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Archive for the ‘Research Blogging’ Category

It seems that every post I write begins with an apology for not writing more. I’ve spent the past few months writing another set of exams (only one more year to go), building and documenting two simple climate models for term projects (much more on that later), and moving to Australia!

This (Northern Hemisphere) summer I have a job at the Climate Change Research Centre at the University of New South Wales in Sydney, which has a close partnership with the UVic Climate Lab (where I worked last summer). I am working with Dr. Katrin Meissner, who primarily studies ocean, carbon cycle, and paleoclimate modelling. We have lots of plans for exciting projects to work on over the next four months.

Australia is an interesting place. Given that it’s nearly 20 hours away by plane, it has a remarkably similar culture to Canada. The weather is much warmer, though (yesterday it dropped down to 15 C and everyone was complaining about the cold) and the food is fantastic. The birds are more colourful (Rainbow Lorikeets are so common that some consider them pests) and the bats are as big as ravens. Best of all, there is an ocean. I think I am going to like it here.

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Last week I was lucky enough to attend the Second Workshop on Coupling Technologies for Earth System Models, held at the National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR) in Boulder, Colorado, USA. I was excited just to visit NCAR, which is one of the top climate research facilities in the world. Not only is it packed full of interesting scientists and great museum displays, but it’s nestled in the Rocky Mountains and so the view from the conference room looks like this:

2013-02-21 13.46.43

Many of the visitors would spend large portions of the coffee breaks just staring out the window…

The conference was focused on couplers – the part of a climate model that ties all the other components (atmosphere, ocean, land, etc.) together. However, the presentations covered (as Rob Jacob put it) “everything that physical scientists don’t care about unless it stops working”. Since I consider myself a physical scientist, this included a lot of concepts I hadn’t thought about before:

  • Parallel processing: Since climate models are so big, it makes sense to multitask by splitting the work over many computer processors. You have to allocate the right number of processors to each component, though: if the atmosphere has too many processors, it will finish its timestep too quickly and sit there waiting until the ocean is done, and vice versa. This is called load balancing, and it gets very tricky as soon as the number of components exceeds two.
  • Scalability: The more processors you use, the faster the model runs, but the speed has diminishing returns. If you double the number of processors, you won’t quite double the speed, particularly if the number of processors exceeds 104 (a setup which is becoming increasingly affordable for large research groups). Historically, the coupler has not been a code bottleneck (limiting factor for model speed), but as the number of processors gets very large, that scenario is changing. We have to figure out the most efficient way to couple many small components together, so that climate model speed can continue to keep up with advances in computer hardware.
  • Standardization: Modelling groups across the world are communicating with each other more and more, and using each other’s code. Currently this requires a lot of modifications, because every climate model has a different structure. Everyone seems to agree that it would be great to have a standard interface that allowed you to plug any combination of components together, but of course everyone has a different idea of what that standard should be.
  • Fortran is still the best language for climate models, believe it or not, because it is the fastest language for the kinds of operations required. If a modern, accessible language like Python could compete based on speed, you can bet that new climate models like MPAS would use it.

I was at the conference with Steve Easterbrook and his new M.Sc. student Daniel Levy, presenting our bubble diagrams of model architecture. (If you haven’t already, read my AGU poster schpiel first, or none of this will make sense!) As interesting and useful as these diagrams are, there were some flaws in our original analysis:

  1. We didn’t use preprocessed code, meaning that each “model” is actually the code base for many different model configurations. So our estimate of model complexity based on line count is biased towards models which are very configurable, but might not actually be very complex. We can fix this by choosing specific configurations of each model (for consistency, the configuration used in CMIP5 or the equivalent EMIC AR5 intercomparison project) and obtaining preprocessed code from the corresponding institutions.
  2. We sorted the code into components (eg atmosphere) and sub-components (eg atmospheric aerosols) based on folder structure, which might not reflect the hierarchy of routines formed at runtime. Some modelling groups keep their files very organized, but often code from different parts of the model was mixed together, and separating it out was very much a judgement call. To fix this, we can sort based on the dependency structure (a massive tree graph showing which routines call which): all the descendants of the atmosphere driver are part of the atmosphere component, and so on.
  3. We made our diagrams in Microsoft PowerPoint, which is quite limited, and didn’t allow us to size the bubbles so their area was perfectly proportional to line count. Instead, we just had to eyeball it. We can fix this by using Adobe Illustrator, which is much more advanced and has this capability.

So far, we’ve repeated the analysis for the UK Met Office Model, version HadGEM2-ES. I created the dependency structure by going manually through every file and making good use of grep, which took hours and hours (although it was a nice, menial way to avoid studying for my courses!). Daniel is going to write a Fortran parser to make the job easier next time around. In the meantime, our HadGEM2-ES diagram is absolutely gorgeous and wonderfully accurate:
HadGEM2-ES
I will post future diagrams as they become available. We think the main use of these diagrams will be as communication tools between scientists, so they are free to use with attribution.

Just a few more weeks of classes, then I can enjoy some full-time research. Now that I’ve had a taste of being a proper scientist, it’s hard to go back!

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Lately I have been reading a lot about the Paleocene-Eocene Thermal Maximum, or PETM, which is my favourite paleoclimatic event (is it weird to have a favourite?) This episode of rapid global warming 55 million years ago is particularly relevant to our situation today, because it was clearly caused by greenhouse gases. Unfortunately, the rest of the story is far less clear.

Paleocene mammals

The PETM happened about 10 million years after the extinction that killed the dinosaurs. The Age of Mammals was well underway, although humans wouldn’t appear in any form for another few million years. It was several degrees warmer, to start with, than today’s conditions. Sea levels would have been higher, and there were probably no polar ice caps.

Then, over several thousand years, the world warmed by between 5 and 8°C. It seems to have happened in a few bursts, against a background of slower temperature increase. Even the deep ocean, usually a very stable thermal environment, warmed by at least 5°C. It took around a hundred thousand years for the climate system to recover.

Such rapid global warming hasn’t been seen since, although it’s possible (probable?) that human-caused warming will surpass this rate, if it hasn’t already. It is particularly troubling to realize that our species has never before experienced an event like the one we’re causing today. The climate has changed before, but humans generally weren’t there to see it.

The PETM is marked in the geological record by a sudden jump in the amount of “light” carbon in the climate system. Carbon comes in different isotopes, two of which are most important for climate analysis: carbon with 7 neutrons (13C), and carbon with 6 neutrons (12C). Different carbon cycle processes sequester these forms of carbon in different amounts. Biological processes like photosynthesis preferentially take 12C out of the air in the form of CO2, while geological processes like subduction of the Earth’s crust take anything that’s part of the rock. When the carbon comes back up, the ratios of 12C to 13C are preserved: emissions from the burning of fossil fuels, for example, are relatively “light” because they originated from the tissues of living organisms; emissions from volcanoes are more or less “normal” because they came from molten crust that was once the ocean floor.

In order to explain the isotopic signature of the PETM, you need to add to the climate system either a massive amount of carbon that’s somewhat enriched in light carbon, or a smaller amount of carbon that’s extremely enriched in light carbon, or (most likely) something in the middle. The carbon came in the form of CO2, or possibly CH4 that soon oxidized to form CO2. That, in turn, almost certainly caused the warming.

There was a lot of warming, though, so there must have been a great deal of carbon. We don’t know exactly how much, because the warming power of CO2 depends on how much is already present in the atmosphere, and estimates for initial CO2 concentration during the PETM vary wildly. However, the carbon injection was probably something like 5 trillion tonnes. This is comparable to the amount of carbon we could emit today from burning all our fossil fuel reserves. That’s a heck of a lot of carbon, and what nobody can figure out is where did it all come from?

Arguably the most popular hypothesis is methane hydrates. On continental shelves, methane gas (CH4) is frozen into the ocean floor. Microscopic cages of water contain a single molecule of methane each, but when the water melts the methane is released and bubbles up to the surface. Today there are about 10 trillion tonnes of carbon stored in methane hydrates. In the PETM the levels were lower, but nobody is sure by how much.

The characteristics of methane hydrates seem appealing as an explanation for the PETM. They are very enriched in 12C, meaning less of them would be needed to cause the isotopic shift. They discharge rapidly and build back up slowly, mirroring the sudden onset and slow recovery of the PETM. The main problem with the methane hydrate hypothesis is that there might not have been enough of them to account for the warming observed in the fossil record.

However, remember that in order to release their carbon, methane hydrates must first warm up enough to melt. So some other agent could have started the warming, which then triggered the methane release and the sudden bursts of warming. There is no geological evidence for any particular source – everything is speculative, except for the fact that something spat out all this CO2.

Magnified foraminifera

Don’t forget that where there is greenhouse warming, there is ocean acidification. The ocean is great at soaking up greenhouse gases, but this comes at a cost to organisms that build shells out of calcium carbonate (CaCO3, the same chemical that makes up chalk). CO2 in the water forms carbonic acid, which starts to dissolve their shells. Likely for this reason, the PETM caused a mass extinction of benthic foraminifera (foraminifera = microscopic animals with CaCO3 shells; benthic = lives on the ocean floor).

Other groups of animals seemed to do okay, though. There was a lot of rearranging of habitats – species would disappear in one area but flourish somewhere else – but no mass extinction like the one that killed the dinosaurs. The fossil record can be deceptive in this manner, though, because it only preserves a small number of species. By sheer probability, the most abundant and widespread organisms are most likely to appear in the fossil record. There could be many organisms that were less common, or lived in restricted areas, that went extinct without leaving any signs that they ever existed.

Climate modellers really like the PETM, because it’s a historical example of exactly the kind of situation we’re trying to understand using computers. If you add a few trillion tonnes of carbon to the atmosphere in a relatively short period of time, how much does the world warm and what happens to its inhabitants? The PETM ran this experiment for us in the real world, and can give us some idea of what to expect in the centuries to come. If only it had left more data behind for us to discover.

References:
Pagani et al., 2006
Dickens, 2011
McInerney and Wing, 2011

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Today my very first scientific publication is appearing in Geophysical Research Letters. During my summer at UVic, I helped out with a model intercomparison project regarding the effect of climate change on Atlantic circulation, and was listed as a coauthor on the resulting paper. I suppose I am a proper scientist now, rather than just a scientist larva.

The Atlantic meridional overturning circulation (AMOC for short) is an integral part of the global ocean conveyor belt. In the North Atlantic, a massive amount of water near the surface, cooling down on its way to the poles, becomes dense enough to sink. From there it goes on a thousand-year journey around the world – inching its way along the bottom of the ocean, looping around Antarctica – before finally warming up enough to rise back to the surface. A whole multitude of currents depend on the AMOC, most famously the Gulf Stream, which keeps Europe pleasantly warm.

Some have hypothesized that climate change might shut down the AMOC: the extra heat and freshwater (from melting ice) coming into the North Atlantic could conceivably lower the density of surface water enough to stop it sinking. This happened as the world was coming out of the last ice age, in an event known as the Younger Dryas: a huge ice sheet over North America suddenly gave way, drained into the North Atlantic, and shut down the AMOC. Europe, cut off from the Gulf Stream and at the mercy of the ice-albedo feedback, experienced another thousand years of glacial conditions.

A shutdown today would not lead to another ice age, but it could cause some serious regional cooling over Europe, among other impacts that we don’t fully understand. Today, though, there’s a lot less ice to start with. Could the AMOC still shut down? If not, how much will it weaken due to climate change? So far, scientists have answered these two questions with “probably not” and “something like 25%” respectively. In this study, we analysed 30 climate models (25 complex CMIP5 models, and 5 smaller, less complex EMICs) and came up with basically the same answer. It’s important to note that none of the models include dynamic ice sheets (computational glacial dynamics is a headache and a half), which might affect our results.

Models ran the four standard RCP experiments from 2006-2100. Not every model completed every RCP, and some extended their simulations to 2300 or 3000. In total, there were over 30 000 model years of data. We measured the “strength” of the AMOC using the standard unit Sv (Sverdrups), where each Sv is 1 million cubic metres of water per second.

Only two models simulated an AMOC collapse, and only at the tail end of the most extreme scenario (RCP8.5, which quite frankly gives me a stomachache). Bern3D, an EMIC from Switzerland, showed a MOC strength of essentially zero by the year 3000; CNRM-CM5, a GCM from France, stabilized near zero by 2300. In general, the models showed only a moderate weakening of the AMOC by 2100, with best estimates ranging from a 22% drop for RCP2.6 to a 40% drop for RCP8.5 (with respect to preindustrial conditions).

Are these somewhat-reassuring results trustworthy? Or is the Atlantic circulation in today’s climate models intrinsically too stable? Our model intercomparison also addressed that question, using a neat little scalar metric known as Fov: the net amount of freshwater travelling from the AMOC to the South Atlantic.

The current thinking in physical oceanography is that the AMOC is more or less binary – it’s either “on” or “off”. When AMOC strength is below a certain level (let’s call it A), its only stable state is “off”, and the strength will converge to zero as the currents shut down. When AMOC strength is above some other level (let’s call it B), its only stable state is “on”, and if you were to artificially shut it off, it would bounce right back up to its original level. However, when AMOC strength is between A and B, both conditions can be stable, so whether it’s on or off depends on where it started. This phenomenon is known as hysteresis, and is found in many systems in nature.

This figure was not part of the paper. I made it just now in MS Paint.

Here’s the key part: when AMOC strength is less than A or greater than B, Fov is positive and the system is monostable. When AMOC strength is between A and B, Fov is negative and the system is bistable. The physical justification for Fov is its association with the salt advection feedback, the sign of which is opposite Fov: positive Fov means the salt advection feedback is negative (i.e. stabilizing the current state, so monostable); a negative Fov means the salt advection feedback is positive (i.e. reinforcing changes in either direction, so bistable).

Most observational estimates (largely ocean reanalyses) have Fov as slightly negative. If models’ AMOCs really were too stable, their Fov‘s should be positive. In our intercomparison, we found both positives and negatives – the models were kind of all over the place with respect to Fov. So maybe some models are overly stable, but certainly not all of them, or even the majority.

As part of this project, I got to write a new section of code for the UVic model, which calculated Fov each timestep and included the annual mean in the model output. Software development on a large, established project with many contributors can be tricky, and the process involved a great deal of head-scratching, but it was a lot of fun. Programming is so satisfying.

Beyond that, my main contribution to the project was creating the figures and calculating the multi-model statistics, which got a bit unwieldy as the model count approached 30, but we made it work. I am now extremely well-versed in IDL graphics keywords, which I’m sure will come in handy again. Unfortunately I don’t think I can reproduce any figures here, as the paper’s not open-access.

I was pretty paranoid while coding and doing calculations, though – I kept worrying that I would make a mistake, never catch it, and have it dredged out by contrarians a decade later (“Kate-gate”, they would call it). As a climate scientist, I suppose that comes with the job these days. But I can live with it, because this stuff is just so darned interesting.

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Near the end of my summer at the UVic Climate Lab, all the scientists seemed to go on vacation at the same time and us summer students were left to our own devices. I was instructed to teach Jeremy, Andrew Weaver’s other summer student, how to use the UVic climate model – he had been working with weather station data for most of the summer, but was interested in Earth system modelling too.

Jeremy caught on quickly to the basics of configuration and I/O, and after only a day or two, we wanted to do something more exciting than the standard test simulations. Remembering an old post I wrote, I dug up this paper (open access) by Damon Matthews and Ken Caldeira, which modelled geoengineering by reducing incoming solar radiation uniformly across the globe. We decided to replicate their method on the newest version of the UVic ESCM, using the four RCP scenarios in place of the old A2 scenario. We only took CO2 forcing into account, though: other greenhouse gases would have been easy enough to add in, but sulphate aerosols are spatially heterogeneous and would complicate the algorithm substantially.

Since we were interested in the carbon cycle response to geoengineering, we wanted to prescribe CO2 emissions, rather than concentrations. However, the RCP scenarios prescribe concentrations, so we had to run the model with each concentration trajectory and find the equivalent emissions timeseries. Since the UVic model includes a reasonably complete carbon cycle, it can “diagnose” emissions by calculating the change in atmospheric carbon, subtracting contributions from land and ocean CO2 fluxes, and assigning the residual to anthropogenic sources.

After a few failed attempts to represent geoengineering without editing the model code (e.g., altering the volcanic forcing input file), we realized it was unavoidable. Model development is always a bit of a headache, but it makes you feel like a superhero when everything falls into place. The job was fairly small – just a few lines that culminated in equation 1 from the original paper – but it still took several hours to puzzle through the necessary variable names and header files! Essentially, every timestep the model calculates the forcing from CO2 and reduces incoming solar radiation to offset that, taking changing planetary albedo into account. When we were confident that the code was working correctly, we ran all four RCPs from 2006-2300 with geoengineering turned on. The results were interesting (see below for further discussion) but we had one burning question: what would happen if geoengineering were suddenly turned off?

By this time, having completed several thousand years of model simulations, we realized that we were getting a bit carried away. But nobody else had models in the queue – again, they were all on vacation – so our simulations were running three times faster than normal. Using restart files (written every 100 years) as our starting point, we turned off geoengineering instantaneously for RCPs 6.0 and 8.5, after 100 years as well as 200 years.

Results

Similarly to previous experiments, our representation of geoengineering still led to sizable regional climate changes. Although average global temperatures fell down to preindustrial levels, the poles remained warmer than preindustrial while the tropics were cooler:

Also, nearly everywhere on the globe became drier than in preindustrial times. Subtropical areas were particularly hard-hit. I suspect that some of the drying over the Amazon and the Congo is due to deforestation since preindustrial times, though:

Jeremy also made some plots of key one-dimensional variables for RCP8.5, showing the results of no geoengineering (i.e. the regular RCP – yellow), geoengineering for the entire simulation (red), and geoengineering turned off in 2106 (green) or 2206 (blue):

It only took about 20 years for average global temperature to fall back to preindustrial levels. Changes in solar radiation definitely work quickly. Unfortunately, changes in the other direction work quickly too: shutting off geoengineering overnight led to rates of warming up to 5 C / decade, as the climate system finally reacted to all the extra CO2. To put that in perspective, we’re currently warming around 0.2 C / decade, which far surpasses historical climate changes like the Ice Ages.

Sea level rise (due to thermal expansion only – the ice sheet component of the model isn’t yet fully implemented) is directly related to temperature, but changes extremely slowly. When geoengineering is turned off, the reversals in sea level trajectory look more like linear offsets from the regular RCP.

Sea ice area, in contrast, reacts quite quickly to changes in temperature. Note that this data gives annual averages, rather than annual minimums, so we can’t tell when the Arctic Ocean first becomes ice-free. Also, note that sea ice area is declining ever so slightly even with geoengineering – this is because the poles are still warming a little bit, while the tropics cool.

Things get really interesting when you look at the carbon cycle. Geoengineering actually reduced atmospheric CO2 concentrations compared to the regular RCP. This was expected, due to the dual nature of carbon cycle feedbacks. Geoengineering allows natural carbon sinks to enjoy all the benefits of high CO2 without the associated drawbacks of high temperatures, and these sinks become stronger as a result. From looking at the different sinks, we found that the sequestration was due almost entirely to the land, rather than the ocean:

In this graph, positive values mean that the land is a net carbon sink (absorbing CO2), while negative values mean it is a net carbon source (releasing CO2). Note the large negative spikes when geoengineering is turned off: the land, adjusting to the sudden warming, spits out much of the carbon that it had previously absorbed.

Within the land component, we found that the strengthening carbon sink was due almost entirely to soil carbon, rather than vegetation:

This graph shows total carbon content, rather than fluxes – think of it as the integral of the previous graph, but discounting vegetation carbon.

Finally, the lower atmospheric CO2 led to lower dissolved CO2 in the ocean, and alleviated ocean acidification very slightly. Again, this benefit quickly went away when geoengineering was turned off.

Conclusions

Is geoengineering worth it? I don’t know. I can certainly imagine scenarios in which it’s the lesser of two evils, and find it plausible (even probable) that we will reach such a scenario within my lifetime. But it’s not something to undertake lightly. As I’ve said before, desperate governments are likely to use geoengineering whether or not it’s safe, so we should do as much research as possible ahead of time to find the safest form of implementation.

The modelling of geoengineering is in its infancy, and I have a few ideas for improvement. In particular, I think it would be interesting to use a complex atmospheric chemistry component to allow for spatial variation in the forcing reduction through sulphate aerosols: increase the aerosol optical depth over one source country, for example, and let it disperse over time. I’d also like to try modelling different kinds of geoengineering – sulphate aerosols as well as mirrors in space and iron fertilization of the ocean.

Jeremy and I didn’t research anything that others haven’t, so this project isn’t original enough for publication, but it was a fun way to stretch our brains. It was also a good topic for a post, and hopefully others will learn something from our experiments.

Above all, leave over-eager summer students alone at your own risk. They just might get into something like this.

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Some climate scientists go overboard when naming their models, in an effort to create really clever acronyms. Here are my favourites.

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  1. Scientists do not blindly trust their own models of global warming. In fact, nobody is more aware of a model’s specific weaknesses than the developers themselves. Most of our time is spent comparing model output to observations, searching for discrepancies, and hunting down bugs.
  2. If 1.5 C global warming above preindustrial temperatures really does represent the threshold for “dangerous climate change” (rather than 2 C, as some have argued), then we’re in trouble. Stabilizing global temperatures at this level isn’t just climatically difficult, it’s also mathematically difficult. Given current global temperatures, and their current rate of change, it’s nearly impossible to smoothly extend the curve to stabilize at 1.5 C without overshooting.
  3. Sometimes computers do weird things. Some bugs appear for the most illogical reasons (last week, the act of declaring a variable altered every single metric of the model output). Other bugs show up once, then disappear before you can track down the source, and you’re never able to reproduce them. It’s not uncommon to fix a problem without ever understanding why the problem occurred in the first place.
  4. For anyone working with climate model output, one of the best tools to have in your arsenal is the combination of IDL and NetCDF. Hardly an hour of work goes by when I don’t use one or both of these programming tools in some way.
  5. Developing model code for the first time is a lot like moving to a new city. At first you wander around aimlessly, clutching your map and hesitantly asking for directions. Then you begin to recognize street names and orient yourself around landmarks. Eventually you’re considered a resident of the city, as your little house is there on the map with your name on it. You feel inordinately proud of the fact that you managed to build that house without burning the entire city down in the process.
  6. The RCP 8.5 scenario is really, really scary. Looking at the output from that experiment is enough to give me a stomachache. Let’s just not let that scenario happen, okay?
  7. It’s entirely possible to get up in the morning and just decide to be enthusiastic about your work. You don’t have to pretend, or lie to yourself – all you do is consciously choose to revel in the interesting discoveries, and to view your setbacks as challenges rather than chores. It works really well, and everything is easier and more fun as a result.
  8. Climate models are fabulous experimental subjects. If you run the UVic model twice with the same code, data, options, and initial state, you get exactly the same results. (I’m not sure if this holds for more complex GCMs which include elements of random weather variation.) For this reason, if you change one factor, you can be sure that the model is reacting only to that factor. Control runs are completely free of external influences, and deconstructing confounding variables is only a matter of CPU time. Most experimental scientists don’t have this element of perfection in their subjects – it makes me feel very lucky.
  9. The permafrost is in big trouble, and scientists are remarkably calm about it.
  10. Tasks that seem impossible at first glance are often second nature by the end of the day. No bug lasts forever, and no problem goes unsolved if you exert enough effort.

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As my summer research continues, I’m learning a lot about previous experiments that used the UVic ESCM (Earth System Climate Model), as well as beginning to run my own. Over the past few years, the UVic model has played an integral role in a fascinating little niche of climate research: the importance of cumulative carbon emissions.

So far, global warming mitigation policies have focused on choosing an emissions pathway: making a graph of desired CO2 emissions vs. time, where emissions slowly reduce to safer levels. However, it turns out that the exact pathway we take doesn’t actually matter. All that matters is the area under the curve: the total amount of CO2 we emit, or “cumulative emissions” (Zickfeld et al, 2009). So if society decides to limit global warming to 2°C (a common target), there is a certain amount of total CO2 that the entire world is allowed to emit. We can use it all up in the first ten years and then emit nothing, or we can spread it out – either way, it will lead to the same amount of warming.

If you delve a little deeper into the science, it turns out that temperature change is directly proportional to cumulative emissions (Matthews et al, 2009). In other words, if you draw a graph of the total amount of warming vs. total CO2 emitted, it will be a straight line.

This is counter-intuitive, because the intermediate processes are definitely not straight lines. Firstly, the graph of warming vs. CO2 concentrations is logarithmic: as carbon dioxide builds up in the atmosphere, each extra molecule added has less and less effect on the climate.

However, as carbon dioxide builds up and the climate warms, carbon sinks (which suck up some of our emissions) become less effective. For example, warmer ocean water can’t hold as much CO2, and trees subjected to heat stress often die and stop photosynthesizing. Processes that absorb CO2 become less effective, so more of our emissions actually stay in the air. Consequently, the graph of CO2 concentrations vs. CO2 emissions is exponential.

These two relationships, warming vs. concentrations and concentrations vs. emissions, more or less cancel each other out, making total warming vs. total emissions linear. It doesn’t matter how much CO2 was in the air to begin with, or how fast the allowable emissions get used up. Once society decides how much warming is acceptable, all we need to do is nail down the proportionality constant (the slope of the straight line) in order to find out how much carbon we have to work with. Then, that number can be handed to economists, who will figure out the best way to spread out those emissions while causing minimal financial disruption.

Finding that slope is a little tricky, though. Best estimates, using models as well as observations, generally fall between 1.5°C and 2°C for every trillion tonnes of carbon emitted (Matthews et al, 2009; Allen et al, 2009; Zickfeld et al, 2009). Keep in mind that we’ve already emitted about 0.6 trillion tonnes of carbon (University of Oxford). Following a theme commonly seen in climate research, the uncertainty is larger on the high end of these slope estimates than on the low end. So if the real slope is actually lower than our best estimate, it’s probably only a little bit lower; if it’s actually higher than our best estimate, it could be much higher, and the problem could be much worse than we thought.

Also, this approach ignores other human-caused influences on global temperature, most prominently sulfate aerosols (which cause cooling) and greenhouse gases other than carbon dioxide (which cause warming). Right now, these two influences basically cancel, which is convenient for scientists because it means we can ignore both of them. Typically, we assume that they will continue to cancel far into the future, which might not be the case – there’s a good chance that developing countries like China and India will reduce their emissions of sulfate aerosols, allowing the non-CO2 greenhouse gases to dominate and cause warming. If this happened, we couldn’t even lump the extra greenhouse gases into the allowable CO2 emissions, because the warming they cause does depend on the exact pathway. For example, methane has such a short atmospheric lifetime that “cumulative methane emissions” is a useless measurement, and certainly isn’t directly proportional to temperature change.

This summer, one of my main projects at UVic is to compare what different models measure the slope of temperature change vs. cumulative CO2 emissions to be. As part of the international EMIC intercomparison project that the lab is coordinating, different modelling groups have sent us their measurements of allowable cumulative emissions for 1.5°C, 2°C, 3°C, and 4°C global warming. Right now (quite literally, as I write this) I’m running the same experiments on the UVic model. It’s very exciting to watch the results trickle in. Perhaps my excitement towards the most menial part of climate modelling, watching as the simulation chugs along, is a sign that I’m on the right career path.

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I recently started working for the summer, with Andrew Weaver’s research group at the University of Victoria. If you’re studying climate modelling in Canada, this is the place to be. They are a fairly small group, but continually churn out world-class research.

Many of the projects here use the group’s climate model, the UVic ESCM (Earth System Climate Model). I am working with the ESCM this summer, and have previously read most of the code, so I feel pretty well acquainted with it.

The climate models that most people are familiar with are the really complex ones. GCMs (General Circulation Models or Global Climate Models, depending on who you talk to) use high resolution, a large number of physical processes, and relatively few parameterizations to emulate the climate system as realistically as possible. These are the models that take weeks to run on the world’s most powerful supercomputers.

EMICs (Earth System Models of Intermediate Complexity) are a step down in complexity. They run at a lower resolution than GCMs and have more paramaterizations. Individual storms and wind patterns (and sometimes ocean currents as well) typically are not resolved – instead, the model predicts the statistics of these phenomena. Often, at least one component (such as sea ice) is two-dimensional.

The UVic ESCM is one of the most complex EMICs – it really sits somewhere between a GCM and an EMIC. It has a moderately high resolution, with a grid of 3.6° longitude by 1.8° latitude (ten thousand squares in all), and 19 vertical layers in the ocean. Its ocean, land, and sea ice component would all belong in a GCM. It even has a sediment component, which simulates processes that most GCMs ignore.

The only reason that the UVic model is considered an EMIC is because of its atmosphere component. This part of the model is two-dimensional and parameterizes most processes. For example, clouds aren’t explicitly simulated – instead, as soon as the relative humidity of a region reaches 85%, the atmospheric moisture falls out as rain (or snow). You would never see this kind of atmosphere in a GCM, and it might seem strange for scientists to deliberately build an unrealistic model. However, this simplified atmosphere gives the UVic ESCM a huge advantage over GCMs: speed.

For example, today I tested out the model with an example simulation. It ran on a Linux cluster with 32 cores, which I accessed remotely from a regular desktop. It took about 7 minutes of real time to simulate each year and record annual averages for several dozen variables. In comparison, many GCMs take an entire day of real time to simulate a year, while running on a machine with thousands of cores. Most of this work is coming from the atmospheric component, which requires short time steps. Consequently, cutting down on complexity in the atmosphere gives the best return on model efficiency.

Because the UVic model is so fast, it’s suitable for very long runs. Simulating a century is an “overnight job”, and several millennia is no big deal (especially if you run it on WestGrid). As a result, long-term processes have come to dominate the research in this lab: carbon cycle feedbacks, sensitivity studies, circulation in the North Atlantic. It simply isn’t feasible to simulate these millennial-scale processes on a GCM – so, by sacrificing complexity, we’re able to open up brand new areas of research. Perfectly emulating the real world isn’t actually the goal of most climate modelling.

Of course, the UVic ESCM is imperfect. Like all models, it has its quirks – an absolute surface temperature that’s a bit too low, projections of ocean heat uptake that are a bit too high. It doesn’t give reliable projections of regional climate, so you can only really use globally or hemispherically averaged quantities. It’s not very good at decadal-scale projection. However, other models are suitable for these short-term and small-scale simulations: the same GCMs that suffer when it comes to speed. In this way, climate models perform “division of labour”. By developing many different models of varying complexity, we can make better use of the limited computer power available to us.

I have several projects lined up for the summer, and right now I’m reading a lot of papers to familiarize myself with the relevant sub-fields. There have been some really cool discoveries in the past few years that I wasn’t aware of. I have lots of ideas for posts to write about these papers, as well as the projects I’m involved in, so check back often!

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In my life outside of climate science, I am an avid fan of birdwatching, and am always eager to connect the two. Today I’m going to share some citizen science data I collected.

Last year, I started taking notes during the spring migration. Every time I saw a species for the first time that year, I made a note of the date. I planned to repeat this process year after year, mainly so I would know when to expect new arrivals at our bird feeders, but also in an attempt to track changes in migration. Of course, this process is imperfect (it simply provides an upper bound for when the species arrives, because it’s unlikely that I witness the very first arrival in the city) but it’s better than nothing.

Like much of the Prairies and American Midwest, we’ve just had our warmest March on record, a whopping 8 C above normal. Additionally, every single bird arrival I recorded in March was earlier than last year, sometimes by over 30 days.

I don’t think this is a coincidence. I haven’t been any more observant than last year – I’ve spent roughly the same amount of time outside in roughly the same places. It also seems unlikely for such a systemic change to be a product of chance, although I would need much more data to figure that out for sure. Also, some birds migrate based on hours of daylight rather than temperature. However, I find it very interesting that, so far, not a single species has been late.

Because I feel compelled to graph everything, I typed all this data into Excel and made a little scatterplot. The mean arrival date was 20.6 days earlier than last year, with a standard deviation of 8.9 days.

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