Captured and Converted: How Methane Powers Art in Western North Carolina

These landfill-gas-powered-blacksmithing and glassblowing studios are among a few in the world fueled entirely by methane gas. Hundreds of landfills nationwide have the potential to harness waste into powerful artistic energy.

Story by Jessica Bradley Wells

On a Saturday in early spring, blacksmith Brock Martin uses fire to transform a square steel stick into an intricate leaf at Jackson County Green Energy Park in Dillsboro, North Carolina. Martin specializes in weapons like knives and axes. Instead of making a blade, he wanted to make the leaf pendant because delicate pieces showcase a blacksmith’s skill. Martin guesses he’s made a thousand leaves since he started blacksmithing in 2006. The first hundred or so, he said, were not so easy.

“This kind of stuff will show you your limitations as a beginner,” he said. “There’s a lot of ways to mess it up.”

Blacksmithing is a repetitive process. Martin, wearing a silver chain with pendants forged by his blacksmith friends, places the rod into the hot glow of the forge and waits. Once it’s turned the appropriate shade of red, he turns his body to place the steel on the 100-pound anvil and flattens the soft metal with one of the six hammers at his feet. 

For about 20 minutes, he repeats the process, wiping sweat from his forehead. With each hit, the rod looks more like a leaf — complete with a vine that wraps around the base, a crease up the middle, and veins that run from the center to the edges. When he started, his hits were less precise. This resulted in more heats and a weaker metal, causing the leaf to break from the base like a pop-top on a can that’s been bent too many times. 

Now, he knows which hammer to use depending on what he’d like to achieve and, more importantly, how to wield it. He used to throw the hammer with full force every time, but after an elbow injury sidelined him for six months, he realized he could use a lighter hammer and adjust his swing.  

“You can let gravity do the work,” he said.

Watch glass artist Cole Johnson and blacksmith Brock Martin at work while Timm Muth explains the importance of the Green Energy Park. Video by Charlotte Star Room.

Martin took the first blacksmithing class offered at Jackson County Green Energy Park, and his skill has grown with it. The park consists of a blacksmithing studio and a glassblowing studio powered by methane that had been leaking from the closed landfill next door.

Many told Timm Muth, a retired energy engineer, that powering a blacksmithing studio with methane couldn’t be done — that the low-quality gas produced by landfills wouldn’t burn clean or hot enough to forge steel — but he tried anyway. More than 15 years later, it’s burning hotter and better than ever. Instead of seeping into the atmosphere and nearby properties, the excess methane is used for something good.

I first met Muth in 2012, when I interviewed him over the phone for a short article about an event at the studios. I had just moved to North Carolina from Florida after college and was impressed by what he’d created. His determination to make the studios a reality stayed with me. As I questioned my decision to stay in the South to start my career, his resolve inspired me to stay. 

When I visited him in fall 2020, his hands were spotted with black smudges — a side effect of constant tinkering. As he showed me around, a mask hid his sandy-blond mustache and beard. Though slightly muffled, his voice was strong with conviction. He grew more excited as we talked about using retired landfills as a viable source of energy. 

“I kind of feel like if it were a couple million dollars of gold in here,” he said, “there’d be backhoes lined up down the street coming to dig it out.” 

Methane made up nearly 10% of U.S. greenhouse gas emissions in 2018, and 17% of that came from landfills. It’s one of the most potent greenhouse gases, and instead of letting it go to waste, the Green Energy Park puts it to creative use.

After a 20-year career in nuclear engineering, Muth moved to Dillsboro in 2003 for the mountain biking. He planned to retire with his family, write about biking, and lead cyclists on tours. When the county manager at the time, Ken Westmoreland, learned of Muth’s engineering background, he asked Muth to help him figure out if there was a way to use the landfill gas. It was supposed to be a one-year job. Now it’s his life’s work. 

Every year, the glassblowing and blacksmithing studios capture about 281 tons of methane and offset 550 tons of carbon dioxide — the equivalent of taking nearly 1,000 vehicles off the road.  

Along with the environmental benefits, the studios have launched the careers of several artists like Martin, who was on History channel’s blacksmithing competition “Forged in Fire” in 2017, and added a new draw to the tiny town of Dillsboro, population 248. 

Dillsboro has a reputation as Jackson County’s creative hub. The county borders Great Smoky Mountains National Park and attracts tourists for its proximity to waterfalls, hiking trails, and fly fishing, among other outdoor activities. Jackson County Tourism Development Authority Director Nick Breedlove said tourism is responsible for more than 1,800 jobs and $52 million in paychecks annually. 

When Muth and the county were deciding what to power with the methane in 2005, they held a series of community meetings so residents could choose. Thirty to 40 people attended each of the four meetings. Muth said the most popular choice was an art studio. 

“We took an environmental liability and turned it into an economic asset,” Muth said. “Plus, it’s kind of cool to prove people wrong.”

Glassblower Cole Johnson, one of the artists who work at the Green Energy Park, said he’s honored to add glassblowing to the area’s art heritage. After interning at the studios as a Western Carolina University student, he earned a two-year scholarship to study glassblowing at the prestigious JamFactory in Australia. 

Now Johnson is a full-time artist in Dillsboro, making art and sharing what he’s learned. 

There are a few private glassblowing and blacksmithing studios in western North Carolina, but because — unlike the Green Energy Park — they have to pay for fuel for furnaces and forges, they are more expensive to run. The Green Energy Park studios in Dillsboro are less expensive for artists to rent and more accessible for first-timers. For $30, a beginner can make a glass pumpkin or forge an iron knife.

“People think all the cool stuff stops in Asheville,” Muth said, “but they come out here, and they’re blown away by what we have going on and the quality of the artists.”

Photos provided by Cole Johnson.

Martin was at work in his studio when I went to visit Muth last fall. We walked in while the blacksmith was filling one of 40-plus commissions from his shop, WarFire Forge. Heavy metal music (appropriately) was blaring, accompanied by the clang of tools against steel. He turned the music down to tell me about his work — weapons (some functional, like knives and skewers; some not so functional, like sabers) and props from movies and video games. He picked up a few: replicas of Thor’s hammer, life- and pendant-sized blocks of Mandalorian beskar (an extremely durable steel from the “Star Wars” universe), and swords inspired by “The Lord of the Rings.” 

Muth picked up three knives from the cluttered work table and pointed out the ripples in the steel. The ripples are intentional, and the space between each tells how many times Martin had to fold the steel to make the unique pattern. These were folded 32, 90, and 128 times, respectively. Sometimes, Martin said, he spends too much time perfecting the pattern. 

“Lots of blacksmiths can make blades,” Muth said, “but few are artists like Brock is.”

Martin is in the studio nearly every day trying to catch up on his commissions. He estimates he could spend about $3,000 a year in propane without the landfill-gas-fired forges and foundries. The Jackson County Green Energy Park systems also heat up faster than propane. When he arrives at the studio, he can start working in minutes. The efficiency, he said, has been pivotal in his success as a full-time artist.

Gravel crunching under our feet, Muth and I took a short walk across the street and up a hill to the top of the landfill as he explained how he built the system to collect the gas and power the studios. The top of the landfill is a lush green field scattered with 13 wells. They’re drilled about 70 to 80 feet deep through layers of decaying trash. The top of the landfill is packed with a 3-foot layer of clay to create a seal that locks in the debris and gases. 

Landfill gas is a result of bacteria digesting organic matter in the landfill. It’s the nation’s third-largest source of human-caused greenhouse gas emissions. The gas is mostly methane and carbon dioxide, with small amounts of other substances depending on the landfill. Methane is one of the most harmful greenhouse gases, capable of trapping at least 28 times more heat than carbon dioxide over a 100-year period.

The wells Muth’s team installed force the gases up from the landfill and through a tube that goes down the hill. From there, it either travels to the studios to power the furnace or to a flare that burns off the gas at about 1,500 degrees Fahrenheit if the studios are not in use. A reuse project can capture as much as 90% of a landfill’s methane. 

Without an extraction system, the gas would press through air pockets between discarded papers, food, and plastics and force its way out of the landfill. The gas can travel miles underground and escape onto another property. 

That’s what was happening in Jackson County and what happens at many landfills across the country. The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency now requires that landfills of a certain size capture the gases to prevent pollution. Most burn off the gases through flaring, because it is the simplest and least expensive method. Flaring requires an extraction system like the one in Dillsboro, which Muth said cost the county $250,000. 

With a few more pipes and an idea, though, the gas can be a source of electricity or fuel. In Dillsboro, the difference in cost to use the energy to power the studios instead of simply flaring the gas was negligible.

“To waste that energy,” Muth said, “seems rather criminal.”

Timm Muth explains how wells force gases up from the landfill and through a tube that goes down the hill. From there, the methane either travels to the studios to power the furnace or to a flare that burns off the gas at about 1,500 degrees Fahrenheit if the studios are not in use. A reuse project can capture as much as 90% of a landfill’s methane. Photo by Jessica Bradley Wells.

Nearly 600 retired landfills across the U.S. are used to make electricity, produce natural gas, or fuel vehicles. The EPA suggests that landfills that have been closed for fewer than five years and with more than 1 million tons of trash are the best candidates for financially viable reuse projects. There are about 480 of those without planned projects. 

But Lauren Aepli of the EPA’s Landfill Methane Outreach Program said that for small landfills, like the one that powers the Jackson County Green Energy Park with its roughly 750,000 tons of trash, there could be much more potential. 

“We might be discounting some of the smaller or older ones that don’t meet that definition anymore but would still have enough gas for one of these very small projects,” she said. “I think a lot is possible if people are creative enough and want to use it as a renewable fuel.”

Aepli said she thinks the biggest challenge is figuring out what to do with the energy and finding the money to make it happen. Most landfill gas projects are for industrial needs. Fewer than 10 of the 600 active reuse projects in the U.S. use the gases to power small community projects like greenhouses and the Jackson County Green Energy Park. As far as Muth knows, his studios are the only ones of their kind powered by landfill gas. In most cases, it’s easier for a landfill owner to use the energy to power existing operations or sell it to companies with an established process for using the gas. The landfill must be close to the end-user, because the longer the pipeline, the more expensive and complicated the project will be. 

When Jackson County hired a consultant in 2005 to see if there was a way to use the gas, they were told there wasn’t enough to make something profitable and to consider building an extraction system for flaring that would meet regulations.

But Muth thought differently.

Cole Johnson said he's glad to know he can help the environment while making his glass art. Photo provided by Cole Johnson.

From the assessment, they determined there might not be enough gas for a large financial return, but there was enough to do a community-scale project using the county’s old trash transfer station next door. 

Muth taught himself how to build furnaces, forges, and foundries and took engineering classes at Western Carolina University, which gave him a better understanding of gas combustion systems. Because the idea was so unusual, he had trouble finding people who could help, but that didn’t stop him. For as long as he could remember, he’d always liked to tinker. When his dad would throw away tools, Muth would dig them out and take them apart to see if he could fix them. Sometimes you can’t put it back together, he said, but that’s part of the learning process, too. 

Today he works with two other team members to keep the studios running, along with the artists who, Muth said, are always willing to pitch in.

“You run into this scenario of nobody wanting to try something new that might not work the first time, but we just have a different mindset,” he said. “No matter what, we can figure it out.”

After several iterations and the clearing of 550 tons of loose trash and debris from the abandoned trash transfer station, the studios opened in 2006. The forges heat up to 2,700 degrees F and the glass furnaces to 2,200 degrees F. Thousands of people have come through the studios — from students learning about the intersection of art and science, to hobbyists trying a craft for the first time and established artists interested in making their art with renewable fuel. 

Now Muth’s working on new systems that will allow the studios to run on other trash-based fuels when the landfill gas runs out. 

When will it run out? Muth said it’s an inexact science. 

When they started, Muth said, EPA models estimated they had 20 years of gas, but a more recent model estimated there could be 50 years’ worth. A few years ago, they added new extraction wells to the landfill. While drilling, a 1969 phone book flew up through the hole, and Muth said he could still read the text. 

“It makes me think there’s probably a lot of other organic matter that hasn’t even started to decompose,” he said.

While it could be decades before the energy is exhausted, Muth is pursuing funding to build anaerobic digesters that could produce methane from school cafeteria food scraps for a perpetual energy source. 

When the studios closed to visitors in March 2020 because of the pandemic, Muth seized the opportunity to rebuild the glassblowing furnace and repair other equipment. When it’s safe to gather again, the studios will be in top condition. 

When he finished showing me around, we walked over to the colorful trailer that houses his office. He wanted to give me brochures to take home. I stood outside the door, and he handed me a few glossy trifolds with John Deere green and yellow ink. I thanked him for his time and looked at them as I walked to my car. The yellow words jumped out at me: “Great Ideas Aren’t Confined to a Box.” 

Another reminder that there is so much opportunity — even in the smallest places — to make our hometowns cleaner, more prosperous, and more creative.