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A mountaintop removal site near Pikeville, Kentucky. Photo credit: Kenny Stanley/Berkeley Energy Group

Mountaintop Removal Site Could Become Kentucky's Largest Solar Farm

Kentucky, like most of the Appalachian region, has been in economic distress since the bust of the coal mining industry. But, new hope for jobs and the ravaged environment may come in the form of the state's largest solar farm.

The company spearheading the initiative, Berkeley Energy Group, used to be a coal mining company and still owns thousands of acres of land in the area, including the abandoned mountaintop removal site in Pike County, Kentucky, just outside of Pikeville in the heart of coal country. Berkeley Energy is working with EDF Renewable Energy and former Democratic state Auditor Adam Edelen to build a 50-100 megawatt farm right on top of the old mine. The project was announced on Tuesday.

"This is really a history-making project for the region," said Ryan Johns, an executive with Berkeley Energy Group.

"Bringing together major players in both coal and renewable energy to build a solar farm on a mountaintop removal site, creating opportunity for out-of-work miners, is a once-in-a-lifetime project," Edelen told the Herald-Leader.

Coal production has drastically dropped over the last few years since the boom of natural gas and lower installation costs for renewables. According to Kentucky's Energy and Environment Cabinet, in 2016 alone, coal production in the region, including Pike County, dropped by 40 percent from 2015, and the number of coal jobs in the county decreased by 30 percent.

"We have the opportunity to combine the strengths of both companies to bring jobs and economic development to Appalachia," Doug Copeland, EDF development manager, said.

Though the developers aren't sure how many jobs would be supplied by the solar farm, the project would be a massive undertaking and several hundred acres would be used to operate the facility.

Pike County is in eastern Kentucky, which doesn't get quite as much annual sunlight as western parts of the state. But, building it in this specific location would help the developers work with the electric grid supplied by PJM, an electric company that works with homeowners to allocate renewable energy resources.

But, before they can establish anything with PJM, the developers must complete geological and energy studies to measure the potential for solar on the property. EDF said this could take until the end of the year. But, Johns said, "if it can be done, we'll get it done."

Photo credit: Vivian Stockman / Ohio Valley Environmental Coalition. Flyover courtesy SouthWings

Say Goodbye to Coal-Free Streams

President Trump has officially killed the Office of Surface Protection's Stream Mining Rule, as he signed legislation undoing the Obama era protection Thursday.

Surrounded by lawmakers, coal miners and friendly coal executives, Trump blasted the rule as "another terrible job killing rule" and promised to save jobs "especially in the mines, which, I have been promising you—the mines are a big deal."

A report issued by the Congressional Research Service last month found that the rule would have eliminated a minimal amount of jobs in the coal industry, while generating an additional 250 jobs per year.

"If Central Appalachian legislators really had the best interests of their constituents at heart, they would not have attacked this moderate rule," said Erin Savage of Appalachian Voices. "Instead of doing the bidding of coal industry lobbyists, they should be working to protect the health and well-being of Appalachian communities that depend on clean water."

Signing: The Hill, Bloomberg, InsideClimate News, Politico Pro

Jobs report: CNBC

Commentary: Vox, Brad Plumer analysis, Science, Warren Cornwall analysis

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Here's What 7.8 Billion Gallons of Toxic Coal Sludge Looks Like

By Heather Moyer

This is part 2 (read part 1) on my visit to see mountaintop removal coal mining sites in West Virginia with Coal River Mountain Watch.

Junior Walk and I are standing where a mountain used to be. We're on a pile of rocks surrounded by even more piles of rocks and boulders. But that's not what has our attention.

"There it is—the largest earthen dam in the western hemisphere," Junior said.

We're looking at the Brushy Fork impoundment—a massive dam holding back 7.8 billion gallons of toxic coal sludge. Coal sludge contains a scary assortment of chemicals—from manganese to cadmium, lead and mercury and more. And we're standing in front of a 7.8 billion gallon "lake" of it. Down below the sludge are hundreds of homes, filled with people hoping that dam never breaches.

Our journey to this shocking site started on a much lighter note down at the Coal River Mountain Watch office in front of a four-wheeler. Junior tossed me a helmet and had me get on the back. I'd never been on an ATV, so I was a little nervous and excited.

"Do you want to go slow or not-so-slow?" he asked with a grin.

You only live once, so I said, "Step on it."

To say the trail to Brushy Fork was a gut-rattler would be an understatement.

It's too bad such a fun, muddy ride included such awful stops along the way. We reached a fork and stopped so Junior could show me acid mine drainage. He told me about the man we'd just waved at before heading up the trail.

"He used to get his water from the creek—but look at it now," Junior said.

The water was orange due to a leak from an underground mine in the mountain in front of us. The man successfully sued the coal company ("Thanks to Coal River Mountain Watch," added Junior) and now the company has to bring him all his water.


As we stood staring at the grotesque orange stream, a frog moved in the water. Junior told me how biodiverse the region is and listed different kinds of frogs, salamanders, newts and more that he's seen.


We rode up a very steep trail to a cabin Junior's family and others had built years before he was born. It's a nice little getaway—but just through the trees you can see the Edwight mountaintop removal site the next mountain over. You can't get away from coal in coal country.


As we rounded another steep trail, the massive Brushy Fork coal sludge lake came into view. Its size is mind-boggling. When we first saw it through the trees I thought we'd stop to look there. Instead it took another 15 minutes to come around to an entrance point.

Standing near the edge was breathtaking. We were surrounded by high steep walls made by blasting away parts of the mountain. Trees teetered on the edges. It was like someone had taken a knife and sliced around them, like they were the middle of a cake and the other pieces had been cut away.

Junior pointed out how close the company had been blasting next to the impoundment—a scary thought considering the devastation a breach would cause.

"This impoundment has been here for years, but they're still adding to it," he said.

Again, I was struck with silence. What words should one have when seeing something so awful?

All that happened because I want the lights to turn on when I flick the switch. Because I want to watch TV and use my computer. And people die underground or get black lung for the same reasons.

This is all pretty sobering.

"What do you think of it all?" Junior asked as he got back on the ATV.

"I have no words besides 'this is f**king awful,'" I replied.

"That about sums it up."

There are sites and sludge impoundments like this all over the region—and even more mountains are permitted for this devastation. How do you not just sit down right there where the mountain used to be and cry and give up?

Back at the Coal River Mountain Watch office I chatted more with Junior and director Deb Jarrell. Their work is an uphill battle, but they do find positives.

Their new office in Naoma, for example. They don't get harassed as much as they used to, said Debbie and some neighbors are even supportive at times.

"Many of them do like coal, but some of them have quietly told us that they're on our side," she explained. "I think the biggest issue here is that people don't like what mountaintop removal coal mining does, but it provides their family a job, so they aren't going to speak out."

A paycheck vs. mountains and clean water. It's an age-old battle in coal country.

The Coal River Mountain Watch staff does provide as many opportunities as possible for the public to speak out against coal. They regularly spar with state and coal company officials to ask for public hearings on new permits being issued in the area.

I asked what those hearings are usually like and get noises of frustration from both Junior and Debbie. Debbie shook her head. Junior rolled his eyes. "It's like talking to a brick wall," he said of all the officials involved.

But they keep fighting. Their latest battle is against the familiar foe of Alpha Natural Resources. The company is in the process of applying for permits to blow the top off of another 5,000 acres of Coal River Mountain.

Neither Debbie nor Junior can imagine not doing this work to protect the mountains they love so dearly. It's their mission—their calling. And they welcome anyone to come see what they love so much and join them in the work.

Photo credit: Heather Moyer

‘We Are the Keepers of the Mountains … Love Them or Leave Them, Just Don’t Destroy Them’

By Heather Moyer

"The Brushy Fork coal sludge impoundment is only one mile above my parents' home. I better know all I can about it—not that it'll do much, though," Junior Walk told me as he drove me through the winding roads around Naoma, West Virginia. A West Virginia native and Coal River Mountain Watch activist, Junior knows all about mountaintop removal coal mining, coal sludge impoundments, driving an old truck up the side of a huge mountain and even death threats.

Heather Moyer

The 26-year-old grew up in the area and regularly gives tours of nearby mountaintop removal coal mining sites to groups of college students and other visitors like me.

If you're not familiar with the process—mountaintop removal coal mining is when coal companies blow the tops off of mountains to get at the coal underneath. They push all the "waste" into nearby valleys, filling them. Coal companies have destroyed hundreds of mountains in Kentucky, West Virginia and Tennessee using this practice. The process also poisons nearby waterways with coal waste, threatening communities' drinking water.

Fighting the coal industry in coal country is very serious—the death threats are real—although Junior said those have quieted down a bit as the industry has slowed in the past few years. Still, he has some scary stories.

"I haven't had any actual attempts on my life in a few years," he said. "People have waved guns around at me before, but it was in public in front of other people so I wasn't too scared. The worst thing was when someone snuck into my parents' yard in the middle of the night and cut the brake lines on my truck. In hilly country like this, that's attempted murder. Thankfully I knew something was wrong almost as soon as I turned my truck on the next morning."

It's hard to believe Junior takes such predicaments in stride but he speaks about them matter-of-factly. And he's not alone in those scary moments. Other big-name coal fighters like Maria Gunnoe and the late Larry Gibson have stories of being run off the road by other drivers, having their homes shot at and having their pets killed.

Such is life for activists in coal country.

Heather Moyer

On this hot, sunny afternoon, Junior drives me first to see the Edwight coal site first. In the old but tough Coal River Mountain Watch Dodge truck, we wind our way up a very rough gravel path that once serviced a now-closed mine. The path is very overgrown and steep and there is the occasional glimpse of the bald mountain just across the valley.

When we reach the top we pull into an open clearing. "Watch for snakes," Junior warns me as we walk up a short, grassy path to a rocky outcrop.

Across the valley is the Edwight mountaintop removal coal mine that went idle in November 2015. It's a bit of a sucker-punch to see it among the endless green mountaintops in the area.

For more than eight years I've been writing about mountaintop removal coal mining for the Sierra Club. I've seen it in photos and videos—but I'd never seen it in person until now.

Heather Moyer

The Edwight site used to be known as Cherry Pond Mountain. It used to be covered in trees and hundreds of feet taller. Now the trees are completely gone and in their place are vast flat expanses covered in grass and boulders. Nothing about it looks natural anymore. Apparently now it's "reclaimed"—but that mountain will never be the same again. You can't remove the top of a mountain, all the topsoil and trees and wildlife and insects and biodiversity, shove it into a nearby valley (filling that tree-covered biodiverse valley) and expect anything to grow or live on it again besides scrub brush. It's an ugly scar that is very hard to stomach.

I ask Junior if it still hits him hard.

"I'm kind of used to it in a way," he said. "I mean, I've been leading these tours for years, it's been going on for my entire lifetime. I bring college kids out here and they cry. There's a site that threatens my parents' house—that hits a little harder."

Edwight is also home to a massive coal sludge pond—where the coal company stores the waste after washing and processing the coal. There are 2.5 billion gallons of coal sludge waste being held back by an earthen impoundment. There are many houses below that impoundment and many like it across the whole region.

It gets quiet as I stare at what used to be Cherry Pond Mountain.

"That's going to look like that for the rest of my lifetime," Junior said.

We walk back to his truck and start the drive to nearby Kayford Mountain. On the way we pass the Upper Big Branch Mine, where an explosion in 2010 killed 29 miners. Out front is a memorial with 29 hard hats, crosses and photos.

"My grandpa was a Vietnam veteran and a coal miner," said Junior. "When I was younger he made me promise him I'd never join the military or go underground."

Junior did once work for the coal industry as a security guard at a Massey coal processing site but hated every minute of it. It didn't take much for Coal River Mountain Watch founder Judy Bonds to turn him into an activist against coal.

Just past the Upper Big Branch Mine is a huge impoundment, holding back billions of gallons of coal sludge. Below that impoundment is the former site of Marsh Fork Elementary, which activists and residents succeeded in getting moved into a new building farther away to protect the kids from a possible disaster if that impoundment gives way. But there are still homes "downstream" from that massive coal sludge disaster waiting to happen.

As we drove to Kayford, I ask Junior what he loves doing in his free time. He's an avid hunter—"If it moves in the woods, I'll shoot it and eat it"—but doesn't see the point in fishing—"Don't see the reason since we can't eat any of the fish in the water around here."

Huge coal trucks rumble by at high speeds and Junior said that never stops being terrifying with how narrow the roads are.

Soon we climb another very steep gravel path to get to Kayford. It's gut-jerking—there are huge bumps and holes and Junior laughs and said, "I'm trying to take it easy for you!"

After a very rough 10 minute ride with what feels like hundreds of feet of climbing, we reach some houses on the mountaintop. This was home to the amazing anti-coal activist Larry Gibson. He helped set up a land trust for the property he owned near Kayford and created a gathering place for groups. There are cabins and a big open area to sit and eat. Junior was close friends with Larry, who died in 2012.

Heather Moyer

We stop the truck again to get out. At the top of the ridge is Larry's old home—I've seen it in photos with a smiling Larry standing right next to it. There's a painted message on the front of it:

"We are the keepers of the mountains. Love them or leave them, just don't destroy them."

Larry inspired an army of activists over the years, from Junior to Judy Bonds to the Sierra Club Beyond Coal Campaign Director Mary Anne Hitt.

His grave is next to his house—and also in what seems like a very appropriate move, it's next to some solar panels as well.

Heather Moyer

Junior and I walk down the gravel path a ways and he tells me how wonderful Larry was. I'd only spoken to Larry once; I wish I could've gotten to meet him in person.

We reach the ridge where the trees end and come out to a horrible view. Kayford Mountain is almost gone. Large sections are flat and covered with scrub grass and bushes. Off in the distance two earth movers—dwarfed by the vast scale of the site—push rocks and boulders around.

Heather Moyer

"The coal companies have to return the mountain to the 'approximate original contour,'" he laughs. "You can see how well that goes."

In the middle distance sits a massive tire and axle on its end, left over from another earth mover. If I were to stand next to it, it would tower over me.

Heather Moyer

The destruction goes on for miles. Junior pointed out what used to be a valley but is now full of what used to be the top of Kayford Mountain. It's as if someone put a major construction site in the middle of a beautiful wilderness. It sticks out amongst the endless mountains.

Heather Moyer

I can only think of violent ways to describe what I'm seeing. It's a smack in the face, a punch in the gut, because the practice is so violent. The mountain will never be whole again—it's missing part of its body. Birds won't make nests there, deer won't walk the trails, no frogs or salamanders will make their homes in any rocky trickling streams.

No one will walk there to enjoy it or hunt there. Neighbors will always look up and see that jarring empty space. Even worse, many neighbors will never have clean water in their streams and rivers any more. They'll be in the shadow not of God's creation, but of an ominous threat to their lives

"Larry put his land into a land trust after he saw the beginnings of Kayford getting destroyed," Junior explains. "He saw a bulldozer go right through an old family cemetery with no pause. He didn't want that to happen anywhere else. He saved another nearby cemetery from destruction—that one holds my great grandparents' graves.

Heather Moyer

We sit again for a while in silence.

It hurts to look at landscapes like Kayford and Cherry Pond. Is this really how we need to get our power? Why does coal have to be the only industry in West Virginia? Isn't there a better way?

You can't put anything on top of those now ruined mountains. They're now too low and too unstable for wind turbines. In another part of West Virginia, builders put a prison and a Walmart on former mountaintop removal sites. Because the ground is now so unstable, the foundations of those buildings must continuously be shored up.

Some of Baltimore's electricity comes from mountaintop removal coal. I see the coal trains come through my neighborhood. I have a direct connection. But even if I didn't, how could I not say something about this destruction? How could I not stand up against it?

Mountaintop removal coal mining is destroying beautiful land. It's poisoning water supplies with its waste. It's threatening towns with its massive coal sludge impoundments.

On the walk back to Junior's truck, he stops. "Want some coal?" he asks as he pulled up a small chunk from the driveway. I take it with me as I go up to Larry's home. I stand in front of the house in silence again as Junior continues on to the truck.

"Thanks, Larry," I whisper, along with a small prayer that I can be as tough and useful in this fight as he was.

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