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Why geothermal has been a non-starter there for decades.
In 1881, King David Kalakaua of Hawaii and his entourage paid a late evening visit to Thomas Edison in New York. The king was unsure about electricity — he didn’t think the technology was reliable enough to light up Honolulu’s streets just yet — but after marveling at a chandelier buzzing with electric light, the group started bantering about how Hawaii could generate power. What about putting boilers atop a volcano? There was enough energy up there, a companion to the king mused, that it could illuminate the entire United States. He appeared to be joking, but Edison took the notion seriously. Nice idea, he told his visitors, but an undersea cable carrying power to the mainland would be far too expensive.
Honolulu got its new streetlights a few months later — powered, in the end, by a hydroelectric dam. The volcano thought would wait a century longer.
In the 1970s, geologists began drilling into the eastern rift of the Big Island’s Kilauea volcano, resulting, in 1993, in Hawaii’s first geothermal power plant, which is today called the Puna Geothermal Venture, or PGV. The 38-megawatt facility straddles the most active rift of Hawaii’s most active volcano and is, to this day, the state’s only geothermal plant, supplying just 3% of the islands’ energy. That status quo puzzles geothermal advocates elsewhere. The obvious comparison is to a volcanic sibling like Iceland, where the Earth’s radiant heat supplies 25% of the country’s consumer electricity needs and more than 70% of its overall energy.
“It’s been talked about for ages that at some point, Hawaii needs to have a reset on geothermal,” Mark Glick, Hawaii’s Chief Energy Officer, told me. “That time is now.” So far, that reset involves the governor’s office directing discretionary COVID relief funds with the aim of getting an essentially moribund industry off the ground. Five million dollars will go toward a drilling program to explore the geology of promising areas of heat, hopefully with results that encourage potential developers to make their own, bigger investments. Site selection is underway, with Maui and the Big Island at the top of the list, and Glick said local outreach will begin in the next few months.
That the vast underground heat resources of a place like Maui are only now getting even basic attention is “mind-boggling,” Glick said. But it’s also a reflection of decades of turmoil over all things geothermal in the state — clashes with neighbors, toxic incidents, failed dreams of grandiose infrastructure. That has to change, he added, if the state is serious about ditching its dirtiest forms of power generation quickly. Hawaii has committed to reaching a 100% clean energy portfolio by 2045, but was still producing as much as 80% of its electricity from burning petroleum by last year.
Like other states endowed with abundant heat, Hawaii was previously inspired to consider geothermal energy during the 1970s oil crisis. The state was dependent on imported fuel, and the regularly lava-spewing Kilauea, in particular, looked like “a no-brainer” for geothermal development, explains Roland Horne, director of the Stanford Geothermal Program and a noted historian of the industry.
Hawaii’s problem is that, in addition to being an island chain, it’s also a chain of separate electric grids. With no power lines connecting the Big Island — home to 14% percent of the state’s population — to any others, Kilauea’s energy was marooned. Initially, the state imagined unifying its disparate grids in parallel with geothermal development. But Edison, it turns out, was right about undersea cables, even relatively short ones. After a decade of planning and testing that included laying prototype wires across the 6,100-feet deep, 30-mile wide ‘Alenuihaha Channel between the Big Island and Maui found that such a project was technically feasible but would be far too expensive.
Meanwhile, oil prices fell, and so did interest in hunting for hot rock elsewhere. Although a statewide survey that began in the 1970s found most of the islands could harbor geothermal resources — even older, geologically colder islands like Oahu and even Kauai — nobody followed up. “It led to almost nothing for three decades,” said Nicole Lautze, a geologist at the University of Hawaii-Manoa who is overseeing the state’s current exploratory projects. Instead, the state remained dependent on imported oil.
Other problems were more island-specific. Drilling into an active volcano is fairly unusual for geothermal prospectors and presents unique challenges, given the proximity of lava and abundance of toxic gasses. The work on Kilauea was controversial from the start, with nearby residents and Native Hawaiian spiritual practitioners calling the project not just unsafe but sacrilegious. A release of hydrogen sulfide during construction in 1991 only added to the controversy.
Toxic emissions, including sulfur, from geothermal facilities are generally minuscule compared with fossil fuel plants—and part of the everyday dangers of living on a volcanic slope, Horne told me. “They were coming out of the ground long before Puna was ever built,” he said. But PGV’s reputation as a danger to the community was hard to shake. When geothermal has made headlines in the state over the years since, the story has generally been PGV’s uneasy relationship with the volcano — most notably during Kilauea’s 2018 eruption, during which the plant was totally surrounded by lava flows. Neighbors remained fiercely opposed to the plant when it reopened two years later.
In 2014, when Lautze was tapped for a new survey of that state’s geothermal resources, the word “geothermal” was so taboo that she was reluctant to tell anyone locally her line of work. But she had funding from the U.S. Department of Energy, thanks to the federal government’s resurgent interest in geothermal as a source of clean, firm energy. Popular perception in Hawaii held that the Earth’s heat could only be tapped on the Big Island, where magma was breaching the surface, but Lautze was intrigued by the possibility of finding resources on islands that are less geologically volatile and home to more people. She set about developing new simulations for subsurface heat across the state, followed by on-the-ground experiments.
On islands like Lanai and Maui, Lautze said her team received a warmer welcome than expected. Certain benefits of geothermal had become much more clear amidst the state’s rush to adopt renewable energy — among them, that geothermal power would take a fraction of the land required to produce the same electricity from wind turbines or solar panels, in addition to providing continuous power, regardless of the weather. “Hawaii is realizing that they’re not going to get to 100 percent renewable from solar and wind alone,” said Lautze. Plus, she added, “the cost of energy is going up and up and up.”
The next step toward tapping that heat is what’s known as “slim hole” drilling, using bits less than 7 inches wide to descend more than a kilometer down. Even promising hotspots can be duds, and developers are often hesitant even in well-mapped places, which Hawaii isn’t. Before the state tries to sell geothermal companies on the idea of coming to Hawaii, officials want to be sure of what they’re selling. “There’s an absolute dearth of information on the volcanically older islands,” Lautze said.
Mike Kaleikini, head of Hawaii affairs for Ormat, which owns PGV, told me he’s been heartened to see the state turning its attention to basic research. Developers could very well get excited about places like Maui, he said, with some initial exploration already done and if they feel they can navigate permitting and potential concerns from the public. “Hawaii is not the easiest place to do business,” he added.
Among the better prospects for new development is on Big Island land owned by the Department of Hawaiian Home Lands, an agency that works to redistribute homes and land to Native Hawaiians. Located on the more docile slopes of Mauna Kea, the project’s backers say it could both power DHHL’s housing developments and generate royalties that help finance more home building.
Whatever heat developers strike there will remain marooned on the Big Island, at least for now. Channeling the dream of near-endless volcanic energy, Glick’s office proposed tying the Big Island’s geothermal production to a regional hydrogen hub so that the energy could be shipped offshore, but the DOE ultimately passed on funding the plan. Lautze still dreams of wires strung across the unruly Hawaiian channels. People still talk about the idea, she noted, even if it elicits smirks and eyerolls from people who lived through its past failures. The state is still a far cry from achieving the king’s dream. But the only way to get there is to start drilling.
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A conversation with VDE Americas CEO Brian Grenko.
This week’s Q&A is about hail. Last week, we explained how and why hail storm damage in Texas may have helped galvanize opposition to renewable energy there. So I decided to reach out to Brian Grenko, CEO of renewables engineering advisory firm VDE Americas, to talk about how developers can make sure their projects are not only resistant to hail but also prevent that sort of pushback.
The following conversation has been lightly edited for clarity.
Hiya Brian. So why’d you get into the hail issue?
Obviously solar panels are made with glass that can allow the sunlight to come through. People have to remember that when you install a project, you’re financing it for 35 to 40 years. While the odds of you getting significant hail in California or Arizona are low, it happens a lot throughout the country. And if you think about some of these large projects, they may be in the middle of nowhere, but they are taking hundreds if not thousands of acres of land in some cases. So the chances of them encountering large hail over that lifespan is pretty significant.
We partnered with one of the country’s foremost experts on hail and developed a really interesting technology that can digest radar data and tell folks if they’re developing a project what the [likelihood] will be if there’s significant hail.
Solar panels can withstand one-inch hail – a golfball size – but once you get over two inches, that’s when hail starts breaking solar panels. So it’s important to understand, first and foremost, if you’re developing a project, you need to know the frequency of those events. Once you know that, you need to start thinking about how to design a system to mitigate that risk.
The government agencies that look over land use, how do they handle this particular issue? Are there regulations in place to deal with hail risk?
The regulatory aspects still to consider are about land use. There are authorities with jurisdiction at the federal, state, and local level. Usually, it starts with the local level and with a use permit – a conditional use permit. The developer goes in front of the township or the city or the county, whoever has jurisdiction of wherever the property is going to go. That’s where it gets political.
To answer your question about hail, I don’t know if any of the [authority having jurisdictions] really care about hail. There are folks out there that don’t like solar because it’s an eyesore. I respect that – I don’t agree with that, per se, but I understand and appreciate it. There’s folks with an agenda that just don’t want solar.
So okay, how can developers approach hail risk in a way that makes communities more comfortable?
The bad news is that solar panels use a lot of glass. They take up a lot of land. If you have hail dropping from the sky, that’s a risk.
The good news is that you can design a system to be resilient to that. Even in places like Texas, where you get large hail, preparing can mean the difference between a project that is destroyed and a project that isn’t. We did a case study about a project in the East Texas area called Fighting Jays that had catastrophic damage. We’re very familiar with the area, we work with a lot of clients, and we found three other projects within a five-mile radius that all had minimal damage. That simple decision [to be ready for when storms hit] can make the complete difference.
And more of the week’s big fights around renewable energy.
1. Long Island, New York – We saw the face of the resistance to the war on renewable energy in the Big Apple this week, as protestors rallied in support of offshore wind for a change.
2. Elsewhere on Long Island – The city of Glen Cove is on the verge of being the next New York City-area community with a battery storage ban, discussing this week whether to ban BESS for at least one year amid fire fears.
3. Garrett County, Maryland – Fight readers tell me they’d like to hear a piece of good news for once, so here’s this: A 300-megawatt solar project proposed by REV Solar in rural Maryland appears to be moving forward without a hitch.
4. Stark County, Ohio – The Ohio Public Siting Board rejected Samsung C&T’s Stark Solar project, citing “consistent opposition to the project from each of the local government entities and their impacted constituents.”
5. Ingham County, Michigan – GOP lawmakers in the Michigan State Capitol are advancing legislation to undo the state’s permitting primacy law, which allows developers to evade municipalities that deny projects on unreasonable grounds. It’s unlikely the legislation will become law.
6. Churchill County, Nevada – Commissioners have upheld the special use permit for the Redwood Materials battery storage project we told you about last week.
Long Islanders, meanwhile, are showing up in support of offshore wind, and more in this week’s edition of The Fight.
Local renewables restrictions are on the rise in the Hawkeye State – and it might have something to do with carbon pipelines.
Iowa’s known as a renewables growth area, producing more wind energy than any other state and offering ample acreage for utility-scale solar development. This has happened despite the fact that Iowa, like Ohio, is home to many large agricultural facilities – a trait that has often fomented conflict over specific projects. Iowa has defied this logic in part because the state was very early to renewables, enacting a state portfolio standard in 1983, signed into law by a Republican governor.
But something else is now on the rise: Counties are passing anti-renewables moratoria and ordinances restricting solar and wind energy development. We analyzed Heatmap Pro data on local laws and found a rise in local restrictions starting in 2021, leading to nearly 20 of the state’s 99 counties – about one fifth – having some form of restrictive ordinance on solar, wind or battery storage.
What is sparking this hostility? Some of it might be counties following the partisan trend, as renewable energy has struggled in hyper-conservative spots in the U.S. But it may also have to do with an outsized focus on land use rights and energy development that emerged from the conflict over carbon pipelines, which has intensified opposition to any usage of eminent domain for energy development.
The central node of this tension is the Summit Carbon Solutions CO2 pipeline. As we explained in a previous edition of The Fight, the carbon transportation network would cross five states, and has galvanized rural opposition against it. Last November, I predicted the Summit pipeline would have an easier time under Trump because of his circle’s support for oil and gas, as well as the placement of former North Dakota Governor Doug Burgum as interior secretary, as Burgum was a major Summit supporter.
Admittedly, this prediction has turned out to be incorrect – but it had nothing to do with Trump. Instead, Summit is now stalled because grassroots opposition to the pipeline quickly mobilized to pressure regulators in states the pipeline is proposed to traverse. They’re aiming to deny the company permits and lobbying state legislatures to pass bills banning the use of eminent domain for carbon pipelines. One of those states is South Dakota, where the governor last month signed an eminent domain ban for CO2 pipelines. On Thursday, South Dakota regulators denied key permits for the pipeline for the third time in a row.
Another place where the Summit opposition is working furiously: Iowa, where opposition to the CO2 pipeline network is so intense that it became an issue in the 2020 presidential primary. Regulators in the state have been more willing to greenlight permits for the project, but grassroots activists have pressured many counties into some form of opposition.
The same counties with CO2 pipeline moratoria have enacted bans or land use restrictions on developing various forms of renewables, too. Like Kossuth County, which passed a resolution decrying the use of eminent domain to construct the Summit pipeline – and then three months later enacted a moratorium on utility-scale solar.
I asked Jessica Manzour, a conservation program associate with Sierra Club fighting the Summit pipeline, about this phenomenon earlier this week. She told me that some counties are opposing CO2 pipelines and then suddenly tacking on or pivoting to renewables next. In other cases, counties with a burgeoning opposition to renewables take up the pipeline cause, too. In either case, this general frustration with energy companies developing large plots of land is kicking up dust in places that previously may have had a much lower opposition risk.
“We painted a roadmap with this Summit fight,” said Jess Manzour, a campaigner with Sierra Club involved in organizing opposition to the pipeline at the grassroots level, who said zealous anti-renewables activists and officials are in some cases lumping these items together under a broad umbrella. ”I don’t know if it’s the people pushing for these ordinances, rather than people taking advantage of the situation.”