to the typically disruptive nature of the Olympics themselves, but also to how we often collectively respond to our changing climate. As warming temperatures drive up water scarcity and dry up water sources, our response is often to simply circumvent the issue and redirect resources to new projects that ostensibly use fewer resources, but fail to tackle the root of the issue itself.
All this begs the question of how far more sustainable production and planning can get us if we are unwilling to look at the fundamental problems behind some of the biggest global festivals we have. I used to love watching the Olympics—in fact, Beijing 2008 was the first Games I remember watching, my kid self glued to the TV in awe of the sheer athleticism of the participants. To a certain extent, I still do love watching the Games; for me, they represent the possibility of human endeavor in pushing the limits of nature. Yet in recent years, and perhaps most prominently at Beijing 2022, the Olympics have become a symbol of human endeavor gone too far, breaking the limits of nature for our own purposes without consideration of the consequences.
