Public lands and rural economies

Over spring break, I took a short trip to Yosemite National Park and hiked the Upper Falls trail. As I made my way up the trail I was struck by the natural beauty of the park and also a sense of gratitude that our society has undertaken the difficult task of facilitating access to these places.

Half Dome and Yosemite Falls from Upper Falls Trail. Source: Chris Hayward (2026)

Something about a well maintained trail thousands of feet up the side of a cliff-face feels just as impressive as massive public works projects like dams and highways, and for good reason. Maintenance of the type of tourism economy generated by our National Parks is a staggering task that is largely undertaken by rural communities surrounding them.

The economic benefits of public lands

The National Park Service manages 17,000 miles of trails across the nation, along with 5,500 miles of paved road, and 25,000 buildings that are in need of constant maintenance and repair. This effort provides massive returns for the U.S. economy that have grown in recent years, as has interest in outdoor recreational activities. In 2024, outdoor recreation activities accounted for 2.4% of GDP. As a proportion of America’s GDP, outdoor recreation is now three times larger than air transport or auto manufacturing, twice as large as agriculture, and larger than oil and gas development. This revenue is especially important in rural states like Montana and Wyoming, where outdoor recreation accounts for at least 4.7% of GDP. In 2024, national parks alone accounted for $56.3 billion in output, 340,000 jobs, and $29 billion for local gateway regions.

The economic benefits of a National Park are nearly immediately apparent in local communities. One study estimated that designation of a National Park causes a 4% increase in employment and a 5% increase in income in communities near national parks within four years of a park being designated. Public lands attract high-wage job opportunities in areas like forestry management and infrastructure maintenance, while generating investment and revenue for local businesses.

Snow, a resident of Priest, CA, relies on tourism to Yosemite for attention. Source: Chris Hayward (2026)

Another study by Headwaters Economics examined the effect of public lands (not limited to the National Park Service) on surrounding communities and found that it provided massive benefits. The study compared the population growth, employment, personal income, and per capita income in western non-metro counties with the top 25th and bottom 25th percentiles of proportion of federal land. Headwaters found that these economic indicators grew two times faster or more in non-metro counties with the highest share of federal lands, though there was a smaller increase in per capita income.

 

Graphic courtesy of Megan Lawson, Ph.D., at Headwater Economics (2017)

The Trump administration and national parks

Despite longstanding bipartisan support for the National Park system, the Trump administration has launched an attack on the Park Service in very classically Trump manner; by slashing funding while politicizing National Parks however possible.

The Trump administration recently cancelled free admission to national parks on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and on Juneteenth, while instead instituting free admission on his own birthday. As an additional insertion of “culture war” politics into national parks, the Trump administration has removed or censored exhibits discussing slavery, LGBTQ history, Native American expulsion from national narks, and climate change. Further, the Trump administration implemented a $100 per person additional fee for non-residents on top of existing fees for 11 popular national parks, including Yosemite.

Bridalveil Falls Source: Chris Hayward (2026)

In addition to these attacks on the inclusivity and historical accuracy of national parks, the Trump administration has made a series of more concrete attempts to gut the National Park System. In the first half of 2025 alone, 24% of National Park Service employees were fired, resigned, or otherwise departed the agency. The Trump administration has significantly increased logging, oil drilling, and coal mining on federal land, while ignoring National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA) and Endangered Species Act (ESA) requirements.

Continued support for national parks

While national parks are under attack by the Trump administration, public support for the national parks remains strong. The National Park Service is the most popular agency in the federal government, with 78% of Republicans and 79% of Democrats viewing it favorably. There has even been bipartisan pushback on the Trump administration’s attempts to gut the National Park System.

In the summer of 2025, a Trump backed provision intended to sell off large portions of public land introduced by Sen. Mike Lee (R-UT) as part of the “Big Beautiful Bill” was withdrawn after it drew strong backlash, even from other Republican members of Congress. Similarly, the Trump administration’s proposed 37% reduction in the National Park Service’s 2026 budget was rejected by the Senate.

Conclusions

While public support for our national parks remains strong, the Trump administration has still managed to do significant harm in 15 short months since he returned to office. Many are concerned that the extreme volatility of the administration may have irreversibly damaged the institutional knowledge of the National Park Service. Rebuilding the expertise of our federal agencies will be an extremely long and difficult task, but so was the effort to protect and maintain these places in the first place. Thankfully, even many Republicans see value in our parks, even if only for the benefits they provide to rural communities. 

The burden of the "American Dream" on rural communities

Photo Credit - Chelsea Peng 2025 "The end of the American Dream and why it’s OK"

On March 14, the House Committee on Small Business held a hearing called “Empowering Rural America Through Investment in Innovation.” Subcommittee Chairman Jake Ellzey, a Republican representing Texas's 6th Congressional District (a mix of Dallas-Fort Worth suburbs and rural counties like Navarro and Cherokee), told the room that “as the demand for AI accelerates, America’s digital infrastructure is rapidly expanding into rural communities.” He promised that for every data center job created, seven more would follow in the surrounding community.

I have spent this semester writing about technology arriving in rural America. The promise is always the same: innovation, jobs, progress. The pattern is also the same: the benefits flow out, and the costs remain.

Three posts, one pattern

In my first post, I wrote about a $25 billion AI data center planned for Tonopah, Arizona, population a few hundred. Backed by a billionaire venture capitalist and a Trump mega-donor, the project would consume as much electricity as a million homes and drain aquifers that residents depend on for drinking water. The tech consumers served by the facility live in cities. The residents of Tonopah got noise, light pollution, and a fight they lacked the political power to win.

In my second post, I stepped back from tech to look at the framing. I had caught myself thinking that rural investment came at urban expense. That zero-sum instinct turned out to be the wrong lens. The federal government spends $850 billion a year on defense and asked $1.8 billion for the Legal Services Corporation. The scarcity pitting rural against urban is a policy choice, not a fact of nature. Rural and urban working people have lost ground to the same forces and share the same interest in functional public services.

In my third post, I wrote about robotic strawberry harvesters arriving in Salinas Valley. Immigration enforcement had squeezed the farm labor supply. The federal government’s response was to lower guest worker wages, and then automation filled the gap. The robots cost $300,000 each, priced for corporate farms. Small growers and the farmworker communities who built Salinas for generations got nothing.

Each story has different characters and geography. But the structure is identical: federal policy creates or worsens a rural problem, and capital arrives promising solutions. The benefits accrue to investors/urban consumers and the people who already live there absorb the costs.

Photo Credit - Will Robinson 2020 "Is the American dream dead?"

The packaging

This pattern persists because it is wrapped in a story that Americans have been told their whole lives: that progress rewards hard work, that innovation lifts all boats, that the people who struggle simply need to adapt. This is the "American Dream," and I have come to believe it is one of the deepest sources of political paralysis in this country.

I said something like this in class a few weeks ago. I told Professor Pruitt and my fellow students that the American Dream is this country’s “original sin.” She pushed back, fairly, and pointed out that there are things about this country that are more original and more sinful. She’s right. Slavery, land theft, and genocide are the material foundations. But the American Dream is the legitimating story that makes those foundations look earned. It converts structural advantage into personal merit and structural disadvantage into personal failure.

I know this because I lived it. I grew up male, Mormon, white, healthy, and financially comfortable. My family believed fiercely in individual agency. I followed the rules and concluded that people whose lives were less "successful" than mine were in that position because of their own bad choices. It took college and a lot of unlearning to see that my “good choices” were only available because the structure was built for me.

The same logic operates at the community level. When a rural hospital closes after Medicaid cuts, residents blame the hospital, not the lawmakers who voted for the bill. When a farmer in Colorado threatens to mechanize rather than pay overtime, the framing is that labor protections killed the farm, not that the farm’s business model depended on paying workers less than the legal standard in every other industry. The American Dream teaches people to punch down and look away from the hand above them.

What would it look like to say no?

There are signs of resistance. At least 25 data center projects were cancelled across the United States in 2025 after community opposition, four times the number in 2024. Rural school voucher programs have been blocked by rural Republicans who understand that their public schools are the backbone of their communities. Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez drew 10,000 people to Greeley, Colorado, a conservative town in Weld County, on a message of class solidarity across the rural-urban divide.

None of these are sufficient. But they share a feature that the American Dream framework lacks: they start from the premise that rural communities have the right to decide what happens to their land, their labor, and their resources. That premise is incompatible with a system that treats rural space as a site of extraction and rural people as obstacles to progress.

Congressman Ellzey’s hearing (referenced at the beginning of this post) promised rural America seven jobs for every data center. Nobody on the panel asked how many jobs, aquifers, and night skies those same communities would lose. Until that question gets equal time, the American Dream will keep doing what it has always done: blaming the most vulnerable among us for their poverty and lack of resources, while lionizing the most powerful people in this country as they get increasingly wealthy. 

The robots are coming to the Salad Bowl

Pro-immigrant demonstrators in Omaha, Nebraska. Photo Credit: NBC News

In June 2025, President Trump paused immigration raids on agricultural workplaces after Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins warned that farmers were growing uneasy about the crackdown. As this blog noted at the time, the pause was short-lived. By October, the Labor Department’s own filing in the Federal Register admitted the crackdown risked “supply shock-induced food shortages.”

Then the federal government made matters worse by lowering wages. A new H-2A  rule (the program sets a federal minimum pay rate for employers hiring foreign agricultural workers) cut the pay rate for guest farmworkers across the country. In California, the rate for unskilled workers dropped from $19.97 to $13.45 per hour, and the United Farm Workers sued. The Economic Policy Institute estimated that farmworkers stand to lose $4.4 to $5.4 billion annually.

This is the context in which agricultural automation is arriving in rural California. The question is who does it serve and who does it displace?

The Salad Bowl goes synthetic

Salinas Valley, California (the “Salad Bowl of the World”) produces the majority of the nation’s lettuce, broccoli, and strawberries. Located in Monterey County, Salinas Valley is over 60% Hispanic or Latino, and the local economy depends on agricultural labor.

In 2025, a nonprofit called the Reservoir opened Reservoir Farms, the first on-farm robotics incubator in California, on 40 acres in Salinas. Backed by companies like John Deere and Driscoll’s (the berry company), the incubator provides startups with fabrication shops, pre-planted test fields, and access to commercial growers. It has since expanded to Sonoma County for vineyard automation.

A “vineyard robot” at work. Photo credit: Cornell Agritech

The startups coming to Salinas Valley build machines designed to do what farm workers currently do by hand. Israeli startup DailyRobotics is deploying robotic strawberry harvesters in California starting April 2026, claiming it works at two to three times the speed of human pickers.

One analysis estimated that strawberry automation alone could eliminate nearly 30,000 farmworker positions in California. The machines, which cost around $300,000 each, are priced for large-scale operations and out of reach for small family growers.

Fast advances in robotics means automated strawberry picking. Photo Credit: DailyRobotics

A manufactured crisis

The labor shortage driving this transition is real, but it is not natural. Over 40% of U.S. farmworkers are undocumented, according to the USDA and the Kaiser Family Foundation. The Trump administration’s immigration enforcement has removed workers from the labor pool while cutting wages for the legal guest workers who remain. In Minnesota, for example, H-2A visa numbers dropped 12% in the first half of 2025.

A prior post on this blog documented this pattern through the 2008 Postville, Iowa raid: 389 arrests in a town of 2,500, the departure of another 1,000 immigrants, the loss of 7% of the county’s workforce, and the bankruptcy of the local factory. The void was eventually filled by a new immigrant workforce from Palau.

The pattern holds internationally. Another post on this blog examined Italy’s “Agro-Mafia,” where restrictive immigration policy has not reduced agricultural dependence on migrant labor but has driven it underground into exploitative networks where workers earn as little as 3 to 4 euros an hour. Punitive enforcement produces either exploitation or automation, depending on who has capital.

Who benefits?

Reservoir Farms says the right things about workforce transition. Its CEO has stated that “automation should augment the workforce, not replace it,” and the Reservoir has partnered with Hartnell College on retraining programs. But as one community organizer in Salinas noted: “We support training, but we also know not every displaced worker will become a robot mechanic.”

Farmworkers harvest strawberries at Lewis Taylor Farms in Georgia. Photo Credit: Lance Cheung

The farmworker communities that have sustained Salinas Valley for generations face a displacement that is social and cultural. Lisa R. Pruitt and Marta R. Vanegas have written about “urbanormativity,” which is the tendency for legal and policy frameworks to render rural populations invisible. Farmworkers in Salinas are doubly invisible: rural and immigrant, performing labor the nation depends on but does not want to see.

This echoes what I wrote about in a previous post on AI data centers in rural Arizona. In both cases, Silicon Valley capital arrives in rural spaces to solve what might be seen as urban problems. Data centers serve urban tech consumers, and harvesting robots serve urban grocery consumers. The costs (labor displacement and strained local resources) fall on the rural communities that host the infrastructure.

The choice ahead

Agricultural automation is probably inevitable. Some of these technologies could genuinely improve conditions for farmworkers. But the federal government that paused immigration raids in June, reversed course days later, cut guest worker wages in October, and admitted to “supply shock-induced food shortages” in a Federal Register filing has offered farmworker communities in places like Salinas no reason to believe help is on the way.

The robots are coming to the Salad Bowl. The question is whether anyone in Washington has thought about what happens to the people already there.

California's bid for carbon capture continues, local communities remain divided

A recent proposal to inject and store millions of tons of carbon dioxide beneath wetlands in Solano County, California marks the latest development in carbon capture and storage (CCS) in the Golden State. Integrating large-scale CCS projects with a clean energy grid is part of California's strategy for reaching net-zero emissions by 2045. 

The state is accelerating CCS deployment through legislative efforts (SB 905, 2022; SB 614, 2025), executive actions (E.O. B-55-18, 2018), and policy declarations (AB 1279, 2022). Detractors say (and research supports) that the capacity for CCS deployment is under-proved; CCS perpetuates reliance on fossil fuels, and the focus on mitigation pulls money and attention away from more beneficial climate innovations. 

The Montezuma Wetlands are a series of tidal marshes in the San Francisco Bay estuary. Until recently, the area "was treated as expendable." Proximity to the Bay Area, lower population numbers, and agricultural land use meant that "[b]y the end of the 20th century, much of the area functioned less as a marsh and more as a repository for industrial waste," Miranda de Moraes wrote in Grist a few days ago. Over the last two decades, ongoing, large-scale restoration efforts have seen the wetlands make a remarkable recovery. In 2020, tidal flows returned and the marsh resumed providing habitat, flood protection, and other ecosystem services to the region. 

Montezuma Hills along the Sacramento River
Image source: public-domain-image.com (2013)

Given this history, the newly-proposed NorCal Carbon Sequestration Hub raises the sore issue of Solano County's role as a dumping ground for the Bay Area's toxic waste. The new CCS storage project seeks to "inject CO2, sourced from refineries, hydrogen plants, and power plants" into the saline aquifers a mile or so below the wetlands. The storage site would be located around the small town of Collinsville. According to Grist, project architects hope to be depositing up to 8 million tons of carbon dioxide annually within the next three years. 

[UC Berkeley Professor of Civil & Environmental Engineering Jamie] Rector believes the site could store at least 100 million tons [of CO2] over its 40-year lifespan. The site’s compacted mud, silt, and clay, he said, would provide a natural cap that could keep the pollutant locked underground indefinitely, while its location alongside Bay Area industries would reduce carbon transportation costs.

Carbon capture and storage as a climate change mitigation strategy is not a new idea. Carbon capture has been used around the globe since the 1970s, and the projects generally come in two flavors: capturing carbon dioxide at the point of emission (point-source capture) or sucking carbon dioxide out of the ambient atmosphere (direct air capture). Once captured, the gases are pressured into a liquid and transported by truck or – more likely – by pipeline to the storage site. 

Researchers and organizations focused on climate change generally agree that some carbon capture and storage will be necessary to reach international climate targets. California may become especially reliant on CCS in order "to eliminate [the] millions of tons of greenhouse gases" needed to meet its carbon-neutrality mandate by 2045. Whether the state can meet these goals without exposing rural communities to localized environmental harms remains to be seen. Thus far, the dozen or so projects awaiting permits occur in largely rural and low-income communities (such as the CarbonTerraVault projects, which are pending permits for multiple carbon capture and storage projects in the San Joaquin and Sacramento Basins). 

A visual representation of CCS
Image Source: CO2GeoNet (Creative Commons license) (2025)

The extent to which communities will welcome the technology is another question. In western Kern County, CalMatters covered community response to a project designed to capture emissions at Elk Hills Oil and Gas Field and then "inject the gases more than a mile deep into a depleted oil reservoir." Elk Hills sits between the small Central Valley towns of Buttonwillow (pop. 1,2501) and Taft (pop. 7,000), about 30 miles west of Bakersfield. Covering the proposal for CalMatters, Alejandro Lazo writes:

Many residents and environmental justice groups oppose these projects because they allow oilfields, power plants and other industrial operations to keep emitting dangerous air pollutants in their communities. At the Kern County project, emissions of fine particles and gases that form smog would be 'significant and unavoidable,' according to the county’s environmental impact report.

On the other side of the conversation lies Dave Noerr, the mayor of Taft. According to CalMatters, Noerr "sees the technology as a gamechanger for Kern County: a way of hanging on to well-paying, middle class oil and gas jobs as California tackles climate change." 

Shuttered gas station near Taft, western Kern County
© Lisa Pruitt (2024)

New reporting from Grist and local news outlets suggest that support for the Montezuma project might be harder to come by. Environmental groups oppose the project for its location near sensitive wetlands habitat just beginning to realize the benefits of ecosystem restoration. Public health professionals cite concerns about leaks and continued exposure to polluting industry. 

The Montezuma NorCal Carbon Sequestration Hub is currently waiting on a permit from Solano County to build a test well. In its permit application, Montezuma Carbon claims the project will bring jobs, tax revenue, and cleaner air to Solano County. However, as proposed, the 45-mile carbon dioxide transport pipeline would run right by South Vallejo. Recent reporting by the Vallejo Sun highlights California EPA data showing that South Vallejo residents already deal disproportionately with poverty, unemployment, air pollution, and higher rates of asthma. 

Opponents frame Montezuma Carbon’s proposal as a question of who controls their land and who absorbs the risks of decarbonization. The county is home to roughly half a million people, including the Bay Area’s largest per capita populations of veterans and residents with disabilities, and it is among the most racially diverse counties in the nation. 

Conclusion

In many ways, the Montezuma Carbon project highlights systemic inequities and urban-centric values lurking in the corners of the energy transition. Success of CCS in California appears to depend (almost entirely) on rural counties and communities to host and accommodate these projects, now and forever. Their permanence raises questions about monitoring, the potential for future harms, and meaningful consent. Similar proposals have been shut down due community opposition in the Midwest (previous coverage of one such proposal on the blog), but the fate of many California projects remains to be decided.

Montezuma Hills between Suisun and Rio Vista
© Lisa Pruitt (2024)

Who’s fighting whom? Rural-urban resource competition as misdirection

When I first read Professor Pruitt's 2014 book chapter on the rural lawscape, my gut reaction was defensive. I learned that rural areas have fewer courts, longer police response times, and less access to legal services than urban areas. The obvious solution would be to invest more money in these areas so that they have real access to justice. But then came my instinctive urban response: who is going to fund this? The taxes from urban spaces? Why should cities subsidize rural services?

I sat with that reaction for a while. It felt spiteful, and after some time, I realized I'd asked the wrong question.

The zero-sum framing

Pruitt's chapter, “The Rural Lawscape: Space Tames Law Tames Space,” talks about the “mutual constitutivity” of law and rural space. Rural areas have less law because their material characteristics (low population density, distance, sparse built environment) make legal infrastructure expensive to maintain. That sparse legal presence then shapes rural culture, fostering self-reliance and skepticism toward the state.

Photo Credit: Jay Walljasper (2019)

The policy implication seems obvious: if rural residents want more legal infrastructure, they need more funding. And state funding is finite, and largely comes from the taxes of wage-earners in the city. So rural gains mean urban losses, right?

This framing positions rural and urban communities as competitors. It shows up in fights over federal appropriations, in resentment about which communities receive disaster relief, and in arguments about whether “real America” deserves more than coastal cities.

Prior posts on this blog have explored related dynamics. One post on California redistricting quoted a rural rice and walnut farmer: “People in the cities don’t have a clue what it takes to survive out here. I don’t think people that were born and raised in the cities can represent us to the same extent.” This frames the issue as the big-city bureaucrats thinking they know better than the rural folk with their actual lived experiences.

Another post on the Secure Rural Schools Act documented how a rural school superintendent made fourteen trips to Washington over three years to secure funding that Congress acknowledged had bipartisan support but still allowed to lapse. The funding was described as “budget dust” relative to federal spending. If rural needs are so uncontroversial and so cheap, why did it take three years and fourteen flights to get the money allocated?

The actual budget

To help me put all this in perspective, I considered the scale of American federal spending. The FY2025 defense budget request was $849.8 billion. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) had access to $28.7 billion in 2025. Customs and Border Protection’s budget was more than $19 billion for that year.

Meanwhile, the Legal Services Corporation asked for only $1.797 billion in 2025, while facing the threat of a proposed 46% budget cut. The LSC distributes funding for civil legal aid to low-income Americans in both rural and urban areas.

Photo Credit: Mina Corpuz (2026)

The access-to-justice gap that the rural lawscape chapter documents is not expensive to address relative to other federal priorities. The entire LSC budget is less than 0.2% of defense spending. Meaningful investment in rural legal infrastructure would cost a rounding error on military appropriations.

This pattern holds across federal spending. In FY2023, 62% of the federal discretionary budget went to militarized programs: war, weapons, law enforcement, incarceration, detention, and deportation. Less than $2 out of every $5 in federal discretionary spending went to education, housing, childcare, disaster relief, environmental protection, or scientific research. Since 2001, the federal government has added $2 to the discretionary budget for militarism for every $1 invested in communities.

Meanwhile, wealth inequality has reached historic levels. In 1963, the wealthiest families had 36 times the wealth of families in the middle. By 2022, they had 71 times the wealth. The incomes of rural men have stagnated for 50 years, while the top 1% saw their incomes increase by 229% between 1979 and 2019. Rural and urban working people have both lost ground to the same forces.

The federal government has the money to invest in rural communities. It simply chooses to fund violence. The scarcity that pits rural against urban is not a fact of nature. It is a policy choice.

The shared problem

Both rural and urban poor face access-to-justice gaps. Rural residents drive hours to reach a courthouse. Urban residents wait months for overburdened public defenders. The material conditions differ, but the underlying problem is the same: inadequate funding for legal infrastructure serving ordinary people.

There is some federal recognition of the specific problems that rural Americans face. The Violence Against Women Act identifies domestic violence in rural areas as a focus for discretionary spending. The Crime Control Act sets aside funds specifically for rural drug enforcement.

But legislative recognition of rural disadvantage does not guarantee meaningful investment. A post on the rural health fund noted that the $50 billion rural health fund in the recent reconciliation bill came alongside $137 billion in projected Medicaid cuts to rural areas over ten years. This is a gesture toward rural needs accompanied by a policy that actively undermines them.

The political function of the divide

When rural and urban residents see each other as competitors for limited resources, they do not build coalitions around shared interests in healthcare, legal access, housing, or economic security. The “why should my taxes go there” instinct, which I initially felt, plays into a framework where ordinary people fight over crumbs, instead of coming together to improve their material conditions.

Photo Credit: Jacob Migdall (2015)

A post challenging the Ezra Klein Show’s framing of rural-urban tension pointed out that rural voters alone lack the numbers to determine national elections. Blaming a “rural coalition” for federal policy obscures the urban voters who supported the same candidates and the structural factors that shape resource allocation. The framing is, as the post puts it, “inflammatory and therefore unhelpful. Of course, it is also inaccurate.”

Rural-urban resentment prevents coalition-building. When a rancher in Modoc County and an unhoused person in Sacramento see each other as competitors, rather than people with shared interests in functional public services, neither builds power.

What is the baseline?

I believe everyone in the United States should have access to a viable, just legal system regardless of where they live. That belief does not require me to think rural and urban interests are identical. It requires me to think they are not fundamentally opposed.

The money exists. The obstacle is political priority. Rural-urban competition is a distraction from the actual allocation choices being made.

Big tech sets its sights on rural Arizona

The blog’s most recent post discussed the Rural Health Transformation Program. Passed as part of Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill,” this “rural slush fund” was added as a last-minute sweetener to secure the support of Alaska Senator Lisa Murkowski.

One of the $50 billion fund’s stated goals is “tech innovation.” States utilizing the funds must spend them on three or more approved uses, including:

Providing training and technical assistance for the development and adoption of technology-enabled solutions that improve care delivery in rural hospitals, including remote monitoring, robotics, artificial intelligence, and other advanced technologies.

This sounds promising. Rural hospitals face unique challenges, and technology that improves care and increases capacity could be transformative. An earlier post on this blog discussed how RFK Jr. has promoted AI nurses as a potential solution to the rural health care crisis. That optimistic vision contrasts sharply with how artificial intelligence is currently arriving in many rural areas.

In December 2025, Sharon Goldman reported for Fortune on a massive AI data center project planned for rural Arizona. The development would be built on a 2,000-acre property called Hassayampa Ranch, located about 50 miles west of Phoenix near the unincorporated community of Tonopah in western Maricopa County. The area is home to a few hundred residents, drawn there for its tranquility and clear skies for stargazing.

Photo caption: Buckeye Ranch, Tonopah. © Nextdoor

This quiet corner of the desert has become the center of intense activity since developer Anita Verma-Lallian purchased the land for $51 million, backed by billionaire venture capitalist and Trump mega-donor Chamath Palihapitiya. The plan is to spend as much as $25 billion to build a data center that would produce 1.5 gigawatts of compute and consume as much electricity as a million homes.

Photo caption: Visualization of the land parcel. © Jason Ma, 2025

Investment in rural communities sounds exciting, but who benefits? As Andrew Aitken noted in The Builder Bureau, AI is largely being developed for and used by urban populations, while rural people continue to struggle with poor network coverage and slow internet speeds. So while it remains unclear whether Tonopah will reap any benefits from hosting AI infrastructure, residents are already bearing the costs.

This pattern echoes concerns raised in prior entries on this blog. A May 2024 post discussed how rural folks in Montana are resisting efforts to make their land a “carbon sponge” for urban America. As one county commissioner put it:

The question I keep hearing is, ‘Why are they making us the dumping ground for the rest of the country?’

A similar dynamic is at play in Tonopah, with rural Arizona poised to bear the environmental burden of infrastructure that primarily serves urban tech consumers.

In her Fortune article, Goldman explains that Tonopah residents are already worried about incoming noise and light pollution, traffic and infrastructure strain, and negative impacts on property values. Concerned community members have organized and signed petitions against the development. But with such a small population, their political power is limited against billionaire-backed interests. As Kathy Fletcher, a 76-year-old resident who lives on a one-acre plot next to the Hassayampa Ranch site, said:

All we can do is plead with the people here... We’re kind of treated like the redheaded stepchild, and they just think they can throw anything they want out here... We’re having a difficult time fighting the battle to tell people, ‘You can make a difference.’

Another major concern is water. AI data centers generate vast amounts of heat and require millions of gallons of water per day for cooling. According to the Environmental and Energy Study Institute, a medium-sized data center can consume up to 110 million gallons of water per year—equivalent to the annual water usage of approximately 1,000 households. Larger data centers can use up to 5 million gallons per day. For the people of Tonopah, who rely almost exclusively on ground wells for their water needs, the prospect of a massive development tapping into their water supply is daunting.

As Dillon Beckett wrote on this blog, utility-scale projects are “overwhelmingly sited in rural areas” and tend to “benefit a sliver of the community’s social strata (wealthy, often absentee landowners, with extensive real estate holdings) while spreading the cost across the entire community.” The Hassayampa Ranch data center fits this pattern: Silicon Valley investors stand to profit, while local residents face rising utility costs, depleted aquifers, and a transformed landscape.

Tonya Pearsall, a Tonopah resident who has lived in the area since 1999, feels a profound sense of loss as this project rapidly changes the character of her once-calm community:

We used to be able to see the Milky Way—that’s why we moved out here... It’s painful... I could break down and cry.

Photo caption: The night sky over Maricopa County. © David Iversen, 2025.

There is some movement in Congress to address these concerns. Representative Jim Costa (D-CA) has introduced the Unleashing Low-Cost Rural AI Act, which would require the Departments of Agriculture, Interior, and Energy to study the impact of AI data center expansion on rural areas, including effects on energy supply, consumer costs, and infrastructure needs. Whether such a study will lead to meaningful protections for communities like Tonopah remains to be seen.

The Hassayampa Ranch project is not unique. Similar fights are playing out in Louisiana, Wisconsin, and Georgia, where rural residents are pushing back against data center proposals that promise economic development but threaten local resources and quality of life.

As AI continues its rapid expansion, rural communities across the country will increasingly find themselves on the front lines of a familiar struggle: who decides what happens to rural land, and who bears the cost of progress?