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Biden’s “energy communities” aren’t where you think they are.

It takes about 45 minutes to circumnavigate Odessa, Texas. There’s a highway — 338, known locally as “The Loop” — that encircles the city of 113,000 people in West Texas. Drive along it and you’ll be treated to a nearly unending parade of oil derricks jabbing their way into the underlying Permian Basin, just as they have for roughly the past century. You’d be forgiven for calling Odessa an “energy community.”
You’d also be wrong, according to the Federal Government. On June 7, the Department of the Treasury published an updated list of energy communities. Included in that list were San Francisco, Barnstable County (which covers all of Cape Cod), and, in total, about 50% of the land area of the United States. Conspicuously absent were famously oily localities such as Odessa, Midland, and Oklahoma City.
So how did San Francisco — where sea lions outnumber oil wells — become an energy community instead of Odessa?
To understand the new guidance, it’s worth exploring why the federal government is concerned about energy communities in the first place. Scattered across the U.S. are hundreds of towns that depend on coal, oil, and gas production for their livelihoods. Towns like these — often located next to coal mines or on top of oil reserves — stand to lose vital jobs and tax revenues should the country transition from fossil fuels to clean energy. In the eyes of lawmakers, this presents an unacceptable risk to both local economies and to any hope of durable support for climate action.
The Inflation Reduction Act sought to remedy that by making any clean energy project located in one of these communities eligible for a 10% tax credit, on top of whatever other tax credits it was already collecting. This bonus, it was hoped, could allow clean energy to replace some of the economic activity lost to the eventual decline of fossil fuels.
What followed, however, is a case study in the importance of defining terms.
The IRA defined an energy community as any one of the following:
It’s this third category where things get sticky. Treasury was charged with interpreting these rules, and by its methodology, fossil fuel employment in the United States represents 0.41% of the workforce, or more than double the level specified in the IRA. That means that a city could have a fossil fuel workforce far smaller, proportionally, than the national average and still qualify as an energy community.
But the issues don’t stop there, according to Daniel Raimi. Raimi directs the Equity in the Energy Transition Initiative at Resources for the Future, a DC-based think tank. He’s been warning about the flaws in the energy communities framework since 2022. He told me there are two main problems with how the government defines an energy community.
First, MSAs and NMSAs are a crude tool for capturing geographic variation. In some parts of the country, their boundaries roughly track city limits. But in other parts — Alaska, for example — they can be the size of Germany. That means that two towns 700 miles apart with little in common economically could nevertheless count themselves as part of the same basic geographic unit.
Second, hitching the definition of an energy community to the national unemployment rate exposes it to wild fluctuations. Areas where the local unemployment is close to the national rate could gain and lose their status as an energy community from year to year, depending on which side of the threshold they find themselves. Moreover, said Raimi, “Since so many places exceed 0.17% fossil fuel employment, a relatively small change in national unemployment has a big effect on the map.”
That dynamic was on display this year. As national unemployment fell by 0.01% in 2023 compared to 2022, large swaths of the country — such as western Wyoming and eastern Mississippi — lost their status, while other regions — such as northern Idaho and northern Arkansas — suddenly qualified. On net, an area the size of New Mexico got added to the map of energy communities this year. Meanwhile, much of the nation’s oil country — including Texas and Oklahoma’s Permian Basin, Colorado’s Denver-Julesburg Basin, and large part of North Dakota’s Bakken Formation — was excluded.
I spoke with a Treasury official, who agreed to speak only on background and acknowledged Raimi’s concerns but stressed that the Department was merely executing the letter of the law. Given the specificity of the statute, they pointed out, there was little Treasury could do to more accurately target the benefits. The Department did issue a rule last year clarifying that any clean energy project that qualified for the tax credit when it began construction would retain that tax credit even if the location subsequently lost its status as an energy community, insulating it from year-to-year changes.
Still, Raimi worries that the current approach will prevent government support from reaching the communities that need it most. “Because they’re not carefully targeted, they are unlikely to receive lots of new investment from this tax credit,” Raimi told me.
And it could get expensive. With roughly half of the country qualifying for the bonus, said Raimi, “I think we’re going to be spending tens of billions of dollars in places where we don’t need to spend that money.” (The Treasury official downplayed concerns over the program’s costliness.)
What would a more precise approach look like? For starters, abandon the MSAs and NMSAs. “County level makes a lot of sense,” Raimi said. “Everybody knows what a county is, and developers and government officials can easily understand whether or not they’re going to be eligible for the credit.”
Beyond that, Raimi wishes public policy would focus more on future impacts. “We know that to get to a net-zero emissions future, we need to use less of all the fossil fuels,” he said. “The places that heavily rely on them — like the Bakken, like the Permian, like parts of Oklahoma — they’re going to need a long time to build new economic sectors. Now is the time to start trying to do that.”
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Fights over AI-related developments outnumber those over wind farms in the Heatmap Pro database.
Local data center conflicts in the U.S. now outnumber clashes over wind farms.
More than 270 data centers have faced opposition across the country compared to 258 onshore and offshore wind projects, according to a review of data collected by Heatmap Pro. Data center battles only recently overtook wind turbines, driven by the sudden spike in backlash to data center development over the past year. It’s indicative of how the intensity of the angst over big tech infrastructure is surging past current and historic malaise against wind.
Battles over solar projects have still occurred far more often than fights over data centers — nearly twice as many times, per the data. But in terms of megawatts, the sheer amount of data center demand that has been opposed nearly equals that of solar: more than 51 gigawatts.
Taken together, these numbers describe the tremendous power involved in the data center wars, which is now comparable to the entire national fight over renewable energy. One side of the brawl is demand, the other supply. If this trend continues at this pace, it’s possible the scale of tension over data centers could one day usurp what we’ve been tracking for both solar and wind combined.
The enhanced geothermal darling is spending big on capex, but its shares will be structured more like a software company’s.
Fervo, the enhanced geothermal company that uses hydraulic fracturing techniques to drill thousands of feet into the Earth to find pockets of heat to tap for geothermal power, is going public.
The Houston-based company was founded in 2017 and has been a longtime favorite of investors, government officials, and the media (not to mention Heatmap’s hand-selected group of climate tech insiders) for its promise of producing 24/7 clean power using tools, techniques, and personnel borrowed from the oil and gas industry.
After much speculation as to when it would go public, Fervo filed the registration document for its initial public offering on Friday evening. Here’s what we were able to glean about the company, its business, and the geothermal industry from the filing.
The main theme of the document, known as an S-1, is the immense potential enhanced geothermal — and, thus, Fervo — has.
The company says that its Cape Station site in Utah, where it’s currently developing its flagship power plants, had “4.3 gigawatts of capacity potential” alone. That’s more than the 3.8 gigawatts of conventional geothermal capacity currently on the grid. Enhanced geothermal technology, otherwise known as EGS, “has the potential to make geothermal generation as ubiquitous as solar generation is in the U.S. today,” the company projects. (There’s about 280 gigawatts of installed solar capacity currently in the U.S., according to the Solar Energy Industries Association) “A broader subset of our reviewed leases represents over 40 gigawatts” of capacity, the document goes on.
Like all investor pitches, the S-1 features some eye-popping “total addressable market” figures. Citing analysis by the consulting firm Rystad, the document says that if there’s a sufficient shortfall in capacity due to retiring power plants (98 gigawatts by 2035), the annual market for enhanced geothermal would be approximately $70 billion by 2035, and that this would represent some $2.1 trillion in revenue potential over 30 years.
The company is already producing 3 megawatts at its Nevada Project Red site for the Nevada grid as part of a deal with Google. It also expects to begin generating power from the Cape Station site “by late 2026,” according to the filing, and get up to 100 megawatts “by early 2027.” In total, Fervo has “658 megawatts of binding power purchase agreements,” which it says represents ”approximately $7.2 billion in potential revenue backlog.”
Beyond that, Fervo says it has 2.6 gigawatts “in advanced development,” and “over 38 gigawatts” in “early-stage development,” where it’s still doing feasibility studies to “validate and confirm the path toward commercial development.”
Fervo says that the energy produced from its Cape Station facility will come in at around $7,000 per kilowatt. That’s already cheaper than “traditional and small modular nuclear power,” which the Department of Energy has estimated costs $6,000 to $10,000 per kilowatt, the filing says. Fervo is aiming to get the total project costs down to $3,000 per kilowatt, at which point it says it would outcompete natural gas without any of the price volatility due to fuel costs going up and down.
But Fervo’s upfront spending is still immense. Fervo says that it expects some $1.2 billion in capital expenditure this year, of which only $125 million is going toward the first phase of its Cape Station project, which it has said would deliver 100 megawatts of power. (Meanwhile, the $940 million it expects to spend on the second phase, which is due to be 400 megawatts, is mostly unfunded.) The company says the public offering will fund “project-level capital expenditures,” as well as land holdings and general corporate expenditures.
Google comes up some 36 times in the document, most times in reference to the “Geothermal Framework Agreement” Fervo signed with the hyperscaler this past March. The S-1 describes the deal as a “3-gigawatt framework agreement … to advance and structure potential power offtake opportunities for current and planned data centers in both grid-connected and alternative energy solutions.” This deal, the company says, “establishes a structured process for the development of geothermal projects across specified regions of the United States,” and could involve the offtake by Google of up to 3 gigawatts of Fervo-generated electricity by the end of 2033.
What the framework is not is a power purchase agreement. One of the risk factors Fervo lists in the IPO document says, “The GFA is a non-binding agreement, and does not obligate Google to purchase power from us.” Instead, it is “a binding framework under which we may propose geothermal development projects to Google, but it does not obligate Google to accept any project, execute any power purchase agreement or provide us with any project financing.”
The agreement also places limits on Fervo, including from whom it can accept investment or financing. (The deal outlines a “broad category of entities defined as competitors,” which are all no-nos.) Overall, the company says, the arrangement gives Google “significant priority over our near-term development pipeline and may limit our flexibility to pursue alternative commercial, strategic, or financing arrangements that would otherwise be available to us.”
Upon going public, the company will have two shares of stock: Class A shares available to the public, and Class B shares owned by its founders, chief executive officer Tim Latimer, and chief technology officer Jack Norbeck. These Class B shares will have 40 times the voting rights of the class A shares and will allow Latimer and Norbeck to “collectively continue to control a significant percentage of the combined voting power of our common stock and therefore are able to control all matters submitted to our stockholders for approval.”
These arrangements are familiar with venture-backed, founder-led software companies. Alphabet and Meta are the most prominent examples of large, publicly traded companies that are under the effective control of their founders thanks to dual class share structures. Tesla, rather famously, does not have a dual class share structure, which is why CEO Elon Musk convinced his board to award him more shares so that he would maintain a high degree of influence over the company.
While other technology companies such as Stripe pile up billions in revenue without any near term prospects of going public, Fervo largely has spending to report on its income statement.
In 2025, the company reported just $138,000 in revenues with a $58 million net loss; that’s compared to a $41 million net loss in 2024. The revenues were “ancillary fees associated with rights to geothermal production at Project Red,” the company said. “This type of revenue is not expected to be significant to our long-term revenue generation, as we have not yet commenced large-scale commercial operations.”
And there’s more spending to come.
Fervo expects that the second phase of its Cape Station project will “require approximately $2.2 billion in capital expenditures through 2028,” which it hopes to pay for with project-level financing.
Fervo said it is “continuing to evaluate the effect of the OBBB” — that is, the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, which slashed or curtailed tax credits for clean energy companies — and that it wasn’t able to “reasonably” estimate the effect on its financial statements by the end of last year. The company does say, however, that it “may benefit from ITCs and PTCs (including the energy community and domestic content bonuses available under the ITC and PTC, in certain circumstances) with respect to qualifying renewable energy projects,” referring to the investment and production tax credits, which acquired a strict set of eligibility rules under OBBBA. It cautioned that the current guidance regarding tax credit eligibility is “subject to a number of uncertainties,” and that “there can be no assurance that the IRS will agree with our approach to determining eligibility for ITCs and PTCs in the event of an audit.”
The company also disclosed that earlier this month, it reached a deal with Liberty Mutual, the insurance company “to sell and transfer tax credits generated at Cape Station Phase I,” taking advantage of a provision of the law that allows credits to be sold to other entities with tax liability, and not just harvested by investors in the project.
The COVID-era political divide is still having ripple effects.
Six years ago this month, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention began advising that even healthy individuals to wear face coverings to protect themselves against the spread of what we were then still calling the “novel coronavirus.” Mask debates, mandates, bans, and confrontations followed. To this day, in the right parts of the country, covering your face will still earn you dirty looks, or worse.
If there were ever another year to have an N95 on hand, though, it’s this one. This winter was the warmest on record in nine U.S. states; Oregon, Colorado, Utah, and Montana have also recorded some of their lowest snowpacks since record-keeping began. That cues up the landscape in the West for “above normal significant fire potential,” in the words of the National Interagency Fire Center, which issues predictive outlooks for the season ahead. And it’s not just the West: the 642,000-acre Morrill grass fire, which ignited in early March, was the largest in Nebraska’s history, while exceptional drought conditions stretching from East Texas through Florida have set the stage for “well above normal fire activity” heading into the spring lightning season. As of the end of March, wildfires have already burned more than 1.6 million acres in the U.S., or 231% of the previous 10-year average.
“Air pollution is the most significant toxic environmental exposure that the average person is ever subjected to, and wildfire smoke in particular is probably the most toxic type of air pollution [they’re] ever exposed to,” Brian Moench, the president at Utah Physicians for a Healthy Environment, a nonprofit clean-air advocacy group, told me.
Our understanding of just how dangerous that smoke is grows by the year. After having their grant pulled by the Trump administration, researchers at the University of California, Davis Health and UCLA persisted in publishing a report this winter reviewing more than 8.6 million births in California and demonstrating a link between exposure to wood smoke during pregnancy and the increased likelihood of autism. Another report, also published this winter by researchers from UCLA, estimated that the particulate matter from wildfire smoke is responsible for nearly 25,000 deaths per year in the United States, with no safe threshold for exposure.
“If a person is in a circumstance where they really can’t avoid wildfire smoke,” Moench added, “they absolutely should be doing everything they can to protect themselves.”
As public health offices around the country will tell you, one of the best ways to do just that is by donning an effective mask. N95 respirators specifically are about 95% effective at protecting the wearer against the dangerous particulates in wildfire smoke (although not gases or asbestos). Though not recommended by public health departments due to their comparative ineffectiveness, even surgical and cloth masks can offer limited particulate protection of about 68% and 33%, respectively.
But you have to actually wear them. After the Los Angeles fires in early 2025, health officials warned that exposure to toxic ash and dust remained a threat even after the air quality index returned to safe levels; one public health official who spoke to The New York Times recommended wearing a face mask for at least a month after the fires, a duration likely to feel interminable to all but the most cautious of people. “I think there’s a reluctance on the part of a lot of people to wear masks based not on anything other than they don’t want to make a political statement with their public outings,” Moench said. “I think there are a lot of people who just want to shy away from the controversy that they represent, irrespective of whether or not it’s a good idea.”
Moench has first-hand experience with the frustrating experience of promoting lung health in the polarized, post-COVID world of masking. Last year, Utah lawmakers floated a statewide mask ban with exceptions only for Halloween and masquerades — but not for legitimate health concerns such as poor air quality due to wildfire smoke. Though the ban was swiftly shot down, in part due to the outcry from disability advocates and environmental health groups, including Physicians for a Healthy Environment, the fact that the legislature floated it at all underscores how masks remain divisive, even years after mandates ended.
Many in public health have approached post-COVID messaging around masking by promoting scientific facts. Bev Stewart, the regional director of health initiatives at the American Lung Association of the Mountain Pacific, told me that in her experience, “It’s rare that somebody would say, ‘I would never, under any circumstance, wear a mask.’” She called the process of trying to reach skeptics a “conversation,” noting that there tends to be “a large misunderstanding about how lungs work” — namely, that masks offer protections that extend beyond the associations with the pandemic.
“Many types of air quality concerns could be mitigated with masks,” Stewart told me. “Sometimes we’re just thinking too narrowly about one specific instance and forgetting the forest for the trees.”
Others I spoke to, though, were doubtful that the populations who are most resistant to mask-wearing could be reached through facts alone. A portion of the country has “lost all respect for empirical evidence, facts, and science — virtually everything that modern civilization was based upon,” Moench said.
Jonas Kaplan, an associate professor of psychology at the University of Southern California, has put numbers to Moench’s conjecture. During the COVID pandemic, Kaplan studied how messaging can reach anti-maskers, discovering that when “information about masks was framed in terms of pure science, there was no significant reduction in anti-mask beliefs or change in mask-wearing behavior.”
Kaplan told me that a lot of the resistance in the anti-masking community comes down to, “What will people in public think of me? What would my friends think of me?” The most effective messages, he’s found, are those that speak to in-group values rather than presenting straight facts. “It wasn’t like, ‘Studies show that this is safe …’” broke through with the skeptics, Kaplan said. “It was more about emphasizing, ‘This is important, and we should care about it.’”
Science, though, does still have a vital role to play. Though we already have a better understanding of the impacts of smoke exposure than we did even a few years ago, more research is needed into its long-term effects. That will also give us greater clarity into how to best protect the more than 25 million Americans who are exposed to wildfire smoke every year — both physically, via better masks and air filters, as well as through better public health messaging.
“Smoke by itself — we know what’s in it, and we know you don’t want to breathe it in,” Emily Fischer, a leading expert on air pollution and a researcher and professor at Colorado State University, told me. “We also know that there are protective actions that families can prepare for, and do their best to take.”
Unfortunately, under the Trump administration, the Environmental Protection Agency, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, and the National Science Foundation, which had previously led research in the area, have drastically reduced their funding. Just this week, The Hill reported that NOAA has cut off grant funding to the University of Colorado’s Cooperative Institute for Research in Environmental Sciences, which, in addition to research into greenhouse gases, has extensively studied wildfire-related air pollution.
Fischer has been affected, too. “My team has had grants terminated related to air quality and protecting public health, and that’s really sad because the smoke doesn’t care if you’re a kid, if you’re elderly, or if you live in a red or blue state,” she said. “Families really need to think right now about how to protect themselves and their loved ones” against the smoke ahead, she told me.