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Lydia Larce has what she calls “storm PTSD.”

When the sun goes down, the wind picks up in central New Mexico, whipping through arid canyons with a ghostly howl that for centuries, locals have likened to the wails of the folkloric ghost La Llorona.

A few hours east of Albuquerque, this June, those gusts began powering the largest wind farm this continent has ever seen, twirling over 900 colossal steel turbines. Each is as tall as the Statue of Liberty, scattered across a patch of desert roughly the size of Chicago. They plug into a 550-mile transmission line stitched across the Southwest and are now powering over 1 million homes — as far away as California.

The SunZia Wind and Transmission project is a rare 21st-century triumph of American infrastructure, an engineering marvel that generates more electricity than the Hoover Dam. When the turbines came online this spring, they immediately broke records for wind-generated power in California’s energy supply, where solar power may rule the day, but the winds of New Mexico increasingly fuel the night.

After years of stagnant power growth, the U.S. is absolutely starving for more electricity, with demand projected to rise by 25 percent by the end of this decade, and a staggering 78 percent by 2050. Enormous as this challenge might seem, it may ultimately be the catalyst the country needs to dramatically dial up its renewable energy infrastructure, so that the years to come are powered not by gas or coal, but by clean energy sources like the sun and the wind. By next summer, the project will have prevented about 9 million metric tons of carbon dioxide from entering the atmosphere, according to Pattern Energy, the project’s developer.

For decades, however, it seemed the project would remain little more than a spectral dream.

“It works!” This was the call Hunter Armistead, Pattern’s CEO, remembers getting from his head engineer when the turbines came online for the very first time. “We were creating power, and it was showing up 550 miles away in Phoenix, almost as if it was magic.” During the ribbon-cutting for the wind farm, some construction workers showed off massive new turbine tattoos. “It’s their pride that for the rest of their lives, they can drive by and tell their kid, ‘I did this,’” Armistead said.

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But SunZia almost didn’t get built at all. It is not just the project’s scale that makes it remarkable, but the utter morass its developers slogged through to bring it online. The project spanned five presidential administrations, an ownership change, a major reroute, and a standoff with a U.S. military base.

It also involved a series of lawsuits from local tribal communities and environmental advocates, some of which remain pending even as the turbines now finally whirl. Building any renewable megaproject requires vast amounts of space, and hyper-specific natural conditions, like a wind that blows at night or a reliably sun-soaked desert plain. Then getting that energy to major cities means traversing some of the most pristine, spectacular natural corridors this nation has left, and particularly in the Southwest, rubbing up against the sacred lands of local tribal communities.

The decades-long saga to settle some of these tensions has turned SunZia into a helpful lesson, and for many, deserved or not, it became the ultimate poster child for permitting reform. And for many years, the country’s need for power didn’t seem to call for such a wildly ambitious project anyway. But in the interim, as the world changed, SunZia changed too, becoming — at least in some places — a better and more collaborative project than it was when it began. And now, with a nation finally focused on building more clean energy megaprojects, it can offer a glimpse of what’s to come, even a blueprint of what could be.

The real reason(s) it took so long for SunZia to get built

When SunZia was first proposed in 2006, the same year Twitter went online, coal was still the most important electricity source in America, and the nation’s appetite for electricity had remained nearly flat year after year.

And for the next 17 years, SunZia flailed, never even breaking ground. It ping-ponged between financial and regulatory purgatories that most commentators have attributed to endless permitting delays. There were, for example, a few state-level permitting debacles, with New Mexico rejecting SunZia’s initial transmission route in 2018. Even after such interstate power lines get federal approval, they often need to wait years longer for approvals from every state in which their project passes.

Senator Martin Heinrich of New Mexico, for one, has cited SunZia as a key impetus for his co-sponsoring the Senate’s new plan for permitting reform. This would make it easier for the federal government to coordinate approval processes for interstate transmission lines, ensuring that they happen concurrently and preventing one state from dragging its heels.

The project had faced one particularly large and sticky permitting challenge: getting the power through the White Sands Missile Range. But this, and other challenges, were eventually resolved relatively quickly. And to David Hayes, who served as deputy secretary of the Department of the Interior during the Obama administration, this suggests that financing hamstrung the project even more than red tape.

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“The facts are the facts, and they got their permit,” said Hayes — all the way back in 2015, not long after the Obama administration put SunZia on a “fast track” to approval. “So we finally got the permit done. Hooray, right? And then nothing happens. Nothing happens.”

Part of that was the fact that the two states where SunZia wanted to build its transmission lines were not entirely on board. But it was also the sheer expense involved in building the project, especially given that the federal approval required burying parts of the transmission line near the missile range. Moreover, even if everything went perfectly with the project’s permitting process, it might have been impossible to build SunZia back then, said Armistead, because “we really didn’t have the market need for it.”

The U.S. simply wasn’t as ravenous for new electricity as it is right now, and the importance of building out the future of energy was not enticing enough for investors on its own.

But, refusing to die a slow death of a thousand permitting blockades or financial setbacks, SunZia instead evolved. Pattern Energy, initially only in charge of developing the wind farm portion of the project, took over the transmission line project in 2022. Around that time, SunZia applied for a revised federal permit, one that would circumvent the missile range, and within less than two years — a relative sprint for federal bureaucracy — they had a new approval in hand. Then came $11 billion in financing from several global financial institutions, pension funds, and clean energy investors. Then, a few years of construction time later, the Americas’ biggest wind farm was finally switched on.

And more massive projects like this will be needed, because nowadays “there is no longer the excuse” of a market unready for high volumes of clean energy, Armistead told me. “It is game time, and we’re supposed to get this done.”

What America’s biggest clean energy project got right

One of the secrets to SunZia’s ultimate success in New Mexico was the project’s ability to strike compromises, even with some of its earliest critics. In some cases, a bunch of birds.

Right about now, the earliest migratory birds, like the crimson-capped sandhill crane, have begun arriving at their Southwestern wintering grounds, not far from some of SunZia’s newly operational high-voltage transmission lines.

This crane had nearly gone extinct before, driven in part by an explosion of new hydroelectric dams in the early 20th century, whose construction dried out local wetlands. SunZia’s initial route, which was planned across one of the most congested flyways in the country, threatened them again, birders feared, alongside other migratory species who might accidentally fly into the new power lines, a threat believed to kill millions of birds nationwide each year.

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While SunZia’s original developer, the Southwestern Power Group, was largely unmoved by those concerns, said Sarah Rose, vice president of climate at the National Audubon Society, the nonprofit found an unusually receptive partner to compromise when Pattern Energy took over.

“They took their role as a project developer really seriously,” she said, “and I think they engaged with us with a lot of integrity and a lot of good faith.” Under a rerouting plan, original power lines were moved north, erected next to existing infrastructure, or affixed with visual warning systems or bird diverters. Not only did the changes make the bird advocates happy, but they were enough to help convince the New Mexico Public Regulation Commission, which had rejected SunZia’s permit application a few years earlier in part due to these concerns, to unanimously approve the project in 2022.

To be clear, not everybody believed Pattern always made the appropriate compromises, especially in Arizona, where SunZia’s route remained unchanged under the new management. Peter Else, a local environmentalist, has spent years fighting SunZia in court over its intrusion into the scenic San Pedro Valley, a region that is sacred to Indigenous communities such as the Tohono O’odham Nation and San Carlos Apache Tribe. To see it marred by more power lines through the landscape has been like “mourning a death,” Else said, “like an ecological homicide.”

He would have liked to see SunZia try to run the valley’s new power lines alongside existing ones, as it managed to do in parts of New Mexico, a process that Armistead told me would not have been possible because the Arizona portion of the line “was already put to bed,” and the original federal permit had found the valley to be “the least impactful and best route.” A lawsuit from the Tohono O’odham Nation and San Carlos Apache Tribe accusing SunZia and the Department of the Interior of failing to protect the valley remains pending.

Of course, climate change threatens many of these regions more than a single power line. In the two decades it took SunZia to begin pumping clean energy across state lines, waves of extreme heat have taken tens of thousands of American lives, and the entire Southwest has continued in a mega drought unseen in the past 1,200 years.

These are some of the very concerns that SunZia seeks, in part, to combat. And if we want to avoid even more heat deaths, extreme droughts, more flash floods, and more habitat destruction, then we probably will need a lot more facilities like it, some of which will require hard tradeoffs.

But they aren’t doomed always to. It may have taken SunZia over a decade to learn that lesson, but for future megaprojects, the blueprint may already be there. The nearby 280-mile high-voltage Southline Transmission Project spanning parts of Arizona and New Mexico is set to begin construction next year, and it’s been so intentional about minimizing its ecological and cultural impact that even Else praised it as a good idea. And this approach could pave the way for even more essential large-scale projects like it. “If more folks could come to the table looking for solutions as opposed to expecting conflict,” Rose said, “I think we would be able to move a lot more quickly.” Ideally, it won’t take another 20 years.

This story was supported by a grant from Arnold Ventures. Vox had full discretion over the content of this reporting.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline How the biggest renewable energy project in US history finally got built on Nov 1, 2026.