In Klickitat County opposition to solar-energy development highlights a tricky environmental problem spreading across the country

Baldock Solar Station Photo by Oregon Department of Transportation

Mixed company: Nature and commerce find common ground at Baldock Solar Station off I-5 in Oregon. In residential areas, industrial-level solar installations are a tougher fit. Photo by Oregon Department of Transportation

By Chuck Thompson, January 28, 2021. As an exercise in rural governance, the January 14 meeting of Washington’s Klickitat County Board of Commissioners provided a near perfect distillation of why it’s practically impossible to inspire civic engagement in local politics. And why the fight against climate degradation often feels like such a discouraging and impossible endeavor.

The board’s specially convened “workshop” was undoubtedly conceived with good intentions—an hour-long one-off in which the county’s three commissioners and staff would discuss solar-energy development in the county. It’d give the public the opportunity to get up to speed on an issue that’s become increasingly important just beyond their front doors.

Rolling invitingly beneath the snowy slopes of Mt. Adams, large, uninhabited tracts of open land in Klickitat County—a pastoral idyll with a population of about 22,000 in southern Washington—have become a magnet for multinational energy companies looking to build massive solar-power installations.

When Lund Hill, the county’s first industrial-scale solar factory was approved in 2019, Washington’s Department of Natural Resources touted it as a first-of-its-kind use of state lands for solar power.

DNR Commissioner Hilary Franz emphasized that grazing permits on the 480 acres of state land used in the 1,800-acre Lund Hill project generated only $2 per acre in annual lease payments. Avangrid Renewables, the company leasing the Lund Hill land for its 500,000 photovoltaic-panel solar installation, would pay $300 an acre. Revenue from the use of the land goes to the Common School Trust, used for school construction across Washington state. Franz called the deal a “win-win-win.”

Avangrid is a subsidiary of Iberdrola, a utility company based in Spain valued at $62.5 billion. Its construction of the Lund Hill installation is expected to be complete by the end of 2021. Though not yet online, Lund Hill has kicked off a solar rush.

“All of a sudden we have got people poking around, leasing land and starting studies,” said Dana Peck, executive director of the Greater Goldendale Area Chamber of Commerce, in a 2019 interview with the Seattle Times. Goldendale is the Klickitat County seat and largest city.

“We are open for business,” confirmed Franz in the same article.

A workshop for whom?

Though Klickitat County’s January 14 solar workshop was open to the public, its Zoom audience microphones were muted. Neither public comment nor Q&A session was on the agenda. The meeting was intended as an informational forum during which the county’s commissioners would discuss issues connected to solar-power development.

As the workshop progressed, however, two things became clear. First, that the commission is united in its support of turning over huge swaths of land to out-of-state and overseas energy corporations and has no intention of taking seriously any opposition to plans for major development. Second, even if they did it wouldn’t matter. Massive solar installations are coming to Klickitat County whether anybody who lives there wants them or not.

About 20 minutes into the discussion Commissioner Dan Christopher said opponents of solar developments, “will be able to have a voice in the permit processing, but it doesn’t necessarily stop a project or a plan or our official policy. It just allows them to have a voice in that particular development and not our policy thinking.”

Washington Department of Natural Resources Commissioner Hilary Franz photo by Washington DNR

It’s always sunny in Olympia: Washington Department of Natural Resources Commissioner Hilary Franz. Photo by Washington DNR

If that came across as a pat on the head to opponents of commission policies, a comment Christopher delivered 10 minutes later about a proposed solar-power project known as the Knight Road substation landed a little lower.

“There’s nothing stopping this project, future projects, unless we have a complete change of policy, which the majority of the people would have to scream for,” Christopher said. “And it’s my understanding that even then if every single person in Klickitat County said no on solar, the solar company could still go through the state and you’d get it anyway.”

At this point a member of the presumably muted audience identified himself as Brian Walsh of Avangrid Renewables. Despite being told by two commissioners that the meeting was not open to public comment—and that letting him weigh in would be unfair to local residents not allowed to speak—Walsh nevertheless pressed forward, confirming to all gathered that they indeed had no final say in the matter.

“The answer to the question could you just go to Washington, the answer is true,” said Walsh, a Portland-based development director for Avangrid.

Avangrid and the commissioners’ shared supposition of state authority is based on power granted to Washington’s Energy Facility Site Evaluation Council (EFSEC), which says it “provides a ‘one-stop’ siting process for major energy facilities in the State of Washington.” A Generalized Siting Process flow chart produced by EFSEC shows the governor having final approval of lease applications. (Kenny Ocker, communications manager for DNR, which entered into the lease of lands with Avangrid for Lund Hill, responded to an interview request from Columbia Insight about solar projects in Klickitat County by directing the query back to the county and state Department of Ecology.)

Potential negative impacts of solar factories barely rated a mention at the workshop. Most of the session was dedicated to a fait accompli discussion of the process by which solar factories could pass though permitting process hoops.

All of this was carried out in the procedural, somnambulant monotone for which midweek, dead of winter, local council meetings are renowned. Each of the three commissioners expressed considered and rational views on the topic at hand.

MORE: 16 and counting: Inside Klickitat County’s war on cougars

In rural Washington it’s no surprise to find a county commission in favor of industrial development. As Dave McClure, the county’s natural resources director reported during the session, wind energy accounts for an estimated 100 to 120 jobs in the county with a pay range of $52,000-$115,000, well above the regional average.

No amount of professionalism or thoughtfulness, however, could shroud the workshop’s ultimate takeaway: however congenially accomplished the decisions being made by the board will have negative environmental consequences Klickitat and neighboring counties will be stuck with for generations.

This is how climate change and habitat destruction are abetted at local levels—with collegial smiles, economic logic and the best of intentions.

Opposition takes form

On a bright October morning in 2020, Klickitat County resident Greg Wagner noticed a strange car parked in the wheat field behind his house. On the side of the car he spotted the logo of Terracon, a Kansas-based engineering consulting firm with 150 offices serving all 50 states.

Not far from the car a woman was bent over, shoveling small piles of dirt into a Ziploc bag. Behind her, a backhoe was churning up larger pieces of earth.

Wagner, a retired journeyman electrician who’s lived in Klickitat County for seven years, walked outside and asked the woman what she was doing. The woman answered she was taking soil samples but, according to Wagner, declined to provide further information.

C.E.A.S.E. founder Greg Wagner says industrial solar is a national not local issue. Photo courtesy of C.E.A.S.E.

Broad view: C.E.A.S.E. founder Greg Wagner says industrial solar is a national not local issue. Photo courtesy of C.E.A.S.E.

“So I went over and asked the backhoe operator what was going on and he told me this area is going to be a solar farm,” recalls Wagner. “That’s when C.E.A.S.E. came into existence.”

C.E.A.S.E., which stands for Citizens Educated About Solar Energy, is a community organization focused on solar development Wagner founded three months ago. It’s since grown to about 200 members. Its mission statement reads: “It is not our intention to stop solar entirely. We simply want the ordinances updated and the public aware of the current dangers that utility solar farms are posing on counties across our nation.”

Wagner and other C.E.A.S.E. members have become regulars at Klickitat County commissioners meetings. Their goal is to get the local government to halt permitting of solar-power developments until impact and mitigation studies can be done, and outdated permitting guidelines can be reviewed.

Renewable energy development regulations and policies in Klickitat County generally date to 2004-05, when they were written to accommodate the influx of wind farms. With 602 wind turbines in the county, wind power is a core piece of its economic development strategy. C.E.A.S.E. wants the county to rewrite its regulations and policies in light of impacts specific to solar energy.

“All we want is a moratorium to give us time to study all the issues and convince them that to cover 5,000 acres here with solar panels is irresponsible,” says Wagner. “They (the Board of County Commissioners) don’t want a moratorium. They don’t want to scare off energy companies because they want the tax revenues. We feel like they’re listening but not responding.

“I told them C.E.A.S.E. is not your adversary, we’re here to work with the county for the good of all citizens. They just don’t want to work with us. Why is it the energy company got time to talk at the (January 14) workshop but citizens didn’t get equal time?”

Elaine Harvey is a Klickitat County resident, Yakama Nation Tribal Member and fish biologist who believes leasing land for commercial use could violate treaties that allow Yakama Nation members the use of public lands for hunting, fishing and other traditional activities. She joined C.E.A.S.E. in December 2020. Like Wagner, she’s dismayed by what she characterizes as the county government’s headlong and ill-informed pursuit of solar-energy development.

“They (the commissioners) don’t do their research,” says Harvey. “They want to invite these big companies in without thinking about the long-term consequences. These are 40-year leases.”

MORE: Rural solar project in Oregon faces local opposition, wildlife concerns

Harvey called the January 14 workshop “depressing.” Wagner called it “disheartening.” Both describe the commission’s actions as “secretive” and its knowledge of solar energy inadequate.

“County officials believe they are making big money—in reality no,” says Wagner. “(They are) just being used by big business. Our county has some of the most lenient ordinances. That is why these solar companies are wanting to build here. They can go to library.municode.com and view every state and county ordinances and then pick which county offers the least resistance.”

During the Zoom workshop the muted Harvey could only swallow her emotions when one of the commissioners said, “We went through this exercise with wind. I don’t know that solar is that dissimilar.”

“With wind and solar you’re talking about two different things,” says Harvey, who has a master’s degree in resource management and is a doctoral student enrolled in the University of Idaho’s Natural Resources PhD program. “They aren’t the same thing at all.”

An inconvenient truth about an inconvenient truth

The gathering controversy in Klickitat County raises a fascinating ethical dilemma for environmentalists. Most if not all have come to understand that more than a century of burning coal, gas and oil for energy has brought the planet to the brink of a full-blown climate catastrophe from which it may never recover. Solar energy has been celebrated as, if not a cure-all, a major part of the solution.

No energy source is perfect. If we want hot showers and cars there’ll always be an environmental price to pay, no matter how many layers of green paint we apply. But issues associated with industrial-level solar power are vastly more problematic than most people realize.

The complex laundry list starts with the panels themselves. Toxic chemicals used in solar panels include cadmium telluride, copper indium selenide, cadmium gallium (di)selenide, copper indium gallium (di)selenide, hexafluoroethane, lead, polyvinyl fluoride and silicon tetrachloride, a byproduct of producing crystalline silicon.

Then there are the lithium ion batteries common in solar installations.

Similar to fracking, lithium mining involves drilling a hole in the ground then using hundreds of thousands of gallons of water to pump a brine of minerals to the surface. From this brine lithium carbonate is extracted. Toxic wastewater is often pumped into rivers and other water sources.

“They did that in China and killed a lot of fish,” says Wagner.

Mt. Adams Klickitat County by Gary Dee/Wikimedia Commons

County pride: At 12,280 feet, Mt. Adams provides Klickitat and surrounding counties with clean water and stellar views. Some locals worry industrial-scale solar factories will infringe on both. Photo by Gary Dee/Wikimedia Commons

Disposal is a growing problem. Solar panels installed in the early 2000s are reaching the end of their life cycles. The most common industry practices are to burn or simply bury old panels in landfills.

“Potential leaching of these metals into the surrounding environment can pose a public health problem,” wrote Discover magazine in December 2020. “As society continues to adopt solar power, this problem may worsen in the coming decades, with almost 80 million tons of solar waste projected by 2050.”

When massive solar factories are installed, places like Klickitat County experience their own localized effects.

“Solar farms take good farmland out of production,” says Wagner. “There are issues with storm water, wildlife habitat and pollinators.”

“I live in an area that has so much diverse wildlife that’s not going to be able to use the area because they’re going to fence it all off,” says Harvey. “There will no longer be migratory corridors for certain species. We have wetlands here. If 2.5 million solar panels go in, what’s the impact to the birds?

“The chemicals they use to wash these solar panels can lead to contamination of the groundwater. It’ll eventually go to our hatcheries and the fish will all die. That can happen pretty fast. With climate change we don’t have as much snowpack as we used to, so a solar (installation) is going to impact the water availability for everybody, and they’ll need lots of water to wash those panels.”

MORE: Less snow is the new norm. That’s trouble for farmers

The problem isn’t limited to Klickitat County. In November 2020, residents in southern Oregon’s Langell Valley protested a proposed, 1,851-acre solar-power factory there.

“The view is going to be atrocious,” said one local homeowner, who lives near the site of the planned installation. “Instead of seeing cattle grazing on pasture, wetlands and deer, they’re going to see an eight-foot chain-link fence and solar panels.” 

Novel solution?

Log onto the “Solar Projects” page of the Klickitat County website and Lund Hill is the only development you’ll find listed. Call the Planning Department and you’ll be told no other projects are currently being considered in the county.

“We do have one solar project approved a year ago. That is Lund Hill,” says Mo-chi Lindbland, Klickitat County planning director, who spoke at the solar workshop. “That’s the only one that we’ve received an application for and issued a permit on. Until I have an actual application I don’t have much information I can provide to the public.”

Although Lindblad is aware of companies such as Invenergy, Cypress Creek Renewables and NextEra Energy—all large energy concerns C.E.A.S.E. emails say have been actively scouting the area—she politely deflects any talk of actual projects in the works.

“At least two of them did express interest and asked the county about the permitting process,” she says. “But we have those inquiries all the time. Unless I have a permit application I don’t have much input that I can share.”

Elaine Harvey photo by Elaine Harvey

Fluid situation: Fish biologist Elaine Harvey is worried about the impacts of contaminated runoff from solar factories. Photo courtesy of Elaine Harvey

There’s nothing inaccurate in any of that, but Lindblad’s assessment of solar energy development in Klickitat County presents a mere fraction of the picture. To locals like Wagner, it suggests a “total lack of transparency” and aggravating reluctance by county leadership to address issues that opponents of new solar installations find unacceptable.

“This is the solar-panel monopoly that Klickitat County is entering,” says Harvey. “We are enabling the big polluter companies who buy solar farms (for carbon tax credits) and are destroying the atmosphere, and told we gotta live with it. I just think we’re their little pawns.”

“It’s very doubtful a company from Spain worth $62 billion cares very much about Klickitat County,” says Wagner, referring to Lund Hill developer Iberdrola. “We’ve got a big problem in our county but it’s a problem that exists all across America. It’s not a ‘me’ issue here in our county it’s a ‘we’ issue everywhere. There has to be some common ground.”

Maybe that common ground is a place that’s already been consumed by energy production. Harvey has a suggestion.

“Why are we disturbing good habitable land and good agricultural land when you’ve got Hanford nearby?” she asks, referring to the decommissioned nuclear production complex about 90 miles northeast of Goldendale. “Nobody lives there. It’s uninhabitable. There are big, open pieces of land that are contaminated already, just put the solar power over there.”

It’s an interesting idea, but those counting tax revenues in Klickitat County would likely not receive Harvey’s suggestion favorably. Hanford is located in neighboring Benton County.

Even so, it’d be nice if somebody took the time to look into it. Maybe one of those big multinationals looking for a deal could be persuaded to come to Klickitat County’s aid, one way or the other.

Chuck Thompson is the editor of Columbia Insight.