“I feel like our property is worthless. No one wants to live next to that.”
Conley Blackwolf, oklahoma resident
Jeff Murray’s family has tended land in rural Lincoln County, Oklahoma, for generations. His quiet property — bordered by farmland and a small cemetery that has stood since the 19th century — is home to his extended family and a small herd of cattle.
Now, a new neighbor could upend the bucolic setting.
Texas-based Black Mountain Energy Storage plans to build a large energy storage plant on the lush, undeveloped plot of land to the east of Murray’s farm.
Still in its early stages, the plant is one of many planned for Oklahoma to store electricity from the state’s growing wind and solar energy industry.
At least one has been in operation since 2020, but another 52 have either secured agreements or are awaiting approval, according to data from Southwest Power Pool, the government-regulated nonprofit that oversees the electric grid in parts of the central United States.
But with little information about the projects’ scope or environmental risks, a growing coalition of residents — many of them farmers and rural landowners — is pushing back. They say they’ve been excluded from the decision-making process and fear the facilities could contaminate their land and water, especially if plants catch on fire, as has happened in other states. Those concerns, they believe, are being sidelined in favor of the renewable energy industry, which has spent thousands of dollars on campaign donations and lobbying in recent years.
“I have two natural springs, which feed my cows and grass,” Murray said. “I worry about what could happen to the water. Black Mountain was going to have a community meeting a few months ago, but they canceled.”
Oklahoma ranks 16th in the nation for active energy storage project requests, according to Interconnection.fyi, a website that tracks grid interconnection data. These projects would support the growth of renewable energy across the state, which currently ranks No. 3 in the nation for electricity produced from wind energy.
While President Donald Trump has rebuked efforts to build more wind and solar farms, Oklahoma Gov. Kevin Stitt, a Republican, has aggressively sought that infrastructure for his own state.
Stitt recently agreed to collaborate with the Danish government on renewable energy projects. The agreement called for creating a “dynamic partnership” between Oklahoma and EE North America, a subsidiary of a Danish company that focuses on renewable energy, including wind and battery storage.
“Our aim is to ensure that Oklahoma remains at the forefront of energy innovation for generations to come,” Stitt said in a statement announcing the partnership.
For some, those efforts bring deep unease. Fearing land devaluation, environmental risks, and the growing presence of out-of-state and foreign companies, residents have formed grassroots groups and filed a lawsuit. Some state lawmakers have taken notice, introducing bills to pause or further regulate renewable energy projects.
Dorn Weaver II lives on a 160-acre ranch eight miles south of Black Mountain’s site, where he raises cattle with his two sisters. The land, passed down through three generations, is where he was born and raised.
He believes longtime residents like himself were given little say and no warning about the large-scale renewable energy projects set to reshape their community.
“I built this house to enjoy the western views and sunsets,” Weaver II said. “But just within the last year, we learned about the east of I-35 wind farm initiative… Not a single word was said to us that this was happening in our backyard.”
The fire risk no one wants next door
Energy storage plants are typically designed to store power from intermittent sources like wind and solar. On a hot summer day, for example, while temperatures may stay high well after sunset, there is no sunlight to power AC units. An energy storage plant can collect the excess energy produced during sunny hours and release it in the evening.
Black Mountain’s plant will be a standalone facility, meaning it will not be tied to a specific wind or solar farm. It will store energy from anywhere on the grid and release it during periods of peak demand.
Like most energy storage facilities, Black Mountain’s plant will use lithium batteries — similar to those found in electric vehicles, laptops, and smartphones, but on a much larger scale.
The batteries will be housed in containers roughly the size of tractor-trailers, arranged in neat rows on concrete slabs. A fire loop road and security fencing will surround the site. The containers will be sealed and are not meant to be opened. There will be no on-site staff.
Black Mountain has not yet determined which type of batteries the site will use, but they could come from Elon Musk’s Tesla company or the Chinese company Sungrow, according to a company representative.
Black Mountain Energy Storage is a privately-held company and part of Black Mountain, which is also involved in oil, gas and sand mining. With about 10 employees, Black Mountain Energy Storage acquires land, secures permits and handles early planning before bringing in an investor to fund the project. Founded in 2021, there is no public information about the company’s revenue.
While it has yet to secure a buyer for its Lincoln County project, it recently sold another energy storage project in Eastern Oklahoma to GridStor, an Oregon-based company backed by Goldman Sachs.
But as interest in energy storage grows, so do concerns about safety, particularly the threat of fire.
On Jan. 16, one of the world’s largest energy storage plants, located in California’s Monterey Bay, caught fire — the most severe of many incidents at the facility.
Flames erupted at the Moss Landing Power Plant, filling the coastal air with thick, acrid smoke. Authorities evacuated about 1,500 nearby residents, while firefighters, unable to safely contain the blaze, had no choice but to let it burn. The fire lasted five days.
A month later, the fire flared up again, prompting Monterey County officials to advise residents to stay indoors.
Incidents at energy storage plants are not uncommon.
There have been 92 recorded incidents worldwide — typically a fire or explosion — and 35 additional incidents at other lithium-related sites, such as recycling or manufacturing plants, according to a database by the Electric Power Research Institute. (The figures only account for publicly reported events but many incidents have not been reported by the news media, according to the EPRI.)
The cause of the fire at the California plant and the full scope of its environmental impact are still unknown.
The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency found no significant concentrations of toxic gases in the air. Despite this, residents reported symptoms, such as wheezing, headaches and sore throats.
Scientists at San José State University found elevated levels of toxic metals like cobalt, nickel and manganese in the marsh soils near the plant. In farmland, high concentrations of toxic metals can reduce crop yields, contaminate food crops and pose health risks to humans who consume those crops.
“My throat feels like it’s sunburned,” said Angie Roeder, who owns a pig farm eight miles from the Moss Landing plant and still experiences symptoms. “And I feel a buzzing all over my body.”
With few answers from the county and what she believes to be insufficient EPA testing, Roeder and others in her community formed a Facebook group to track health symptoms linked to the fire. The 3,000-member group has spent $6,500 on independent testing for toxic metals, Roeder told Investigate Midwest.
Before the fire, Roeder and her husband planned to start a small vineyard, but they are now considering moving.
“Even if it does clear up, what if it happens again?” Roader said. “It is all very traumatic.”
However, Carolyn O’Brien, an engineer and director at Black Mountain, believes that “a lot of what people are worried about is hyped up.”
She said incidents like the one at the California plant, owned by Texas-based Vistra, do not reflect the significant progress in safety made by the new and rapidly changing industry.
“Vistra’s facility is no longer the largest in the world, nor is it state-of-the-art,” O’Brien said. “We don’t build things like that anymore.”
Vistra’s plant, which began operating in 2020, stored racks of batteries inside a building — a design choice that was a key factor in the severity of the fire, according to O’Brien. The planned facility for Oklahoma’s Lincoln County will store batteries in outdoor containers.
Some figures suggest safety at energy storage plants has significantly improved. Between 2018 and 2023, there was a 97% drop in the overall incident rate, according to data from Electric Power Research Institute.
Industry says safety has improved. Residents aren’t convinced.
These improvements, however, have not dissuaded everyone’s fears, and many Oklahomans remain wary of having such plants in their communities — particularly since there are no state setback regulations for energy storage facilities. Such regulations would require a minimum distance between these plants and homes, farms or other properties.
In the northeast Oklahoma town of Oologah, the town board voted in January against rezoning land that would have permitted Black Mountain to build another energy storage plant. The decision followed a town meeting held by the company, where residents raised concerns about the project’s lack of details and expressed fears about a potential fire.
When an energy storage plant is proposed in an Oklahoma county without zoning regulations — the case for most rural counties — the only required approval comes from the State Fire Marshal’s office. (If the facility is planned within a floodplain, developers must also obtain a floodplain permit or exemption.)
Keith Bryant, the Oklahoma State Fire Marshal, confirmed his office has issued permits for four energy storage plants by Florida-based NextEra, and is in discussions with Black Mountain regarding four additional projects.
NextEra’s projects have also faced local resistance.
A group of 31 farmers and landowners in Garfield County recently filed a lawsuit against NextEra, the county, and the City of Enid over the construction of the Skeleton Creek Energy Center, a massive solar farm and battery energy storage facility spanning approximately 2,000 acres.
The group alleges that NextEra secured approval to build without complying with required regulations. They argue that at least part of the land is zoned for agricultural use rather than industrial, and that NextEra deliberately avoided filing for a zoning change in an effort to sidestep local opposition that could have derailed the project, similar to what happened in Oologah with Black Mountain.
NextEra Energy Inc.— the parent company of NextEra Energy Resources, the subsidiary behind the renewable energy projects in the state — had a revenue of over $24 billion in 2024 and is one of the largest renewable energy companies in the world.
The judge rejected NextEra’s request to dismiss the case and a hearing is scheduled for April 8. The company declined to comment on the lawsuit, citing ongoing litigation.
Construction began late last year.
Three miles south of Enid, past large swaths of grassland and the occasional cluster of farmsteads, Eric and Laura Hofferber tend cattle and chickens on a 320-acre plot of farmland.
To the east, Skeleton Creek winds its way through the landscape. For the 15 years the couple has lived there, fields of corn and milo separated their farm from the creek.
“(NextEra) cleared all the wooded areas and crops,” said Laura Hofferber, who is a plaintiff in the lawsuit against NextEra. “The wildlife is coming into our backyard and eating our chickens. We’re losing our calf crop.”
Hofferber’s farm, sitting just a few hundred yards from the energy storage section of the facility, will likely face the greatest risk in the event of a fire. Her husband, Eric, a volunteer firefighter with the local fire department, could be among the first responders.
“We haven’t been able to officially talk to [NextEra],” said Eric Hofferber, regarding his fire department’s ability to put out a potential fire at the plant. “They said at the county meeting that they’re using a new kind of battery and that there won’t be any troubles with it.”
The Hofferbers belong to the Garfield County Conservation Coalition, a group of local residents who promote the conservation of farm and ranch land in the area.
“There’s absolutely zero regulation,” said NeAnne Clinton, the coalition’s president. “These should not be built where people live. We’re tired of being the guinea pigs for green energy corporations.”
Amidst that growing criticism, energy companies have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars pushing for project approval and a friendly legislative environment at the state Capitol.
Earlier this year, two lobbyists representing NextEra registered to lobby the State Fire Marshal, the primary — and typically the only — state agency responsible for issuing permits.
“The conversations that we had with [the Oklahoma State Fire Marshal] were purely just educational,” said Marshall Hastings, a spokesperson for NextEra. “Making sure they understood the safety measures that all of our projects — battery, wind, and solar — have on the site themselves.”
NextEra also said it continues to adhere to local, county and state permitting requirements, and that the Skeleton Creek Energy Center will create eight to ten permanent jobs.
State Fire Marshal Keith Bryant acknowledged his office’s meetings with NextEra and Black Mountain, stating, “I certainly appreciate the proactive stance that they’ve taken to reach out to us to make sure that everything they’re doing falls within and complies with state code.”
Between 2015 and 2024, NextEra gave over $830,000 to various Oklahoma state committees and lawmakers, including Reps. Chad Caldwell, John Pfeiffer, and Mike Dobrinski, all three Republicans whose districts are in Garfield County. The company has also donated at least $10,000 to Stitt.
The governor’s office did not respond to a request for comment.
Green energy meets red state politics
Residents of Lincoln County who oppose green energy projects have found an ally in their newly elected state representative, Jim Shaw.
Although he has not yet introduced legislation to regulate energy storage plants, Shaw, a Republican, has proposed bills to impose a moratorium on all wind and solar projects and to establish setback regulations.
In the meantime, he has helped organize a community meeting with Black Mountain to discuss the company’s project in Lincoln County. A recent company flyer for the event identifies the project as the “Starfighter BESS project” and notes that the facility is expected to have a capacity of 199 megawatts. The meeting is scheduled for April 3 in Meeker.
“Hopefully, if wind and solar projects don’t find their way into Lincoln County, my understanding is that the BESS (Battery Energy Storage System) facility wouldn’t be necessary,” Shaw said.
Shaw works in the oil and gas industry, and the groups that support his efforts, such as the Facebook group Save Oklahoma Farm and Ranches, often share content from oil and gas organizations. But Saundra Traywick, a donkey farmer and founder of the group, denied any ties to the industry or having received donations from it.
“We got involved in this because it was the right thing to do, not because we’re getting funding,” Trawick said.
The oil and gas industry has long been a pillar of Oklahoma’s economy, employing tens of thousands and generating billions in revenue. But as the energy landscape shifts, the state has become a battleground between fossil fuels and renewables.
Oil and gas wells are a common sight in much of the state. But in recent years, large wind farms — with some turbines soaring nearly 400 feet high, taller than the Statue of Liberty — have become just as common. Forty-five percent of the state’s electricity came from wind energy in 2023.
“Being a pro-business state means that we want to entice businesses in a wide range of industries that respond to the economic opportunities that Oklahoma has to offer,” said Chase Horn, a spokesperson for the Oklahoma Department of Commerce. “More energy capacity means more economic opportunity for prospective or expanding businesses.”
However, critics, many who are politically conservative, argue these projects create few jobs compared to oil and gas, which employs over 50,000 Oklahomans. They also question the need for more power plants, as the state already produces nearly three times the energy it consumes.
Rural communities in other states have also formed similar groups to fight against energy storage plants.
In New York, the small town of Duanesburg voted earlier this year to ban energy storage facilities after the state experienced multiple fires at these plants in 2023.
And in communities that have already endured lithium-related fires, such as Fredericktown, Missouri, residents are demanding answers and urging the state to take action.
In October, an explosion at a battery recycling facility in the small Missouri town led the county to order evacuations.
Jennifer Torr, a blueberry farmer living near the plant, left her home within an hour of hearing the blast.
“It was a pretty devastating explosion,” Torr said. “It caused a huge plume of toxic smoke that erupted from the top of the building, and several explosions followed shortly after.”
After the incident, the EPA monitored the air and confirmed it was safe, while the Missouri Department of Natural Resources found no fire-related contamination in Fredericktown’s drinking water. However, there were reports of dead fish in nearby creeks, and Torr said residents living closest to the plant fell ill.
Torr wishes they had more information and clearer answers from the county or the plant’s company, Critical Minerals Recovery. She and other farmers who worry about potential soil contamination plan to conduct independent testing, but they had to turn to environmentalists for information.
“I think people just don’t fully understand exactly what they should test for, but we’re starting to come up with that information,” Torr said.
As Critical Mineral Recovery rebuilds and expands in the state, Melissa Vatterott, policy director for the Missouri Coalition for the Environment, is helping Fredericktown residents advocate for a law requiring battery plants to be at least a mile from homes.
“The community is seeing that multiple industries in the critical mineral supply chain are coming to the county and are largely unregulated,” Vattertott said. “We don’t have a federal framework for protecting people and natural resources surrounding battery recycling and battery manufacturing.”
Who wins and who loses in Oklahoma’s energy boom?
Some farmers have benefited from the surge in energy projects and federal incentives.
Pollard Farms, a cattle operation in Garfield County, leases land to NextEra for its Skeleton Creek Energy Center. Many agricultural producers across the state have also secured grants through the Biden administration’s Inflation Reduction Act to install wind turbines and solar panels that support their farming activities.
Legislative efforts to impose stringent regulations on wind energy have struggled to gain traction, but more moderate bills stand a better chance of passing.
One bill, by state Rep. Tim Turner, R-Kinta, aimed to establish a one-and-a-half nautical mile setback for wind turbines in eastern Oklahoma but was struck down by the House Energy Committee on Feb. 19. The next day, however, a separate bill co-sponsored by Turner, which proposed a quarter-mile setback, passed the House Utility Committee. A similar one also advanced in the Senate.
At the heart of the debate was the issue of property rights.
Four years ago, Conley Blackwolf and his wife sold their home in Shawnee and moved to Lincoln County to be closer to Blackwolf’s father-in-law, Jeff Murray. The couple planned to build a house on the land beside Murray’s.
The family had even considered pooling their resources to buy the adjacent lot to the west. But when they inquired, they learned it had already been purchased by Black Mountain. With an electrical substation nearby, Blackwolf said, the site was a prime target for the Texas company.
Now, his plans to build a home on the property are on hold, and he wishes they had never moved.
“I feel like our property is worthless,” he said. “No one wants to live next to that.”
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