The sun also rises in Appalachia

In the hollows of West Virginia, where the ridges rise sharply and the coal seams have long since thinned, a quiet revolution is flickering to life. It’s not the kind that rumbles with machinery or blackens the sky but one that hums softly on rooftops, catching the sun’s rays and transforming them into something practical — something like hope. Dan Conant, a lanky, earnest man with a preacher’s zeal and an engineer’s precision, leads this shift. As the founder and CEO of Solar Holler, a solar installation company based in Shepherdstown, he is determined to bring clean energy to rural America — not as a Silicon Valley afterthought but as a lifeline for places like Appalachia, where the old ways of powering life are fading into memory.

Conant doesn’t talk about solar in abstract terms, filled with gigawatts and global salvation. For him, it’s personal, grounded in the dirt and clapboard of the communities he serves. “The ability to deliver for rural places — particularly places like central Appalachia, places that have been left behind — is absolutely huge,” he says in an interview with CEO.com. “This is an opportunity to build wealth, to build sustainable jobs, and to lower costs for folks who desperately need it.” In a region where the coal industry once promised prosperity but has left behind shuttered mines and shrinking towns, Conant views solar not merely as a power source but as a promise fulfilled — a means to give people a stake in their own future.

Solar Holler isn’t your typical solar company, pursuing utility-scale contracts or suburban rooftops filled with cash. Conant’s team focuses on the small and scrappy: a church here, a firehouse there, a double-wide trailer on a hillside. They’ve installed panels on the roofs of volunteer fire departments in Mingo County and powered the United Mine Workers’ training center in Beckley. It’s a patchwork strategy, born from necessity in a landscape where large grids don’t always reach and budgets often fall short. “We’ve learned how to do solar in a way that works for rural America,” Conant explains, “not just the flat, sunny plains of Arizona, but the hollers and hills of West Virginia.”

What sets Solar Holler apart is its refusal to treat rural folks as charity cases or afterthoughts. Conant’s team leans heavily into creative financing — federal tax credits, low-income solar grants, and partnerships with unions — to make solar accessible for people who’ve never had spare change to invest in a green dream. Take their work with the United Mine Workers: Solar Holler installed solar arrays to reduce energy costs for retired miners, a nod to the past that also serves as a bridge to the future. “We’re not here to maximize profit,” Conant says. “We’re here to maximize impact.” That might mean shaving margins to get a system on a low-income home or rigging up a “Solar Test Kitchen” for a nonprofit, where the only return is the glow of a community pulling itself forward.

Since its founding in 2013, Solar Holler has transformed from a scrappy startup into a company that has installed over 1,500 systems across West Virginia and eastern Kentucky, employing dozens of locals — electricians, roofers, and recent high school graduates who might have otherwise left the area. Conant refers to it as “stopping the brain drain,” and he proudly expresses his satisfaction with it. “We’re training people, providing them with skills, and keeping them here,” he states. “That’s how you rebuild a place.”

There’s poetry to this idea of harnessing the sun in a land once defined by what lies beneath it. Appalachia has powered America before — its coal lighting cities and forging steel — but the cost was steep, paid in lungs and landscapes. Now, Conant argues, it’s time for a new chapter, one that doesn’t pit progress against identity. “This isn’t about tree-hugging,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s about keeping the lights on, in a way that makes sense for us.” Solar Holler’s crews aren’t outsiders preaching a coastal gospel; they’re neighbors, speaking the language of pragmatism and paychecks.

Policy has acted as a tailwind. The Inflation Reduction Act, with its substantial solar tax credits, has accelerated Solar Holler’s mission, allowing them to stretch dollars further and reach deeper into the hollows. “It’s been game-changing,” Conant admits. “Without it, we couldn’t do half of what we’re doing.” But he’s quick to point out that the real magic happens in the execution: navigating the steep slopes, the tight budgets, and the skepticism of folks who’ve heard big promises before. Solar Holler’s success isn’t just in the panels they bolt down — it’s in the trust they build, one handshake at a time.

On a crisp morning in Logan County, you can see it unfold. A Solar Holler crew is on a roof, drilling mounts into shingles while a homeowner watches from the porch, coffee in hand. The system won’t just reduce her electric bill; it will give her something to brag about at the diner. Down the road, a church shines under its own array, a beacon of what’s possible when a company invests in the people it serves. “This is what it looks like to do it right,” Conant says, and you believe him — not because he’s selling a vision, but because he’s living it, one sunlit roof at a time.