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This story was supported by the Fund for Environmental Journalism of the Society of Environmental Journalists.

In the dusty light of a decades-old lunch counter in Lewisville, Arkansas, Chantell Dunbar-Jones expressed optimism at what the lithium boom coming to this stretch of the state will mean for her hometown. She sees jobs, economic development, and a measure of prosperity returning to a region that needs them. After waving to a gaggle of children crossing the street in honey-colored afternoon sunshine, the city council member assessed the future as best she could. “Not to say that everything’s perfect, but I feel like the positives way outweigh the negative,” she said.

Lewisville sits in the southwest corner of the state, squarely atop the Smackover Formation, a limestone aquifer that stretches from northeast Texas to the Gulf Coast of Florida and has for 100 years spurted oil and natural gas. The petroleum industry boomed here in the 1920s and peaked again in the 1960s before declining to a steady trickle over the decades that followed. But the Smackover has more to give. The brine and bromine pooled 10,000 feet below the surface contains lithium, a critical component in the batteries needed to move beyond fossil fuels.

Exxon Mobil is among at least four companies lining up to draw it from the earth. It opened a test site not far from Lewisville late last year and plans to extract enough of the metal to produce 100,000 electric vehicle batteries by 2026 and 1 million by 2030. Another company, Standard Lithium, believes its leases may hold 1.8 million metric tons of the material and will spend $1.3 billion building a processing facility to handle it all. All of this has Gov. Sarah Huckabee Sanders predicting that her state will become the nation’s leading lithium producer. 

With so much money to be made, Dunbar-Jones and other public officials find themselves being courted by extraction company executives eager to tell them what all of this could mean for the people and places they lead. They have been hosting town meetings, promising to build lasting, mutually beneficial relationships with the communities and residents of the area. So far, Dunbar-Jones and many others are optimistic. They see a looming renaissance, even as other community members acknowledge the mixed legacies of those who earn their money pulling resources from the ground. Such companies provide livelihoods, but only as long as there is something to extract, and they often leave pollution in their wake. 

The companies eyeing the riches buried beneath the pine forests and bayous promise plenty of jobs and opportunities, and paint themselves as responsible stewards of the environment. But drawing brine to the surface is a water-intensive process, and similar operations in Nevada aren’t expected to create more than a few hundred permanent jobs. It’s high-paying work, but often requires advanced degrees many in this region don’t possess. Looking beyond the employment question, some local residents are wary of the companies looking to lease their land for lithium. It brings to mind memories of the unscrupulous and shady dealings common during the oil boom of a century ago.

For residents of Lewisville, which is majority Black, such concerns are set against a broader history of bigotry and the fact that even as other towns prospered, they have long been the last to benefit from promises of the sort being made these days. Folks throughout the area are quick to note that the wealth that flowed from the oil fields their parents and grandparents worked benefited some more than others, even as they lived with the ecological devastation that industry left behind.

Dunbar-Jones is confident that, if nothing else, concern about their reputation and a need to ensure cordial relations with community leaders will sway lithium companies into supporting local needs. “All I can say is right now it’s up in the air as to what they will do,” she said, “but it seems promising.” 

Lewisville sits just west of Magnolia, El Dorado, and Camden, three cities that outline the “golden triangle” region that prospered after the discovery of oil in 1920. In an area long dependent upon timber, the plantation economy transformed almost instantly as tenant farmers, itinerant prospectors, and small landholders became rich. Within five years, 3,483 wells dotted the land, and Arkansas was producing 73 million barrels annually. 

Although the boom created great wealth, Lewisville remained largely rural, and its residents labored in the fields that made others rich. Still, the oil economy, coupled with the timber industry, brought a rush of saloons, itinerant workers, and hotels to many towns. Restaurants, supermarkets, and other trappings of a middle-class community soon followed, though Lewisville always lagged a bit behind.

That prosperity lasted a bit longer than the oil did. The first wells ran dry by the end of the 1920s, but the Smackover continued producing 20 to 30 million barrels annually until 1967, when it began a steady decline. These days, it offers about 4.4 million a year.

The shops that once served Lewisville and the furniture and feed factories that employed those who didn’t work the fields have long since gone. Jana Crank, who has lived here for 58 years, came of age in the 1960s and remembers prosperous times. She runs a community gallery in what’s left of downtown, where most buildings sport faded paint and cracked windows. “It used to be a TV fix-it shop,” Crank, a retired high school art teacher, said of the space.

As she spoke, a group of friends painted quietly. Canvases showing sunsets, crosses, and landscapes lined the walls. The scenes, bright and cheerful, stood in contrast to Lewisville, where retailers have moved on, the hospital has closed, and the schools have been consolidated to save money. Fewer than 900 people live here, about half as many as during the town’s peak in the 1970s. They tend to be older, with a median household income of around $30,000. “People are just dying out, their children don’t even live in town,” Crank said. “They have nothing to come back for.” 

That could change. Jobs associated with mining rare-earth minerals are highly compensated and highly sought-after, many of them netting as much as $92,000 per year. State Commerce Secretary Hugh McDonald believes the state could provide 15% of the world’s lithium needs, and Sanders has said Arkansas is “moving at breakneck speed to become the lithium capital of America.”

A few steps in that direction already have been taken around Lewisville, the county seat of Lafayette County. It is home to 13 lithium test wells, the most in the region. They’re tucked away behind pine trees, fields of cattle, and, occasionally, homes. The dirt and gravel roads leading to them have been churned to slurry by heavy equipment.

Those who own and work the wells arrived quietly last year, their presence indicated by the increasing number of trucks with plates from nearby Texas and Louisiana, sparking rumors throughout the region. They officially announced themselves to Mayor Ethan Dunbar last fall, in visits to local officials, mostly county leaders, to initiate friendly relations and establish the basis for economic partnerships. Mayor Dunbar and the Lewisville City Council were invited to a public meeting where lithium company executives discussed their plans and took questions.  

The town’s motto is “Building Community Pride,” something Dunbar-Jones, who is the mayor’s sister, takes seriously. She and others have hosted movie nights, community dinners, and, in a particular point of pride, clinics to help people convicted of crimes get their records expunged. Meanwhile, the city council, joined by a number of residents, has come together to nail down just what the lithium boom will mean for the town and to ensure everyone knows what’s in store. 

That’s particularly important, Dunbar-Jones said, because 60% of the town’s residents are Black. “Typically in minority neighborhoods, people are not as aware of what’s going on, because the information just doesn’t trickle down to them the way it does to other people,” she said. “At the meetings with the actual lithium companies, there may be a handful of people of color there versus others. So that lets you know who’s getting that information.”

A representative of Exxon, the only company that responded to a request for comment, said it has strived to build ties with communities throughout the region. “We connect early and often with elected officials, community members and local leaders to have meaningful conversations, provide transparency, and find ways to give back,” the representative said. It has opened a community liaison office in Magnolia and has worked with the city’s Chamber of Commerce to sponsor community events. It also established a $100,000 endowment for Columbia and Lafayette counties to provide grants for “education, public safety, and quality-of-life initiatives.”

Folks in Lewisville would like to see more of that kind of attention. In March, the city, working with the University of Arkansas Hope-Texarkana, hosted a town hall meeting so residents could speak to lithium executives and express concerns. The mayor recalls it drawing a standing room-only crowd that expressed hope that the industry would bring jobs and revenue to town, but also worried about the environmental impact. Folks called on Exxon and other companies to support new housing and establish pathways for young people to work in the industry. 

Venesha Sasser, who at 29 is the chief development officer of the local telephone company, sees the coming boom providing an opportunity to build generational wealth for families and resources, like broadband internet access, for communities. Any company that can invest $4 billion in a lithium operation can surely afford to toss a little back, Sasser said. “We want to make sure that whoever is investing in our community, and who we are investing in, actually means our people good.”

Sasser followed a trajectory common among young Black professionals from the area: She left to pursue an education, then returned to care for loved ones. As she got more involved in the community, she often found herself being treated a little differently, an experience Mayor Dunbar delicately described as bumping up against “old systems.” Lewisville is a majority-Black town in a majority-White county, and as of 2022, had a poverty rate of 23%. Although community leaders say they work well with colleagues in other towns and with county leaders, they also feel that they’ve had to elbow their way into conversations with lithium companies. They worry that the dynamics of the oil days, when Black men worked alongside whites but often in lower-paying, less desirable jobs and most of the money stayed in wealthier cities like El Dorado, will repeat themselves.

“You had people from Magnolia and El Dorado and Spring Hill and other places coming in and doing the work and reaping the benefits, and then when it was gone, they were gone,” said Virginia Henry, a retired school teacher who grew up in Lewisville and lives in Little Rock. Her ex-husband drilled for oil years ago, and the experience left her with a sour taste in her mouth. “I’m thinking it’s going to be pretty much the same,” she said. “They’re going to ease in, they want to do all this work and create all these jobs for somebody and then ease out when it’s done in a few years. Then here we’ll be with soil that can’t grow anything, contaminated water, and a whole bunch of kids with asthma.”

Mayor Dunbar, who is midway through his second term, is trying to balance reservations with optimism. “‘Imagine the possibilities.’ That’s my tagline,” he said, settling into a chair at City Hall. A blackboard behind him outlined his priorities: housing, recreation, education. He hopes support from companies like Tetra Technologies, which is developing a 6,138-acre project not far away, will finance those goals and give people a future that’s more stable than the past, one in which Lewisville’s children can pursue the same opportunities that kids in nearby, better-resourced communities can. 

“Think about Albemarle in Magnolia,” he said, referring to the bromine plant about 30 miles up the road. “Get a job at Albemarle, you stay there 25 years, you earn a decent salary, you’d have a decent retirement. You can live well. Quality of life is good. We are hoping to see the same thing here.” 

Many of the people poised to benefit from the lithium beneath their feet seem ambivalent about climate change. In El Dorado, in a bar called The Mink Eye, an oil refinery worker grimaced at the mention of electric vehicles. The next morning, retired oil workers gathered at Johnny B’s Grill scoffed at the idea of a boom. A waitress admitted that she’d bought stock in lithium companies, but said any faith that the industry will bring renewed prosperity does not necessarily mean folks are on board with the green transition. “These men drive diesels,” she said, pointing toward her customers. Still, she said, any jobs are good jobs.

That attitude pervades the state capitol in Little Rock, where politicians who don’t give much thought to why the energy transition is necessary cheer the state’s emerging role in it. The governor, who has cast doubt on human-caused climate change, has appeared at industry events like the Arkansas Lithium Innovation Summit to proclaim the state “bullish” on its reserves of the element. “We all knew that towns like El Dorado and Smackover were built by oil and gas,” Sanders told the audience. “But who knew that our quiet brine and bromine industry had the potential to change the world.”

Much of the world’s lithium is blasted out of rocks or drawn from brine left to evaporate in vast pools, leaving behind toxic residue. The companies descending on Arkansas plan to use a more sustainable method called direct lithium extraction, or DLE. It seems to be a bit more ecologically friendly and much less water-intensive than the massive pit mines or vast evaporation ponds often found in South America. It essentially pumps water into the aquifer, filters the lithium from the extracted brine, then returns it to the aquifer in what advocates call a largely closed system. Researchers from the University of California, Los Angeles, in a report prepared for the Nature Conservancy, said that “DLE appears to offer the lowest impacts of available extraction technologies.”

Still, the technology is relatively new. According to Yale Environment 360, Arkansas provides a suitable proving ground for the approach because it has abundant water, a large concentration of lithium, and an established network of wells, pipelines, and refineries. But there are concerns about the amount of water required and the waste material left behind, despite repeated assurances from lithium companies that the process is safe and sustainable.

Although DLE doesn’t require as much water as brine evaporation, in which that water is lost, “it is a freshwater consumption source,” Patrick Donnelly, of the Center for Biological Diversity, said in an interview with KUAF radio in Fayetteville, Arkansas. The waste generated by the process is another concern, he said, “in particular, a solid waste stream. It’s impossible for them to extract only the lithium.”  

Locals are well aware of the impact brine can have on the land. Before anyone realized its value, oil and gas producers didn’t worry much about it leaking or spilling onto the ground, literally salting the earth. Some are concerned that the pipelines that will carry brine to refineries might leak, as they did in the oil days. Such fears are compounded by the fact the state Department of Environmental Quality relies on individuals to report problems and doesn’t appear to do much outreach to residents.

There’s also a lot of skepticism about how many jobs the boom may create. So far, Standard Lithium’s plant in El Dorado employs 91 people, said Douglas Zollner, who works with the Arkansas branch of the Nature Conservancy and has toured the facility. No one’s offered any projections on how many people might find work in the budding industry, but a lithium boom in Nevada suggests it may not be all that many. Construction of the Thacker Pass mine, which could produce 80,000 metric tons of lithium annually, is expected to generate 1,500 temporary construction and other jobs — but it will only employ 300 once operational.

Those jobs pay well, but typically require advanced training. Public universities like Arkansas Tech University are revising science and engineering curricula to meet the lithium industry’s needs, hoping to connect students with internships in the field. However, locals worry that disinvestment in schools in rural and largely Black communities will leave those who most need these jobs unable to attain the training necessary to land them.

Just how much money might flow into local communities remains another open question. Fossil fuel companies lease the land they drill and pay landowners royalties of 16.67% of their profit. Any oil pumped from the land also is taxed at 4 to 5% of its market value. This fee, called severance tax, is paid to the counties or towns from which the resource was extracted. 

None of these things apply to lithium. So far, there is no severance tax on the metal, though the state levies a tax of $2.75 for every 1,000 barrels of the brine from which it is extracted. The state Oil and Gas Commission continues haggling over a royalty rate, though it seems unlikely the fee will be as high as those paid on oil and gas leases. When the state sought a double-digit royalty, the industry balked, arguing that extracting and processing lithium is expensive and officials ought to wait until production begins in earnest before deciding what’s fair. 

Companies cannot extract and sell the metal for commercial use until the commission sets a royalty rate, a process expected to drag on for some time. On July 26, the major players in the Arkansas lithium industry filed a joint application seeking a rate of 1.82%. The South Arkansas Mineral Association — which represents the majority of landowners, which is to say, timber companies, oil companies, and other corporate interests — demanded a higher share. 

Small landowners still hope to benefit, and the lack of clarity around royalties hasn’t done much to engender trust among locals wary of the companies looking to lease their land. Some folks, already offered terms, are using online forums to determine if they’re being stiffed. Others fear efforts to wrest land from the few Black families who own property, often passed between generations informally without a deed or title. Such land, called heirs’ property, accounts for more than one-third of Black-owned property in the South, and without the documentation required to prove ownership, land can be subject to court-ordered sales. 

Many in Lewisville say they regularly receive calls and texts from people interested in buying land, and Henry has seen people checking out properties and attending auctions. During a visit to the Lafayette County courthouse archives, I noticed a woman thumbing through mineral rights records. Although she wouldn’t identify herself, she politely explained that she was checking such documents throughout Arkansas, Texas, and Louisiana, bringing to mind the speculators who, during the oil boom, did the same before approaching naive residents who may not know about the riches under their land. 

Beyond the timber companies with holdings in the region, most of the major landowners are white and wealthy, and any spoils, Henry suspects, will simply pass from one affluent family or powerful company to another, with no benefit to people like her. “What land, honey?” she said with a small, sardonic laugh. “That’s a pie in the sky type dream to me.”

Despite the concerns, the hype and fanfare surrounding the possibility of an economic revival remains high. City officials in Lewisville, and the people they lead, are trying to remain open-minded and easygoing even if unanswered questions linger about how many jobs might be coming, how the boom will benefit their town, and what it will mean for the environment.

“You know, it’s kind of frustrating because the questions get asked at these meetings,” Dunbar, the mayor, said. But he feels the lithium companies often meet questions with the same pleasant, if unhelpful, answer of “We can’t talk about it.” They’re always so careful in their responses. “They deliberately did not say anything until they knew what they wanted to do and say, that’s the same with what they want to provide communities,” Dunbar said. 

As for the $100,000 commitment from Exxon, no one’s sure exactly who will receive that money or how allocations will be made. The mayor, discussing that point, showed some frustration. He said he has tried, and will continue to try, to get the companies to put their promises of jobs and support for local infrastructure in writing.

The balance of goodwill that he is trying to maintain between everyone involved is delicate: the lithium companies, whose jobs and support his community desperately needs; the county officials he must work with; the residents of Lewisville; and the mayors he collaborates with on grant applications. These towns are small, and word spreads quickly; relationships are as precious as the riches deep below the ground.

As Dunbar-Jones, the city council member, finished her turkey sandwich in the late afternoon light of the diner, she spoke of her faith in the ties between the people of Lewisville. “It’s hard to get a group of people to work together, period, especially when they don’t know each other,” she said. “But we all know each other.”

Despite her confidence, she knows she’s dealing with relationships in which companies take what they can and leave, where the question of what they owe the communities that enrich them is naive. Her father benefited from his job at Phillips 66, but it couldn’t last forever. When the oil was gone, those who profited from it were, too. From their perspective, she said, it’s a question of “How long am I going to support a community I’m no longer in? It would be unrealistic to think that there will be some long-term benefits from it.” The same is true of lithium, and the companies that will mine it. At some point, they will leave, and take their jobs and their money with them. Dunbar-Jones only hopes they leave Lewisville a little better off once they’ve left.

Editor’s note: Climeworks is an advertiser with Grist. Advertisers have no role in Grist’s editorial decisions.

This article originally appeared in Grist, a nonprofit, independent media organization dedicated to telling stories of climate solutions and a just future. Learn more at Grist.org

With lithium, Arkansas risks repeating oil boom and bust is an article from Energy News Network, a nonprofit news service covering the clean energy transition. If you would like to support us please make a donation.

The driest summer in more than a decade prompted an Ohio watershed district this summer to take the unprecedented step of limiting the use of water for oil and gas fracking.

The restrictions applied only to Atwood Lake, a popular boating and fishing spot southeast of Canton that has experienced a foot and a half drop in water levels over the past few months of drought.

It’s a scenario some environmentalists anticipated years ago, saying that climate change will require state and local officials to more carefully regulate the use of water for oil and gas extraction.

“They’re not being proactive enough,” said Leatra Harper, director of the FreshWater Accountability Project, stressing that the lakes are public resources. “The obvious issue is there aren’t adequate protections.”

Hydraulic fracturing, as it’s more formally known, pumps millions of gallons of water mixed with sand and chemicals down into oil and gas wells. The process causes cracks in petroleum-bearing rock, and sand in the fluid props the cracks open. Oil and gas flows from the fractures into the well and up to the surface.

The process uses millions of gallons of water for each horizontally drilled well, and well pads built within the last 12 years often have six wells. The water can be recovered and recycled to some extent. Eventually, though, the water must be disposed of in underground injection wells. That step permanently removes it from the water cycle.

The Muskingum Watershed Conservancy District manages ten lakes and four dry dams in southeastern Ohio for purposes of flood control, recreation and conservation. One of its biggest customers for water sales is the oil and gas industry.

“We’re not in a crisis situation by any stretch of the imagination, but this was just our balancing act to make sure we protect, as much as we can, all of our missions,” said Craig Butler, chief executive of the district. He estimated less than one inch of Atwood Lake’s decline can be attributed to oil- and gas-related withdrawals.

On August 28, the district curtailed water withdrawals by 75% from Atwood Lake. The following week, it curtailed withdrawals from the lake completely.

Lots of water

Under Ohio law, oil and gas drilling operations are generally allowed to withdraw from state waters an average of up to 2 million gallons per day in any 30-day period. Sixty million gallons would fill nearly 91 Olympic-sized swimming pools. 

While the total number of gallons sold is huge, it’s relatively small compared to the billions of gallons in the district’s lakes. Butler compared it to two or three sheets in a notebook.

“We’re really comfortable when we say it’s a negligible impact based on the size of our reservoirs,” Butler said.

Oil and gas companies pay a price for the water — around $3 per 1,000 gallons, according to Ted Auch, Midwest program director for FracTracker. He and other critics think the price should be higher.

“We charge as much as we can,” Butler answered, but if the district’s price gets too high, oil and gas companies can “stick their straw in” elsewhere, such as where a stream crosses private property. Then they may be able to suck out even more without a formal agreement with the watershed organization.

And because some of those sources flow into the district’s lakes, the effect on the district’s water resources would be largely the same, without the district getting revenue from the sales. Some of the funds from the oil and gas industry have paid for efforts to improve water quality and minimize flooding to improve the area’s resilience to climate change, Butler added.

The situation reflects a shortcoming in state law, said Melinda Zemper, a spokesperson for Save Ohio Parks.

“It is clear our state legislators ignore the depletion and contamination of our precious fresh drinking water used in the fracking process,” she said. “And there will always be another landowner who wants oil and gas revenue from leasing mineral rights or selling water flowing through his or her property.”

Operators recycle a lot of the water that’s withdrawn, and the fracking process has gotten more efficient over the years, said Mike Chadsey, a spokesperson for the Ohio Oil and Gas Association.

Getting hard data on recycling is difficult, however. FracFocus, a data clearinghouse, has some data on the composition of fracking fluids, but reporting is voluntary.

According to the Ohio Department of Natural Resources, oil and gas ranks seventh out of its eight registered water use categories. The agency’s 2022 water withdrawals map shows those other categories include public water supplies, agriculture, utilities and other classifications.

Total water withdrawals for the oil and gas industry that year were about 5.17 billion gallons, according to data provided by Karina Cheung, an ODNR spokesperson. A 2024 U.S. Geological Survey report said peak withdrawals reached approximately 5.75 billion gallons in 2017.  

Looking ahead

Questions about future water use for fracking will remain after the current drought ends — possibly soon from the remnants of Hurricane Helene. 

The Muskingum Watershed Conservancy District does a careful review of any company’s request for water withdrawals before a contract is signed, Butler said. Contracts also say water withdrawals can be curtailed if the district deems it necessary, as it did at Atwood Lake, he added.

Critics like Auch contend various data gaps should be filled to ensure more complete reporting. They also want any pre-withdrawal reviews to be more conservative and forward-looking.

Consideration of potential impacts should focus more on possible water-deficit years like this one, Auch said. Otherwise, “you are rapidly altering the savings bank of your watershed by depleting the resource that it has to carry over from year to year.”

Planning also should cover a longer time horizon, said Julie Weatherington-Rice, a hydrogeologist with Bennett and Williams Environmental Consultants in Columbus. Ohio might generally expect warmer, wetter and wilder weather as climate change continues.

Among other things, Ohio is seeing some intense storms, as well as periods of heavy rainfall. Those heavy rains might bump up the total yearly precipitation, but they don’t soak into the ground the way milder, more sustained rains do, Weatherington-Rice said. That could affect groundwater supplies for local areas, causing them to look for backup supplies, she said. And droughts can still occur, as this year shows.  

Water planning also should account for likely migration into Ohio as climate change has more severe impacts elsewhere, Auch said. “We need to start looking at water resources out 10, 15, 30 years.”

CORRECTION: An earlier version of this story misstated the amount gas companies pay for water. It is around $3 per 1,000 gallons of water, not $3 per gallon.

Ohio drought renews worries about massive use of water for fracking is an article from Energy News Network, a nonprofit news service covering the clean energy transition. If you would like to support us please make a donation.

The following commentary was written by Mark Dyen, a member of the Statewide Legislative Team for 350 Mass, and Lee Ketelsen, a member of the Clean Heat Clean Air state team of Mothers Out Front Massachusetts. See our commentary guidelines for more information.

This year’s Massachusetts climate bill lies unconscious on the floor of the State House with a pipe next to it. Observers suspect foul play. The question is, who did it? 

As with all good mysteries, the first thing you should consider is who had the means and the motivation. A key goal of the energy and climate bill was to accelerate the renewable energy and electric infrastructure upgrades needed to shift us to clean electricity. Thus, it seems unlikely that the solar industry or electric companies are guilty. They stand to lose too much from the bill’s possible death. Instead they are calling for help on their phones and sobbing. 

According to press reports, the legislative fight is over the gas provisions in a climate bill passed by the Senate. During negotiations something happened behind closed doors that left the climate bill on life support. The gas companies are positioned near the victim, looking solemn, but they don’t seem to have any tears in their eyes. Why? 

Massachusetts gas companies are in the midst of a 20-year program to replace thousands of miles of gas pipes across the state, digging trenches and blocking traffic. The total cost to us gas customers for this work is predicted to be more than $42 billion — double the cost of Boston’s megaproject, the Big Dig, when adjusted for inflation. 

The Big Dig resulted in upgraded highways and new parks. But it is unlikely that those expensive new methane gas pipes will be “used and useful” through more than a few years of their total lifespan.

Already, heat pumps are outselling gas furnaces in New England and nationally. The direction of the future is so clear that even National Grid is aiming to upgrade 80% of all Massachusetts buildings to efficient, electric equipment within 25 years. 

So these new plastic methane gas pipes that will get paid off by customers over the next 60 years clearly aren’t intended primarily for the benefit of the customers. Who then are they intended to benefit? 

Gas companies don’t make profit from selling gas; that’s a pass-through cost. Their profit comes from capital expenditures such as replacing pipes, paid for by increased gas bills for families. 

The Senate climate bill’s moderate response to this unwise spending is to gradually end the current financing system that pre-approves pipe replacement over other approaches. The gas companies would still be obligated to keep the pipes safe, but by having to pay the upfront cost of the work, the gas companies would be more careful about which pipes to replace and how much they paid for it. The Senate bill would also require the gas companies to prove each new pipe is more cost effective than other measures such as leak repair. Without these changes, gas bills will continue to rise for families, and so will gas company profits. 

So the gas companies stand near the victim with $42 billion of motivation and with plenty of cover thanks to Massachusetts’s notorious track record as having one of the least transparent legislative processes in the country. However, are all of the gas companies equally motivated? 

Of the six gas companies in the Commonwealth, the multinational National Grid is likely to receive almost 70% of the remaining pipe replacement funds — partly because so many miles of National Grid’s pipes are aging, and partly because National Grid spends almost twice as much per mile as the other companies. Given the tens of billions of dollars at risk, it’s clear which company is the most likely to have fingerprints on the pipe.

We call for legislative leaders to revive the climate bill negotiations in order to end this gas company boondoggle. The legislature should call a formal session this fall to pass a comprehensive climate bill to rein in the gas companies and to start to transition to clean heat. Families cannot continue to pay mounting gas bills and navigate blocked-off roads so that for-profit gas companies can continue to milk this cash cow for their shareholders.

Commentary: Who knocked out Massachusetts’ climate bill?  is an article from Energy News Network, a nonprofit news service covering the clean energy transition. If you would like to support us please make a donation.

Across California, the companies that are trying to build charging stations for electric trucks are being told that it will take years — or even up to a decade — for them to get the electricity they need. That’s because utilities are failing to build out the grid fast enough to meet that demand.

This poses a major problem for a state that’s aiming to clean up its trucking industry. California has the most aggressive set of truck electrification goals in the country, and compliance deadlines are coming up fast.

State legislators did pass two laws last year — SB 410 and AB 50 — ordering regulators to find ways to speed up the process of getting utility customers the grid power they need, and last week the California Public Utilities Commission issued a decision meant to set timeframes for this work.

But charging companies, electric truck manufacturers, and environmental advocates are not happy with the result. They say the decision does next to nothing to get utilities to move faster or work harder to serve the massive charging hubs being planned across the state.

“It’s shocking how little the commission did here. They basically adopted status quo timelines across the board,” said Sky Stanfield, an attorney working with the Interstate Renewable Energy Council, a nonprofit clean energy advocacy group.

California’s struggle to deal with this issue is raising doubts about not only whether the state can meet its own climate goals but also whether truck electrification targets are achievable at all. States in the U.S. Northeast and Pacific Northwest with transportation-electrification targets will also need to build megawatt-scale charging along highways. Those projects will likewise require grid capacity upgrades that take a much longer time to plan and build than charging sites for passenger vehicles.

Stanfield and IREC believe that the CPUC’s decision both is inadequate and runs counter to clear instruction from California law. SB 410 orders the CPUC to craft regulations that ​“improve the speed at which energization and service upgrades are performed” and push the state’s big utilities to upgrade their grids ​“in time to achieve the state’s decarbonization goals.”

But the state’s electric truck targets simply won’t be met if charging stations aren’t built more rapidly, Stanfield said. ​“No one’s going to buy a fancy EV truck that costs well over $100,000 if they can’t charge it.”

IREC isn’t alone in this perspective. Powering America’s Commercial Transportation, a consortium of major EV charging and manufacturing companies, wrote in its comments to the CPUC that the decision ​“does not comply with either the requirements or legislative intent” of the law.

PACT asked the CPUC to set a two-year maximum timeline for utilities to build new substations and complete the more complex grid upgrades required by large EV charging depots.

But instead, the CPUC simply had Pacific Gas and Electric, Southern California Edison , and San Diego Gas & Electric report how long these major ​“upstream capacity” grid projects are taking today and then used the lower average of that historical data to set maximum timelines that utilities should meet in the future.

Those timelines are much, much too long, electric truck manufacturers, charging-project developers, and clean transportation advocates say. They stretch from nearly two years for upgrading distribution circuits and nearly three years for upgrading substations to nearly nine years for building the new substations that utilities say they’ll need to power truck-charging depots currently being built. 

“We’ve put in millions of dollars in the facilities we’ve already upgraded, and more that are in motion,” said Paul Rosa, a PACT board member.

As senior vice president of procurement and fleet planning at truck leasing company Penske, he is responsible for the company’s transport projects, including truck-charging projects in Southern and Central California.

But those projects represent just a fraction of the 114,500 chargers required to support the 157,000 medium- and heavy-duty vehicles that the California Energy Commission forecasts the state will need by 2030. 

“If we can’t get the power, this all comes to a screeching halt,” Rosa said.

The big problem with the grid and trucks

The slow and burdensome process of getting new customers connected to the grid — ​“energization” in CPUC parlance — isn’t a problem for just EV trucks.

PG&E has been under fire for years for failing to deliver timely grid hookups to everyday commercial and residential projects — a result, critics say, of poor planning and resource management.

The CPUC’s new decision does set a 125-business-day maximum timeline for these less complicated energizations. If those targets are met by utilities, ​“maximum timelines for grid connections could be reduced up to 49 percent compared to current operations,” the CPUC noted in a fact sheet accompanying the decision.

“I think the commission got it right” on these less complicated energization targets, said Tom Ashley, vice president of government and utility relations at Voltera, a company building EV charging projects across the state.

But how the commission handled the larger-scale grid upgrades — the kind needed to get EV truck-charging stations up and running — is a different story, he said. ​“That is where the industry is really frustrated that we didn’t get the help, and the utilities didn’t get the direction.”

The state’s Advanced Clean Trucks rule requires truck manufacturers to hit minimum targets for zero-emissions trucks as a percentage of total sales over the coming years, ratcheting from 30% of all medium- and heavy-duty vehicles by 2028 to 50% by 2030.

And California’s Advanced Clean Fleets rule requires the state’s biggest trucking and freight companies to convert hundreds of thousands of diesel trucks to zero-emissions models over the next 12 years, with earlier targets for certain classes of vehicles, including the heavy trucks carrying cargo containers from California’s busy and polluted ports.

Right now, many of the plans to build charging hubs for those trucks are stuck in grid-upgrade limbo — and the CPUC decision offers little indication it will get them unstuck.

“We’ve submitted for well over 50 projects in the past two years, looking for the right property to acquire,” said Jason Berry, director of energy and utilities at Terawatt Infrastructure. The startup has more than $1 billion in equity and project finance lined up to build large-scale charging hubs, including a network that will stretch from California to Texas along the I-10 highway, a major trucking corridor.

But of the sites Terawatt has scouted in California, ​“about 95% of those do not have the power we’re trying to request,” Berry said. To serve proposed charging hubs in California’s Inland Empire, utility SCE has said that it will need to expand existing substations, which takes four to five years, or build a new substation, which takes at least eight years, Terawatt said in May comments to the CPUC.

Terawatt is far from the only company facing delays. In testimony to the CPUC, Berry pointed out that Tesla has told the agency that 12 Supercharger sites with 522 charging stalls are facing delays because of capacity issues in SCE territory. A state-funded electric truck-charging project in the Inland Empire is also held up due to similar constraints.

The main problem is that large-scale charging sites can be built much faster than utilities are used to moving, Berry said. ​“We’re building projects, maybe ideally starting at 10 megawatts and then going to 20 megawatts,” Berry said. That’s about the same load on the grid as would be caused by an entirely new residential neighborhood or big commercial or industrial site.

But while those sites typically take years to plan and build, a new truck-charging site can go from planning to completion in less than a year.

“They have to have a mechanism to start on those things, or every single project is going to be four to five years out — which is what we’re being told on so many of these today,” he said.

The same point was made by Diego Quevedo, utilities lead and senior charging-infrastructure engineer at Daimler Truck North America, which joined fellow electric truck manufacturers Volvo Group North America and Navistar to weigh in on the CPUC proceeding.

“Trucks can be manufactured by OEMs and delivered approximately six months after receiving an order,” Quevedo said in testimony before the CPUC. But fleets won’t order trucks if they lack the confidence the utility grid infrastructure will be built and energized when the trucks are delivered.”

Utilities’ grid-capacity additions are taking from seven to 10 years to ​“plan, design, budget, construct, and energize,” he said. Unless those capacity expansions can be sped up significantly, ​“electric trucks become expensive stranded assets that are unable to charge,” he said.

Why it’s so hard to speed up expensive grid upgrades 

California’s major utilities have a different perspective. They’ve argued in comments to the CPUC that it may be difficult or impossible to move more quickly on such complicated work.

First, as utilities have pointed out, many of the things that can slow down major grid projects are beyond their control. In a filing with the CPUC, PG&E noted that ​“one capacity upgrade project may face an extended timeline due to lengthy environmental assessments and permitting processes, and another may encounter challenges in acquiring materials in a timely manner due to manufacturer issues.”

IREC’s Stanfield conceded that equipment backlogs and environmental and permitting reviews are barriers to moving more quickly. ​“But we have to make it go faster if we want to hit our climate goals, if we want manufacturers to build clean trucks.”

And there’s an even bigger challenge to making major changes to the grid in anticipation of booming demand from EV charging: the cost involved. 

“Lack of funding is the big block to meet the anticipated load growth,” Terawatt’s Berry said.

California’s utilities are already spending more than they ever have on their power grids, for myriad reasons. They are passing the costs of grid-hardening investments and integrating new clean energy into the power system on to customers in the form of electricity rates that are now the highest in the continental U.S.

Electricity rate increases are an economic and political crisis in California. Keeping them from rising any further has become the chief focus of lawmakers and regulators in the past several years. Any proposals that could raise customer bills even more face a tough battle — including plans to build grid infrastructure for electric truck-charging hubs.

SB 410 does give the CPUC permission to allow utilities to increase their spending in order to meet tighter EV-charger energization timelines. But the bill also calls on regulators to subject these requests to​“extremely strict accounting.”

PG&E was the first utility to submit a ratemaking mechanism under SB 410 earlier this year. The Utility Reform Network, a ratepayer advocacy group, quickly filed comments protesting the utility’s plan to create a ​“balancing account” that would enable it to recover as much as $4 billion in additional energization-related spending from customers — a structure that falls outside the standard three-year ​“rate case” process for California utilities.

“PG&E’s electric rates and bills are now so high that they threaten both access to the essential energy services that PG&E provides and the achievement of the state’s decarbonization goals, which rely in part on customers choosing to electrify buildings and vehicles,” TURN wrote in its comments.

TURN wants the CPUC to limit the scope of SB 410’s extra cost-recovery provisions to ​“specific work needed to complete an individual customer connection request,” rather than the kind of proactive upstream grid investments that truck-charging advocates are calling for. TURN would prefer that those projects remain part of general rate cases, the sprawling proceedings that determine how much utilities spend on their grids.

But those general rate cases can take up to five years to move from identifying the broader, systemwide analyses of how much electricity demand is set to rise to winning regulatory approval in order to build the expensive grid infrastructure needed to actually meet those growing needs. That’s too long to wait to fix the problem, charging advocates say.

At the same time, ratepayer advocates are challenging utility efforts to expand the scope of their larger-scale plans to meet looming EV charging needs. In SCE’s current general rate case, TURN and the CPUC’s Public Advocates Office, which is tasked with protecting consumers, are protesting that the utility is overestimating how much money it needs to spend to prepare its grid from growing EV-charging needs.

Terawatt and other charging developers and electric truck manufacturers argue just the opposite — that the utility isn’t planning to spend enough over the next three years. In his testimony in the rate case, Terawatt’s Berry complained that TURN and PAO are challenging utility and state forecasts of future charging needs based on outdated data, and that failing to approve the utility’s funding request will ​“ensure that California fails to achieve its zero-emission vehicle goals.”

Charging advocates have also asked the CPUC to create a separate regulatory process to consider the grid buildout needs spurred by large-scale charging projects. But the CPUC rejected that concept in its decision last week, stating that ​“preferential treatment based on project type is prohibited by California law.”

Finding a way to plan the grid ahead of big charging needs

All these conflicting imperatives leave the CPUC with tough choices to resolve the gap between charging needs and grid buildout plans, said Cole Jermyn, an attorney at the Environmental Defense Fund.

The CPUC ​“can and should do more here. I don’t think the timelines they set here are as strong as they could have been,” Jermyn said. 

At the same time, ​“the commission had an incredibly difficult job here. The targets are not easy to set, and they had a very short timeline to do it.” 

That’s why multiple groups have asked the CPUC to focus its next phase of work on implementing SB 410 and AB 50 on a key issue: aligning grid planning and EV charging needs.

“Part of the work here is figuring out what that proactive planning looks like,” Jermyn said. ​“The utility cannot wait around for customers to come to them and say, ​‘We need 5 megawatts of capacity.’ They need to be looking out into the future to start proactively preparing their distribution grids for all this electrification.”

At the same time, ​“how do you balance that need for proactive planning and investment with ratepayer investments along the way to make sure this isn’t building assets that won’t be used and end up on someone’s bills?” Jermyn asked. That will be complicated, but, he added, ​“I think it’s doable — especially for a state that has such clear goals.”

SB 410 also specifically called on the CPUC to take California’s decarbonization goals into account in tackling energization delays — but last week’s decision ​“was relatively silent on that issue,” Jermyn said.

“This is something we think is incredibly important to be in the next phase of this proceeding, because it wasn’t in this one,” he said. ​“We don’t know if the timelines they set are meeting that goal or not. We should figure out if they are.”

EDF has advocated for years for utilities and regulators to approve grid spending in advance of EV charging needs, noting that such spending will end up reducing costs for utility customers in the long run.

That’s because California’s utilities don’t earn profits directly through electricity sales. Instead, their rates are structured to repay their costs of doing business. More customers buying more electricity can spread out the costs of collecting the money that utilities need to operate and invest in infrastructure, which can reduce the rates per kilowatt-hour that utilities must collect in future years.

This isn’t just a California issue. Nearly a dozen states — including Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York, Oregon, Vermont, and Washington — have adopted advanced clean truck rules. They’re not as aggressive as California’s rules, but meeting them will still require grappling with the same challenges around proactive grid planning.

Voltera’s Ashley worried that the CPUC’s decision may set a bad precedent for other state regulators on this front. ​“The commission has a really hard job. They’re tasked with a lot of complicated policy and execution,” he said. ​“And at the end of the day, they have some overarching mandates, including affordability for ratepayers,” that complicate the task.

But California also has ​“the most aggressive targets, goals, and statutory requirements around not just electrification of transportation but electrification of other segments” of the economy, he said. ​“If California doesn’t get this right, who will?”

California’s backlogged grid is holding up its electric truck dreams is an article from Energy News Network, a nonprofit news service covering the clean energy transition. If you would like to support us please make a donation.

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ENN teaming up with Canary Media in 2025 is an article from Energy News Network, a nonprofit news service covering the clean energy transition. If you would like to support us please make a donation.