We used to think of artificial intelligence as software. A product of brilliant minds tapping on keyboards in Silicon Valley. But AI is no longer just code—it’s infrastructure. It’s machines, minerals, and megawatts. And that means places like Cibola County are suddenly back in the spotlight, whether we’re ready or not.
This week, President Trump signed a series of executive orders aimed at increasing America’s energy output. Coal and uranium— two industries long thought to be fading—were not only brought back into the conversation, but prioritized. The orders fast-track permits, block states from restricting energy development, and give the federal government new authority to keep coal and uranium plants online to stabilize the electric grid.
In Cibola County, we know what that means.
We’ve lived through the uranium boom once before. We saw what it brought— jobs, prosperity, and eventually, pain. Whole communities were built on the promise of energy. And many were left with contaminated water, radioactive dust, and a deep distrust of anything that sounds too good to be true.
But this time is different. Because this time, it’s not just about local energy—it’s about global infrastructure.
Artificial intelligence is hungry. It needs data centers— massive buildings filled with high-powered computers— to train and run its models. Those data centers require constant, uninterrupted electricity. Not solar panels that fade at night, not wind that changes with the season. They need 24/7 “baseload” power – Coal. Nuclear. Uranium.
That’s why rural areas with space, power, and minerals are suddenly at the center of an international arms race. Not for missiles—but for AI dominance.
Here in Cibola, we have the land. We have the minerals. We have the legacy.
And we have Mount Taylor.
To many outsiders, Mount Taylor is just another obstacle—something to drill under, or extract from. But to the Acoma, Zuni, Hopi, and Navajo people, it is sacred. It is life. It is identity. To many of us who live in its shadow, it’s more than a mountain. It’s a place that grounds us.
So, what happens when national security and energy demands collide with cultural survival?
The federal government has made its choice clear. Uranium projects near Seboyeta and San Mateo and on Mount Taylor have been named “priority” projects. Coal mines like El Segundo and Lee Ranch could see expanded operations. And state rules meant to protect places like Mount Taylor are being challenged.
There’s no denying that Cibola needs jobs. That our young people need opportunity. That our economy has struggled to replace what was lost. We muse enter this new energy economy with eyes wide open.
Because this isn’t just about digging in the ground.
It’s about who controls the grid. Who owns the future of energy. Who gets to decide what sacred land is worth.
We’ve been through this once before. And we know that when the lights flicker in Silicon Valley, someone’s water table gets lower. Someone else’s land gets hollowed out. Someone else’s history gets erased.
We’re told it’s progress. That AI will unlock prosperity and keep America safe.
But at what cost?
Mount Taylor has stood for thousands of years. It has seen waves of change—geological, cultural, political. It will outlast this moment too.
But the people who live here won’t. We have to live through it. We have to make the decisions. We have to draw the lines between what is negotiable and what is sacred.
Cibola may be a small county in a big country, but we’re not powerless. We have a voice. And before the drills turn on and the mines reopen, we should use it. They’re turning on and opening with or without our voice.