On a bitterly cold Wednesday afternoon in eastern Kentucky, a modest group gathered at the base of a long-abandoned strip mine near the rural town of Roxana. Among them stood Taysha DeVaughan, an enrolled member of the Comanche Nation and one of the founding members of the Appalachian Rekindling Project (ARP). For DeVaughan and many others present, this moment was far more than symbolic—it was sacred.
“It’s a return of an ancestor,” she declared, surveying the battered land beneath her boots. “It’s a return of a relative.” The land, once stripped bare by coal mining and now scarred by the wounds of extraction, was being reclaimed not for profit or development, but for healing.
Reclaiming the Land, Resisting Injustice
On January 22, DeVaughan joined about two dozen people to celebrate ARP’s purchase of 63 acres of land within the proposed footprint of a controversial federal penitentiary. The land, once slated for a massive prison complex, was now in the hands of people intent on preventing further exploitation.
“What we’re here to do is to protect her and to give her a voice,” said DeVaughan. “She’s been through mountaintop removal. She’s been blown up, she’s been scraped up, she’s been hurt.”
The land acquisition marks a major milestone for ARP, which was established in 2023 as an environmental justice initiative aiming to reclaim former industrial sites in Appalachia and return them to Indigenous and local stewardship. ARP envisions transforming the land into a space for ecological restoration, cultural revitalization, and intertribal connection. Their long-term plans include rewilding the area with native plants and animals, including bison, and making it a gathering site for Indigenous communities across the region.
A Coalition Against Incarceration
ARP worked with several local and national organizations—including Build Community Not Prisons and the Institute to End Mass Incarceration—to raise $160,000 to buy the land from a family that had owned it for generations. For many locals, the purchase was a statement against the Bureau of Prisons’ long-standing plan to build a penitentiary on the site—a proposal that has deeply divided the community.
Wayne Whitaker, a retired truck driver who owns land adjacent to the property, had considered buying it as a hunting ground but ultimately supported ARP’s acquisition. “There’s nothing positive we’ll get out of this prison,” he told Grist.
Prisons as Post-Coal “Solutions”
Since 2006, the federal government has had its eye on Roxana for a new penitentiary, pitching it as an economic opportunity for a region long battered by the collapse of the coal industry. In Letcher County, where more than 24 percent of residents live below the poverty line and 5.2 percent of the population has left since 2020, some see the prison as a rare chance for jobs and tax revenue.
Eastern Kentucky University justice studies professor Judah Schept has studied this trend extensively. “Those are all expressions of the economic crisis that has occurred due to the collapse of the coal industry, and for which the prisons and the jails are proposed,” he said.
In his book Coal, Cages, Crisis, Schept explores how former mine sites are often repurposed as prisons or waste dumping grounds. Instead of being seen as ecologically valuable, these lands are viewed as expendable. Yet biologists argue the opposite: the Roxana site, though once devastated, has since undergone reclamation. The regrowth has created a forest habitat for rare and endangered species, including several species of bats protected by federal law.
Environmental Risk and Community Pushback
Opponents of the prison cite not just moral and economic concerns, but also environmental ones. Letcher County was among 13 counties devastated by catastrophic flooding in 2022, a disaster worsened by the weakened watersheds resulting from decades of strip mining. The prison project, they warn, could make flooding even worse.
The Bureau of Prisons itself estimates that construction would damage over 6,000 feet of streams and around two acres of wetlands. Although the agency has promised to compensate the state for the environmental impact, critics argue that such damage can never truly be undone.
Returning to Indigenous Roots
For DeVaughan and others, the reclamation effort is not just about stopping a prison—it’s about beginning the process of returning land to Indigenous stewardship. Prior to colonization and the forced removals of the 18th and 19th centuries, the area was home to several Indigenous nations, including the Cherokee, Shawnee, and Yuchi. These communities cultivated crops, traded with one another, and hunted bison across the hills and valleys of Appalachia.
Over the years, however, corporate interests have claimed much of this land. At times, nearly half the land across 80 counties in the region—from West Virginia to Alabama—has been held by coal, timber, gas, and landholding companies. Many of the prisons built in the region stemmed from deals with these same companies, extending a legacy of external control and resource extraction.
DeVaughan hopes to shift that paradigm. “We want to see the land returned to communities who will treat it with respect,” she said. ARP plans to acquire additional parcels in the future, ensuring more land is shielded from extractive industries and placed under Indigenous and local care.
Reimagining Economic Recovery
Rather than relying on industries that destroy landscapes and exploit labor, DeVaughan envisions a different kind of economic future—one centered on regeneration and renewal. “This isn’t about dollars and numbers,” she said. “It’s about healing and restoration—for the land, and for the people who’ve lived here for generations.”
ARP is already working with researchers, volunteers, and students to inventory the site’s existing plant and animal life. Plans are underway to bring in a herd of bison, possibly through connections DeVaughan has with the Cheyenne and Arapaho nations. This effort will contribute to both ecological and cultural revitalization.
A History of Resistance
This isn’t the first time the Bureau of Prisons has faced local resistance. In 2018, Letcher County master falconer Mitch Whitaker refused to sell his 12-acre property to the agency, forcing it to revise its development plans. Now, ARP’s land purchase represents another significant obstacle to federal plans.
The project has drawn the ire of powerful local politicians. Representative Hal Rogers, who has championed the prison for years, dismissed ARP as “liberal extremists” and “Kentucky outsiders.” But many of those present at the land celebration were lifelong residents, like Artie Ann Bates, who grew up in Letcher County and witnessed firsthand the damage wrought by strip mining.
“It’s just really hard seeing a place you love be destroyed,” she said, bundled against the cold and standing beside her neighbors. For her, the land purchase was far more than symbolic—it was a sign of real progress.
A Future Rooted in Hope
Although the Bureau of Prisons has indicated that land acquisition for the facility will continue, the ARP’s efforts have introduced a powerful new narrative—one rooted in community, environmental stewardship, and Indigenous resurgence.
“We know we’re up against powerful forces,” DeVaughan acknowledged. “But we’re not here to fight with bulldozers. We’re here to offer a different vision of what this land can be.”
Whether that vision will be fully realized remains to be seen. But on that frigid January afternoon, at the foot of a healing mountain, it was clear that hope had returned to Appalachia—one acre at a time.
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