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That won’t stop these investors from trying.

Sometimes it’s called the “missing middle,” sometimes, more ominously, the “valley of death.” Whatever the terminology, it’s undeniable that a chasm lies between a climate company’s early funding rounds and its eventual commercial scale-up, one that’s getting harder and harder to bridge. From the first half of last year to the first half of this one, total Series B funding declined by nearly a quarter; beyond Series C rounds — what the market intelligence platform CTVC calls “growth funding” — it declined by a third.
“The capital needs of these businesses have just outgrown their early stage backers,” Frank O’Sullivan, a managing director for S2G Ventures’ energy investments, told me. “But the infrastructure investors have absolutely no appetite whatsoever for taking on an unproven technology and scaling.” S2G makes both early stage and growth stage investments, and O’Sullivan co-authored a white paper last year on the problem of the “missing middle.” The paper found that of the $270 billion in private capital for clean energy raised between 2017 and 2022, just 20% was allocated to late-stage and growth-focused investments, while 43% went to earlier rounds and 37% toward deploying established tech.
Of course, some of climate tech’s funding gap can be attributed to broader trends in the venture market and economic landscape. Covid-related disruptions and low interest rates led investors to throw money at promising startups, only to see their valuations drop as inflation (with rising interest rates to match) and geopolitical uncertainty cooled down the overheated market. Other companies went directly onto the public market via special purpose acquisition companies, only to underperform expectations. “There is capital to be deployed,” O’Sullivan told me. “But a lot of the companies that need that capital are struggling, really, to swallow hard and take significant restructuring of their previous valuations.”
With clean tech in particular, there’s also frequently a mismatch between the abilities of venture firms, which often make their biggest returns on software startups, and the demands of climate tech. The latter tends to require huge investments in physical infrastructure and support for first-of-a-kind projects, and generally has a longer timeline to profitability than, say, an app. “Venture funding, in some sense, was built for scaling software companies,” Lara Pierpoint, managing director of the new catalytic capital program Trellis Climate, told me. “You’re talking about a capital light business that generally is creating something that enters a white space, and for which there’s huge amounts of market potential.”
It’s much more difficult to build expensive infrastructure that aims to displace fossil fuel facilities and the entire economy that relies on the cheap, reliable power they provide. So while VCs may be enthusiastic about taking a relatively small financial bet on a high-potential early-stage company, that may be all they’re able to do.
Trellis, on the other hand, is a part of the climate nonprofit Prime Coalition and funds first-of-a-kind climate projects with philanthropic capital. The nonprofit structure and philanthropy-focused funding model mean that Trellis can take a different tack on missing middle financing than traditional venture or equity investors. For example, Pierpoint told me it can choose whether to invest in a company or just a specific project. Trellis can also help de-risk projects by providing an “insurance backstop” — basically backup capital in case primary project funding falls short. “We’re looking at expanding the kinds of resources and dollars we can bring to the table in general for the ecosystem, because we think that venture can’t do this alone,” Pierpoint told me.
As with all nonprofits, generating big returns isn’t the focus for Trellis. But for traditional investors, that’s the primary goal. And while growth investments in more technically mature solutions are likely to generate consistent returns, O’Sullivan told me they don’t often provide the rarer but more alluring 10x returns that make early-stage venture capital particularly enticing. “So it’s a more balanced portfolio, typically, in that growth equity category. It’s just that you don’t see the high highs,” he said, explaining that a two to 3x return on investments is more realistic.
Brook Porter, a partner and co-founder at the growth-stage firm G2 Venture Partners, told me that focusing on the missing middle can be extremely profitable, though, and that the key to making real money is correctly identifying a company’s “inflection point” — that is, when it’s poised for significant growth and impact. That is, of course, every investor’s dream. But G2’s whole strategy revolves around identifying exactly when this critical juncture will be, tracking more than 2,000 companies per year to identify the ones best poised for breakout scale-up.
The firm spun off in 2016 from Kleiner Perkins’ Green Growth Fund, where Porter and his three co-founders previously worked as senior partners. This is where they honed their theory of inflection point investing, funding companies such as Uber, drone-maker DJI, and Enphase Energy. Porter told me that helping startups move from proof-of-concept to building “that machine of a business” requires a lot of hand-holding, and that “there aren’t as many investors with that skill set,” so it could take a while for this approach to scale.
On the other end of the funding spectrum, large institutional investors like banks, hedge funds, and asset management firms certainly have the money to help bridge the missing middle, but O’Sullivan and Pierpoint told me they’re generally more interested in fulfilling their internal climate mandates by building out more wind and solar, which generates near-guaranteed returns. These investment giants then look at their remaining cash and think, “Well, we should do something more avant garde. Let’s put money into early-stage venture,” O’Sullivan explained. That’s how many seed and Series A-focused funds raise money.
As O’Sullivan sees it, what’s happening now is “a flaw of the structure of capital allocation at the very highest level.” He thinks we could start by reorienting incentives such that large investors such as banks, asset managers, and pension funds get paid in part for helping bring new climate solutions to market, as opposed to just funding the same old, same old. That would allow them to write “right-sized checks” on the order of $50 million to $100 million to ready-to-scale companies — larger than what a VC firm would write, but smaller than what the big infrastructure investors are used to.
How would those alternate funding models actually work? Well, that’s the real question. Pierpoint said she’s often asked whether a new kind of investor or asset class will be necessary to fill the gap, and while she doesn’t have an answer, what she does know is that the group of climate tech companies that’s ready to commercialize “can’t wait 15 years until we have the exact right form of capital.”
“There needs to be urgency on the part of philanthropists, on the part of infrastructure equity investors, on the part of venture capitalists, to really start showing that we can do this,” Pierpoint told me, “and that we can bring together the right capital stacks to make this happen.”
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At this point, I think it’s clear that AI data centers are unpopular.
You probably know it, at least. I was preparing talk about data center opposition on a podcast today and I took the opportunity to dive back into our data, so I certainly know it. At this point, we’ve written about results from our polling that show Americans overwhelmingly oppose local data center construction, that majorities of Americans now support a national data center moratorium, and that the only group of Americans who feels more optimistic than pessimistic about artificial intelligence is … men older than 65 years old.
So I got curious: Given all that, who actually supports AI data centers?
One question from our recent Heatmap Pro poll, conducted by Embold Research, helps give us a sense. This is the profile of someone our data says would support a data center built in their local area:
A few facets stand out. These data center YIMBYs are more likely to be men, and more likely to be 2024 Trump voters, but they’re not locked into one age demographic or voting cohort. A third are Harris supporters, and roughly a third are women. Data center YIMBYs are more likely to be older than 50, but the majority isn’t overwhelming.
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Perhaps more surprising: The group has many more people who voted third-party in the 2024 election (8%) than the general population (just under 2%), although that response could also include people who didn’t vote. (Alas, the data can’t quite confirm how many in this group are libertarian.)
What’s perhaps most interesting: This group overwhelmingly believes that artificial intelligence will make their lives better. And in heartening news for climate advocates, they are even more likely to support a given data center project if it is powered by renewables.
I was going to joke that the profile is essentially a newly retired engineering dad — except that, to my surprise, these data center YIMBYs are far less gender imbalanced than the American engineering profession. (They’re also less gender-imbalanced than American Tesla owners.) So I’ll leave it at that.
Five takeaways from the latest Lazard Levelized Cost of Energy report.
It’s all getting more expensive.
That’s the conclusion of the investment bank Lazard’s latest report on the levelized cost of energy, one of the most closely watched and cited energy reports of the year.
Levelized cost of energy measures the dollars per megawatt-hour a power plant needs to earn in revenue to break even over the course of its lifetime in present-value terms.
What makes LCOE so alluring is that it’s a way to compare any type of generator, whether it requires a large upfront investment but has few operating costs, like a utility-scale solar project, or whether its expenses are largely fuel costs incurred in the future, like a combined cycle natural gas plant. This is also why LCOE has its critics, who point out that a solar panel that only runs during certain times of day has a different value to the electricity system than a natural gas plant that can ramp up and down quickly or a nuclear plant that provides steady baseload power.
Anyway, here’s what we can learn from this year’s Lazard report.
Curves that were once gently sloping downward are starting to look like incipient U’s. While longterm LCOE falls are still dramatic and impressive for some technologies — utility solar has fallen from $359 per megawatt-hour in 2009 to $69 in 2026 — the short term rises are worrisome. That $69 per megawatt hour represents a nearly 10% increase from 2025, when utility-scale solar had a LCOE of $58. And it’s not just renewables — the LCOE for a combined cycle natural gas plant rose from $78 per megawatt-hour to $90 in the past year. Gas plant LCOE got as low as $60 in 2021. That’s a 50% price hike in just five years.
Lazard attributed the increase in solar and wind LCOE to “higher capital costs, sustained interest rates, tariff pass-through and supply chain repricing.” These technologies are also the most “sensitive” to subsidies by way of the tax code, with federal tax tax credits taking the low end cost of utility solar to as low as $16 per megawatt hour. To the extent those tax credits are no longer available or weren’t accessible due to strict eligibility rules, that could be a source of future upward pressure on costs.
That being said, renewables “maintain their relative cost advantage despite facing the same cost pressures affecting the rest of the generation stack,” the Lazard analysts concluded.
Natural gas, meanwhile, is seeing prices spiral upward on huge and growing customer demand.
“Continuous upward revisions to demand projections have driven a sharp increase in announced new-build gas generation despite a 15-year high LCOE and historically long development lead times,” according to Lazard.
The report hints at what LCOE is not always able to capture, namely that generators like gas have attributes besides low cost that make them attractive. “New gas combined cycle plants offer the lowest-cost dispatchable power in high-demand and low-cost-gas environments,” the analysts point out.
Anyone building a new combined cycle gas plant, however, will have to deal with the high cost and low availability for turbines, which is “extending development timelines well beyond historical norms.” That provides an opening for renewables that can be deployed quickly and cheaply, like solar and accompanied by battery storage.
In 2019, the low end of LCOE for onshore end was $28 per megawatt-hour, according to Lazard’s figures, and the high end was $54. In 2026, however, the low end costs sits a bit higher at $37 per megawatt-hour, but the high end cost rose to $99. There’s a similar story for utility solar: in 2019, the spread between low and high was a snug $8 per megawatt-hour, while this year it’s ballooned to $58.
The broadening range is “likely reflecting that some project developers have been better able to mitigate broader cost pressures across supply chain and project-level economics than others,” the Lazard analysts wrote.
The Lazard report doesn’t just look at the discounted cost of individual generators over their lifetimes. It also tries to figure how much they cost on certain grids. One way of doing this is to look at what Lazard calls the “cost of firming intermittency” or “levelized firming costs.” This is essentially looking at what it costs to bring solar, solar and storage, and wind and storage onto actual grids considering their ability to perform when the grid is most stressed.
This measure tries to refine LCOE to give a sense of how various forms of energy generation compare to gas plants in real world circumstances, not just as a financial construct. This is not a perfect, real-world comparison — gas capacity needs to be “firmed” as well, as it’s not always entirely available at times of peak need — but at least it gives an idea of how these resources actually function in a real-world grid.
Even with firming costs, “renewables remain broadly cost-competitive,” the report concludes.
Not surprisingly, some of the most dramatic costs are in America’s most troubled electricity market, PJM Interconnection. The unsubsidized cost of firming intermittency for solar and storage is $167 per megawatt-hour, compared to $150 in Texas or $115 in California. That’s also compared to a $129 per megawatt-hour at the high end for conventional combined cycle gas plants in PJM.
PJM is notorious for its inability to bring on new resources quickly and its strict standards for accrediting the contribution of storage and renewables to grid stability.
While the Lazard authors explicitly caution that it doesn’t measure what the“total system costs are for 1 MWh of incremental electricity” and can’t say “the optimal mix of renewables, conventional generation and storage,” it does conclude that “firming costs and dispatchability are increasingly critical for comparing resources on a more complex grid.”
In short, no matter what ends up on the grid, grid planners will have to think carefully about how to make sure it’s reliable and works in concert with what’s already there.
Timber companies think of them as pests, but new research indicates that stands of the slender tree can act as barriers against raging flames.
Colorado’s Aspen Acres Fire is named after a quiet RV campground located high in the San Isabel Mountains, about a five-hour drive due southeast of the state’s better-known Aspen. Both places, however, are named after the iconic deciduous tree known for its golden leaves in the fall. While the start of monsoon season may yet prevent the Aspen Acres Fire — the seventh-largest in Colorado’s history — from joining Utah’s Babylon Fire as the second 100,000-acre “megafire” of the season, the conflagration has been aided in its rampage not by aspens, but rather by dead, downed, and blighted ponderosa pines, spruce, and Douglas firs. The wildfire has now burned over 98,000 acres and nearly 300 homes, and is only 36% contained due to steep terrain that has hampered firefighting efforts, along with extreme drought conditions and beetle infestations that have greatly degraded the forest health of the region.
But what about its aspens? Though the extent of the damage at the campground remains unknown, according to a recent study of Populus tremuloides, Colorado’s iconic golden trees could be one of the keys to more wildfire-resistant forests in the future.
Flavie Pelletier, a recent PhD graduate of McGill University’s Natural Resource Sciences program, told me she first became interested in aspens while working as a tree planter in British Columbia. “The historical assumption on aspen is that stands are very good at stopping fire progression. But the paradox is that if you take an aspen by itself, it’s going to burn at high severity,” Pelletier, who published her findings in Forest Ecology and Management, told me.
By creating near-real-time maps of fires using satellites and comparing them against the Canadian Forest Service’s newly available maps of dominant tree species in the boreal, Pelletier and her colleagues discovered that aspen were almost two and a half times more common at the perimeter of a burned area than inside it. The finding suggests that despite the flammability of a single aspen with its thin bark, stands of aspen act as a kind of barrier when wildfire ran up against them, likely because they lack the flammable resins of conifers and their high foliage helps force running crown fires back toward the ground. Pine and spruce, by contrast, showed a near-zero or even negative effect.
When aspen stands did burn, Pelletier found they did so more slowly: A tree cover of 50% aspen burned at about 224 hectares per day, compared to 717 hectares per day in areas where aspen made up less than 10% of the cover. That’s the equivalent of about 1,000 FIFA-regulation soccer pitches per day in places where aspen are sparser — like Aspen Acres.
Even more surprising, though, was that the pattern held true in the early season, when the trees are still twiggy and have yet to grow their moisture-filled leaves, and despite the severity of fire weather. “Aspen still showed resilience even when the fire weather was very intense, [like in 2023, when] we had all the fires,” Pelletier said.
But she was also the first to admit that seasons are getting more extreme, and that there’s no guarantee the pattern will hold for the next 10 or 20 years.
Pelletier was reluctant to make a policy recommendation based on her research, noting that she’s not a forest manager. But in Alberta and British Columbia, timber companies spray hundreds of thousands of acres of timber with glyphosate, an herbicide, to kill off aspens because the trees outcompete the more commercially valuable conifers. Her findings are “a big argument to stop the spreading of herbicides because you’re increasing the risk of fire in your forest by removing aspen,” Pelletier said.
Despite her hesitation, Pelletier is explicit in her paper about one thing: that aspens “should be encouraged — specifically around key landscape positions, such as population centers” — given that they are a proven means of hardening the wildland-urban interface against wildfires. It might be too late for the idyllically named Aspen Acres, of course; any of the aspens that once drew tourists to the area are likely now ash.
But this not be Colorado’s last fire, either.