Water is for Fighting Over
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Water is for Fighting Over
AND OTHER MYTHS ABOUT WATER IN THE WEST
John Fleck
Copyright © 2016 John Fleck
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher: Island Press, 2000 M Street NW, Suite 650, Washington, DC 20036.
ISLAND PRESS is a trademark of the Center for Resource Economics.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938029
Printed on recycled, acid-free paper
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10987654321
Keywords: Colorado River Basin, Lake Mead, Morelos Dam, Minute 319, San Luis Río Colorado, cienega, agriculture-to-urban transfers, Metropolitan Water District of Southern California, Imperial Irrigation District, All-American Canal
To Lissa, from the headwaters to the sea
Whiskey’s for drinkin’, water’s for fightin’ over.
—apparently not Mark Twain
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1. Rejoining the Sea
Chapter 2. Water Squandered on a Cow
Chapter 3. Fountains in the Desert
Chapter 4. Negotiating the Rapids
Chapter 5. Arizona’s Worst Enemy
Chapter 6. Averting Tragedy
Chapter 7. Turning Off LA’s Tap
Chapter 8. So Cal Cuts Back
Chapter 9. The Great Fallowing
Chapter 10. Emptying Lake Mead
Chapter 11. Who’s Left Out?
Chapter 12. A Beaver Returns to the Delta
Chapter 13. Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
Acknowledgments
From the day Karl Flessa sat down with me in an Albuquerque bakery named Isabella’s in the summer of 2009 and explained what happens when the Colorado River fails to reach the sea, the members of the river community have been unfailingly smart and generous. That day Karl embodied what I came to see as the two essential traits of this group I have come to know and love: a clear-eyed view of the difficulty of the Colorado’s problems, and persistent optimism that they can be solved.
On the farmlands of the greater Colorado River Basin, Corky Herkenhoff, Tom Davis, Mark Smith, Bart Fisher, the Sharp brothers (Clyde and David), Pat Morgan, Jose Ramirez, and Ron Derma showed me how you move water through a desert to grow food. Tina Shields showed endless patience explaining water in the Imperial Valley and the importance of the Salton Sea. In Las Vegas, Kurtis Hyde taught me how to garden in a desert. In Phoenix, Kathryn Sorensen showed what it takes to keep the taps running for 1.5 million people who chose to build an improbable city in the desert. Bill Hasencamp helped me understand how Southern California has learned to live with less. John Stomp showed me early on why water managers have to take a longer view into the future than most of us.
Tanya Trujillo first explained the strangeness of the Law of the River during a memorable meeting on the Albuquerque Journal’s patio, and then kept explaining it, again, and again, and again. Tom McCann’s deep understanding of the history of the river’s problems and his tenacious pursuit of solutions are a model. Jennifer Pitt and Mike Cohen demonstrated that there is no substitute for putting in the effort to understand how the system works, then spent countless hours helping me up the learning curve.
Mike Connor and the river’s federal management community, past and present, were generous beyond measure with their time, insights, and data—Terry Fulp, Jennifer McCloskey, Bob Snow, Anne Castle, Carly Jerla, Dan Bunk, Rose Davis, Paul Miller, Joe Donnelly, and many more.
Doug Kenney’s and Larry MacDonnell’s scholarship have been central to my understanding of the river’s law, politics, and history. Brad Udall’s insights, friendship, and counsel have been crucial.
More than anyone, John Entsminger helped me understand the importance of “the network”—how a community of trust and reciprocity across difficult geographic and institutional boundaries is the only way to solve these problems.
Stanford University’s Bill Lane Center for the American West and its then-director Jon Christensen gave important early support and encouragement for the project that became this book, and Jon egged me on when I needed it. The Water Education Foundation opened a key door.
My former employer, the Albuquerque Journal, especially Charlie Moore and Isabel Sanchez, long encouraged my journalistic obsession with water. When I needed to devote my full energy to this project, Bob Berrens of the University of New Mexico’s Water Resources Program gave me a new home to think and write, and more importantly shared countless afternoon hours, in my office and his, hashing out the ideas that you see here. Bruce Thomson taught me about water and then literally gave me his old UNM office to write the book in. Melinda Harm Benson in UNM’s Department of Geography and Environmental Studies helped me think through the crucial theoretical issues. And the students in UNM’s Water Resources 571 class proved a patient and inquisitive audience as I pummeled them with lectures about Yuma and lettuce and my strange fascination with the fountains of Las Vegas.
Nora Reed insisted that I think carefully about who is marginalized in the decision-making processes. It was an important moral compass. William S. Reed isn’t here to see the results, but without his loving support this book would not have been possible.
Emily Turner Davis at Island Press has been the best editor a writer could hope for, able to see through my mush to what I was trying to say, then helping me say it.
Most importantly, Lissa Heineman helped me realize this was a thing worth doing, and then listened to every thought and read every word.
CHAPTER 1
Rejoining the Sea
STANDING IN THE DRY BED of the Colorado River at San Luis in the Mexican state of Sonora, just south of the Arizona border, Manuel Campa was insistent. The Mexican border city, perched on a low mesa to the east, is not just “San Luis.” It is “San Luis Río Colorado.” “It’s the only city that has the name ‘Río Colorado,’” Campa, technical director of the city’s water utility, told me as we strolled the river’s sandy bottom on a warm spring morning. It took imagination to grasp what Camp
a was getting at. Nineteenth-century steamboats once passed this spot. The Colorado was once a river here.
No more. The only thing capable of navigating the Río Colorado’s bed that day was a four-wheeler with fat tires. Tamarisk, a scrappy invasive shrub, had long ago replaced native cottonwoods and willows along the river channel.1 Water-loving beavers, once common, seemed a comic impossibility.2
Over the last century, we have taken the river’s water, moving it through dams and canals to grow a hydraulic empire of farms and cities across the semi-arid Colorado River Basin. By the time the Colorado River approaches its feeble desert end, most of its water has been diverted to Denver, Albuquerque, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Mexicali, and vast farmlands in between. Morelos Dam, twenty-two miles upstream from San Luis, diverts Mexico’s share of the water—the last of the river—to the rich, productive farmland of the Mexicali Valley and cities to the west.
Colorado River Basin.
The first time I saw this, I was stunned. Driving the Yuma County levee past Morelos Dam in 2010, I saw the last trickles of water from leaks in the dam and a shallow water table disappear within a few miles into a sandy, dry channel. This great river, the Colorado, around which I have spent much of my life, whose water I have showered with and drunk, which has grown the food I eat and floated my boats for hundreds of miles, simply disappears into the desert sand.
But that spring day in 2014, Campa and I were awaiting something remarkable. In the midst of fourteen years of drought, with reservoirs dropping upstream and fears of water shortage gripping the Colorado River Basin, water managers were creating a modest “pulse flow,” meant to mimic a natural spring flood through the desiccated delta.
It was a test of how much water would be needed for native plants to come back to life and repopulate the area. But as the water arrived at San Luis, and for the weeks after, it became something more. The usually dry riverbed past the town turned into a fiesta as children who had never seen water here frolicked in a briefly flowing Río Colorado. And at another, deeper level, it demonstrated unprecedented international cooperation to achieve a goal once thought impossible.
Chinatown
As California burned through the summer of 2015, its fourth year of drought, geographer Daniel Grant described the myriad photos of cracked reservoir mud and dried irrigation ditches and their accompanying headlines as part of a “genre of apocalyptic prophecy” that functions, according to Grant, “by diagnosing a human misalignment with nature, and foresees a future in which nature—as a kind of secular deity—punishes our errant behavior.”3
For much of my professional life as a writer, chronicling our uneasy existence in this arid place, I embraced this narrative. When I wrote stories about drought for the Albuquerque Journal, we had an office joke about “the obligatory cracked mud photo.” The paper’s photographers and I would hover over stream-gauge data to find the driest stretch of New Mexico’s rivers, and it was always a bonus if they came back with an image that included a dead fish to punctuate the message.
These stories resonate, dominating our understanding of life in the arid West. Thus it is that the classic movie Chinatown has come to stand in for the history of Los Angeles water. It is a tale of villains bent on profit, messing with nature, and ultimately punished for their sins. To many, Chinatown represents water management in LA, despite historians’ best efforts to remind us that it was just a movie, that things didn’t really happen that way.4 The apocalyptic vision isn’t limited to fiction. James Lawrence Powell, in his 2011 Colorado River history Dead Pool, predicts a Grapes of Wrath–like exodus from Phoenix.5
Perhaps no work is more important to the West’s narrative of crisis than journalist Marc Reisner’s epic Cadillac Desert, ominously subtitled The American West and Its Disappearing Water. Its core message, one commentator wrote later, was that the overbuilding of dams and overuse of water in the western United States would “catalyze an apocalyptic collapse of western US society.”6 Whether that is a fair characterization of Reisner’s work is an open question. Cadillac Desert has become shorthand for the water crisis, with all varieties of doom attributed to Reisner.
In fact, Reisner concentrated his fierce critique on what he saw as a corrupt process that overbuilt the West’s great plumbing system. The subtitle notwithstanding, Cadillac Desert spends little time on the “disappearing water,” or the actual human consequences of water shortages. But neither did Reisner shy away from apocalyptic rhetoric. In the 1993 afterword to the book’s second edition, Reisner was explicit. California had just experienced what was at the time its worst drought on record, which, Reisner said, “qualifies best as punishment meted out to an impudent culture by an indignant God.”7
Like many who manage, engineer, utilize, plan for, and write about western water today, I grew up with the expectation of catastrophe. I first wrote about water shortage in California during that same late-1980s–early-’90s drought Reisner bemoans. But as drought set in again across the Colorado River Basin in the first decade of the twenty-first century, I was forced to grapple with a contradiction: despite what Reisner had taught me, people’s faucets were still running. Their farms were not drying up. No city was left abandoned.
I began asking the same question, again and again: when the water runs short, who actually runs out? What does that look like? Far from the punishment of an indignant God, I found instead a remarkable adaptability. In Doña Ana County on the Rio Grande in southern New Mexico, I saw farmers idle alfalfa and cotton fields, crops that bring low returns for each gallon of water, shifting scarce supplies to keep high-dollar pecan orchards healthy and productive. As water supplies dropped to record lows, farmers continued to prosper. New Mexico’s cities fared just as well. In the midst of the drought, Albuquerque cut its per capita water use nearly in half, and the great aquifer beneath the city actually began rising as a result of a shift in supply and reduced demands. Across the Colorado River Basin, I found the same story over and over, from the fountains of Las Vegas and Phoenix to the farms of Imperial and Yuma counties, to the sprawling coastal metropolis of LA.
When people have less water, I realized, they use less water.
In spite of the doomsday scenarios, westerners were coping, getting along with their business in the face of less water. Things might have been easier had we not made the mistakes Reisner so ably documented, but we did what we did and, as scarcity sets in, we are adjusting to the new realities. I have witnessed this resilience time and again as I travel the hydraulic landscape of the western United States. This book chronicles my attempt to understand and explain where that ability to adapt comes from, how it works, and how we can call on it to get us through the hard times ahead.
The Myths
The catastrophe narrative isn’t just inaccurate—it promotes myths that actually stand in the way of solving our problems. Most obvious is the myth that “water’s for fighting over.” The quote is wrongly attributed to Mark Twain, but it’s also just plain wrong. Fighting rarely solves water problems, and scholars have found that collaborative agreements are far more common than winner-take-all fights, whether in the courts or with guns.
A corollary myth is that “water flows uphill toward money,” as if the rich will inevitably run roughshod over their neighbors in the coming water wars. But a century of water allocation law and policy shows this is simply false for the vast majority of the water in the United States. One need simply look at farming’s share of Colorado River water (some 70 to 80 percent) compared with its share of the economies of the US basin states (2 percent) to see the fallacy in that truism. The far-richer cities have far less water than their farming cousins.8
The most pervasive of the myths is that we are “about to run out of water.” I’ve heard it countless times, and it usually follows a predictable pattern. Today, we need this much water to support this many people and this much farming. As either grows, we’ll need more water, the narrative would suggest. When the “need” line crosses the
supply line, we will “run out.” This ignores history, where again and again we have seen both city and farm communities adapt and continue to grow and prosper without using more water, often, in fact, using less. But that deeply held fear of “running out” of water feeds back into the first myths, triggering a limbic response to protect “our share” against others.
And therein lies the risk. If everyone ignores their own adaptive capacity and simply fights for more, or even fights for the share they’ve got now in a shrinking system, we are led headlong into conflict, with dangerous results. If instead we recognize our ability to make do with less, and invest in institutions that facilitate water sharing, we can create systems for robust, flexible, and equitable water allocation. Only then can we preserve the West that we all have come to inhabit, know, and love.
Stories of Success
There are success stories in the recent history of the Colorado River’s management.
The first type of success story involves communities that have found a way to use less water. It happens at many different scales and among many different types of water users.
Big cities, like Albuquerque and Las Vegas, have shown remarkable conservation success, with populations continuing to grow in recent decades even as water use goes down. Regional water managers at agencies like the Metropolitan Water District of Southern California and the Central Arizona Water Conservation District have developed innovative, flexible new approaches to managing supplies; storm-water capture, sewage reuse, aquifer storage, and other similar innovations have diversified sources of water and provided a buffer against drought.
Farm communities also have demonstrated the ability to do more with less, with agriculture thriving in California’s Imperial Valley and Yuma, Arizona, even as they face pressure from outsiders charging that their water use is wasteful.