The Colorado River states are deadlocked and the river is crashing. Will a ‘grand bargain’ finally get its day?

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July 8, 2026

Glen Canyon Dam and Lake Powell, one of the nation’s largest-capacity reservoirs whose operation has been a point of contention between the Upper and Lower Basins of the Colorado River. (Alexander Heilner, The Water Desk)

This story was originally published by Western Water on June 25, 2026.

For the past 20 years, the Colorado River has been operated under a set of guidelines negotiated between the seven states that depend on the river. Those guidelines expire this year, and after five years of grinding negotiations over a new agreement, the upstream states of Colorado, Wyoming, Utah and New Mexico remain deadlocked against the downstream states of California, Arizona and Nevada.

Some 40 million people and 5.5 million acres of farmland depend on the river’s water. But after the states failed to meet two federal deadlines in three months, the river is in a moment of unprecedented crisis. A dire snowpack has left flows just 15 percent of normal, many farms without water and several cities scrambling to secure water supplies as they gird themselves for shortages.

That has set up a showdown over a legal time bomb that’s been ticking away at the heart of the Colorado River Compact since the river’s guiding document was signed more than 100 years ago. The Lower Basin states believe the Compact promised them a minimum delivery of water sent down the river from the Upper Basin. The Upper Basin states believe the Compact promised them a fixed amount of water that they could rely on to meet future growth. As the river’s flows have dwindled, those two supposed guarantees are proving to be irreconcilable.

Experts have seen the showdown coming for a long time, but climate change has accelerated the day of reckoning. In 2000, a drought sunk its teeth into the river and hasn’t let up. Dubbed the Millennium Drought, it is now recognized as one of the worst droughts on the river in more than 1,200 years — and may actually be the beginning of a long-term shift to a drier reality.

Despite near-endless negotiations to find a way to keep the river’s massive reservoir system from crashing — an effort that began over two decades ago — the drought may have finally pushed the Colorado River Compact to its limit. Now, the system is nearly empty and runoff from this winter’s snowpack, the source of any water that might offer even a small hope of relief, will be among the lowest since Glen Canyon Dam was built near the Arizona-Utah border, creating Lake Powell, more than 60 years ago. Flows in the river are perilously close to hitting the primary legal “tripwire” in the Compact. Once that’s crossed, the Lower Basin states would likely try to force the Upper Basin to deliver their water apportionment downstream — a prospect long considered unthinkable.

“All those negotiations helped push the day of reckoning back further, and helped delay the inevitable,” says Doug Kenney, who heads the University of Colorado’s Western Water Policy Program. “But at some point, you just have to acknowledge the fact that the numbers don’t add up and you’re going to have to deal with it. We’re at that point.”

Two obvious paths now lie ahead. One is a courtroom fight, either against the U.S. Secretary of the Interior or a challenge between two states under the terms of the Colorado River Compact, which would go directly before the Supreme Court. A high court case would be a doomsday scenario, a messy and protracted legal battle that, until now, the seven states desperately sought to avoid. The other potential path is a stopgap fix, a short-term interim plan negotiated between the states or imposed by the Interior secretary. That could, at least temporarily, forestall a trip to court, but it wouldn’t resolve the fundamental conflict.

For more than two decades, however, the possibility of a third path has stubbornly persisted in the background: A “grand bargain,” an idea first proposed in 2005 by Colorado’s negotiating team early in the effort to grapple with the worsening drought. The concept was an unorthodox bid to defuse the ticking time bomb — but it would require each basin to trade away its most cherished claim on the river.

‘A wild idea’

Roughly 90 percent of the Colorado River’s flow originates as snowpack in the Rocky Mountains. One of the principal goals of the 1922 Compact, which is essentially a seven-state treaty, was to avoid future legal battles by creating an “equitable division and apportionment” of water between the Upper Basin states in the river’s headwaters and the faster-growing Lower Basin. The Compact apportioned 7.5 million acre-feet a year from the mainstem of the river to each basin. (An acre-foot is 325,851 gallons, enough to supply the average annual needs of roughly 3 households, depending on their location and climate.)

The Colorado River Basin spans seven U.S. states and is divided into Upper and Lower Basins. Lake Powell, upstream from the Grand Canyon, and Lake Mead, near Las Vegas, are the two principal reservoirs in the Colorado River water-supply system. (Bureau of Reclamation)

The Compact also contains a requirement that the headwaters states not deplete the flow of the river below 75 million acre-feet, plus another roughly 7.5 million acre-feet (half of the apportionment earmarked for Mexico), on a 10-year running average. Those provisions were intended to provide surety to the downstream Lower Basin states that they would receive their 7.5 million-acre-foot annual apportionment and that the basins would share equally in the Mexican obligation. If the 10-year running average requirement is violated, the Lower Basin states could — at least in theory — initiate a Compact “call” against the Upper Basin in an attempt to force the headwaters states to deliver more water downstream.

For roughly 80 years after the Compact was signed, the prospect of a Compact call was purely theoretical. Then the Millennium Drought set in. By 2005, the two flagship reservoirs on the Colorado River — Lakes Mead and Powell — were half empty.

The drought was pushing the river’s flows closer to a Compact violation trigger, making the risk of a call by the Lower Basin a growing probability. The Lower Basin, particularly Arizona, was insisting on guaranteed releases of water from Lake Powell. And because Colorado has the biggest share of the river within the Upper Basin and uses a greater portion of its apportionment than the other upstream states, it is most at risk. It began searching for a way to slip out of the legal noose of a Compact call.

In September 2005, the seven states’ top negotiators met in Albuquerque, New Mexico. During a lunch break, Colorado’s team made its pitch. The state’s negotiators proposed that the Lower Basin waive its right to force a downstream delivery through a Compact call. In exchange, the Upper Basin states would limit their water use to less than what’s strictly apportioned in the Compact, thereby reducing potential demand in the headwaters of Colorado and Wyoming that supply nearly the entirety of the river’s flow.

The offer was essentially a simplification and reframing of a dizzying array of technical disagreements over various provisions of the Compact — an attempt to throw spaghetti at the wall to see if it would stick.

“My recollection was that it was a pretty spontaneous proposal,” says Jim Lochhead, who had previously been Colorado’s top negotiator and in 2005 was continuing to serve as a legal advisor on the state’s team. “We weren’t making any progress, and it was pitched as, ‘If you really want to cut through all of this and get to the bottom, here’s a wild idea.’”

Jim Lochhead, who had previously been Colorado’s top negotiator and in 2005 was serving as a legal advisor on the state’s team.

The proposal sparked discussion among all the parties at the negotiating table but also raised difficult issues.

“It was a great concept on paper,” says Pat Mulroy, who was the head of the Southern Nevada Water Authority and Nevada’s principal negotiator at the time. “Whether it was politically doable or not is a whole other ball game.”

In large part, that’s because a grand bargain would have forced both basins to give up assurances in the Compact that they consider sacrosanct.

“I’m not sure the Upper Basin would ever have agreed to limiting their ability to fully develop their 7.5. It’s like giving up your birthright — I’m not sure they could have sold that at home,” says Mulroy. Conversely, she says, “giving up that call provision is really the only weapon the Lower Basin has.”

And, indeed, following its spontaneous birth in Albuquerque, the proposal ran into stiff political headwinds back home in Colorado, where it failed to get then-governor Bill Owens’ blessing.

“I wasn’t directly representing the state of Colorado at that time; I was representing Colorado water users,” Lochhead says. “And when I brought the idea back to the state, it pretty quickly got shot down: ‘No, we can’t agree to anything that would not keep the dream alive of 7.5 million acre-feet being developed in the Upper Basin.’”

The prospect of a grand bargain itself faded from discussion. And yet, in ways that aren’t often acknowledged, it continued to shape the broad contours of the negotiations that unfolded over the next two decades.

The quest to escape the noose of a Compact call has remained central to Colorado’s bargaining position.

“The concept of a waiver of a Compact call is alive and well,” says Anne Castle, a former assistant Interior secretary who is now a senior fellow at the University of Colorado. “The quid pro quo for that waiver has taken different forms.”

To a large extent, the details of the various offers the Lower Basin has made in exchange for a possible waiver — which have sometimes been characterized within the negotiations as “mini grand bargains” — have never become public. What is clear is that the two basins have consistently failed to cut a deal.

Instead, the seven states adopted a more incremental approach, negotiating a series of drought-protection agreements based on smaller, more politically palatable deals. While that’s been a safer path for everyone politically, it has brought other kinds of risk.

“It just added layer upon layer of Gorilla Glue and Band-Aids that’s made it much more complicated to try to unwind or develop new agreements,” Lochhead says, “and has obviously proven to be inadequate in protecting the system.”

A second life

While the concept of a grand bargain led a short life at the negotiating table, it has gone on to live a remarkable second life. The idea was picked up and revived by a loose-knit group of seasoned observers of Colorado River issues who, for years, have called for more durable alternatives to the patchwork of ideas in play among negotiators.

Eric Kuhn was a member of Colorado’s negotiating team when the grand bargain was proposed in 2005. At the time, he was the general manager of the Colorado River Water Conservation District based in Glenwood Springs and he has written thoughtfully and voluminously about the river’s problems. After his retirement in 2018, he partnered with John Fleck, a former journalist who is now author-in-residence at the University of New Mexico’s Utton Center, to write Science Be Dammed: How Ignoring Inconvenient Science Drained the Colorado River.

Kuhn and Fleck concluded the book by observing that “there is not enough water in the Colorado River for all the lawyers to be right,” and suggested the grand bargain as a way to avoid the courtroom.

“The basic idea of a grand bargain is, in lieu of litigation, we’re going to agree to something that both sides want,” says Kuhn.

He and Fleck weren’t the only ones who pushed for more serious consideration of the idea. Doug Kenney at the University of Colorado also has championed the concept. In 2012, he enlisted Kevin Wheeler, a widely respected engineer and fellow at Oxford University, to undertake modeling analysis of the kinds of trade-offs a grand bargain might require.

Persistent drought has lowered Lake Powell’s water level and exposed land that was once submerged at Wahweap Marina, as seen in this 2022 photo. (Bureau of Reclamation)

In 2021, Wheeler — together with a group of collaborators including Kuhn, climate scientist Brad Udall and Jack Schmidt, the director of Utah State’s Center for Colorado River Studies — published a white paper called “Alternative Management Paradigms for the Future of the Colorado and Green Rivers.” It was a comprehensive assessment of more ambitious strategies for weathering the drought and climate change than had emerged from now-perpetual negotiations between the states.

“New approaches that are responsive to significantly drier climate conditions and changing patterns of consumptive uses may require bolder policy initiatives that exceed the incremental approach of modern management,” the group wrote. “It is critical to explore alternative water management strategies that may extend beyond the framework of the Law of the River as presently interpreted.”

The following year, the team published a paper in the journal Science titled “What Will it Take to Stabilize the Colorado River?” And, it turned out, stabilizing the system would take something that looked a lot like a grand bargain.

Assuming the drought persists as it has since 2000, Wheeler and his partners identified two scenarios that would stabilize the river, both of which assumed the Lower Basin had waived its ability to make a Compact call. In one, the Lower Basin would need to decrease its water use by about 2 million acre-feet a year when Lake Mead and Lake Powell reach low levels. That would assure it of about 78 percent of its apportionment — an amount roughly in line with cuts it has already committed to taking. In exchange, the Upper Basin would have to cap its water use at 4 million acre-feet. But that’s only slightly more than half of its 7.5 million-acre-foot Compact apportionment, and roughly 300,000 acre-feet less than what it currently uses.

The second scenario — call it the “near-parity scenario” for simplicity — more equally distributed the Upper and Lower Basins’ relative cuts in apportionment. In it, the Upper Basin would cap its use at 4.5 million acre-feet, leaving it with 60 percent of its Compact apportionment. The Lower Basin would be able to use about 67 percent of its Compact apportionment when reservoirs are low, just slightly more percentage-wise than the Upper Basin. But it would have to cut its uses by 3 million acre-feet below its apportionment.

That would stabilize the system — or at least go a long way toward doing so — while largely meeting existing water demands in both basins. The Upper Basin currently uses about 4.3 million acre-feet per year. The Lower Basin, after ramping up an aggressive water conservation effort since 2007, has driven its annual use down to about 6 million acre-feet per year, and has signaled that it could likely reduce demand further.

But it would leave practically no leeway for future growth, at least without reshaping the socioeconomic landscape across the entire Basin. In particular, any future urban growth could come only by shifting significant amounts of water from farms to cities.

Hard math

Today, there is a simple, hard reality on the Colorado River: The available water supply is already maxed out. Water use throughout the basin needs to be reduced by roughly 25 percent just to make the numbers work now — to say nothing of the future, which is likely to be significantly drier.

In Colorado, that has raised hard questions about fairness, the “equitable division and apportionment” provision of the Compact, and the assurance the state thought it had that its water would be there to develop when it’s finally ready.

“Everyone agrees that there should be an equitable division of water, and the word ‘equity’ is one that everyone will rally around,” says Kenney. “But does equitable mean equal? That’s the crux of the issue.”

Over the past several years, Colorado’s attorney general, Phil Weiser, has been building his office’s staff of water lawyers. This January, Weiser, who is currently running for governor, appeared before a joint hearing of the state legislature’s judiciary committees.

“If we can’t get a deal — and I’m committed to not getting a bad deal just to get a deal — we’ll be in litigation. We’re ready for it,” he said. “If and when we can get a reasonable deal based in reality, I’m for it. But if we can’t, then we will be falling back on our rights under (the) 1922 Compact.”

Because of the peculiarities of the water-rights hierarchy in the Lower Basin, Arizona is arguably most at risk there. In March, that state — whose governor, Katie Hobbs, is running for re-election — retained the high-powered law firm Sullivan & Cromwell to represent it in potential Colorado River litigation. At the time, a spokesman for the governor said, “it’s critical that Arizona be prepared to defend ourselves in court if an agreement cannot be reached or the Law of the River is violated.”

Anne Castle, former assistant secretary at the Department of the Interior.

“It is very difficult for a political figure — and they’re all political figures, even if they’re not elected — to agree to reduce the water use of their constituents and keep their career alive,” says Anne Castle. “They have to be able to tell their constituents, ‘I’m fighting for your water. I’m doing everything I can to keep your water secure, and it’s the other guy’s fault.’ The political incentives are directly at odds with the kind of compromise that’s needed in this type of hydrologic situation.”

Following the breakdown in negotiations between the Colorado River states, the federal government has announced its intention to step in. In May, the Bureau of Reclamation, on behalf of the Department of the Interior, revealed that it is preparing the first of what could be a series of five two-year interim plans for the river.

The final details are expected to be released this summer. But the federal government has indicated that the Interior secretary could cut water deliveries to the Lower Basin states by up to 3 million acre-feet — 40 percent of their Compact apportionment. During a briefing for Arizona water users in May, Brenda Burman, the head of the Central Arizona Project, presented modeling analysis of the proposed reductions and noted that, given the diminished releases from Lake Powell, the Upper Basin is “in a definite breach of the Compact by Sept. 30 of 2026.”

Owing to some quirks of river history, the secretary debatably has less authority in the Upper Basin, and so Reclamation has proposed no cuts there. But as climate change continues to eat away at snowpack and river flows, the Upper Basin states will likely be forced to cut back their uses anyway. Regardless of what the Compact says the Upper Basin gets, the water simply won’t be there.

And so now the seven states are facing a situation eerily similar to those in the near-parity scenario Wheeler and his colleagues laid out in their Science paper four years ago — but without a bargain.

Coming full circle?

In many ways, the prospects have never been worse for something like a grand bargain. Yet the fundamental problems the grand bargain was intended to solve have only grown sharper in the 20 years since it was first proposed.

“The grand bargain has gotten a bad name,” Kuhn says. “But if these issues aren’t resolved through a grand bargain, they’re going to be resolved through litigation.” In 2007, he says, the river’s reservoirs still had ample water to work with. “With empty reservoirs, you cannot finesse these issues.”

Water level in Lake Mead, impounded behind Hoover Dam, barely reaches the bottom of the two intake towers in 2022, showing the effects of more than two decades of drought. (Bureau of Reclamation)

Litigation could come as soon as August, when Reclamation will likely release a record of decision for its proposed new operating plan. Legal action could take one of several paths. The one with the highest stakes would be direct enforcement of the Compact, likely in the form of a Compact call brought by Arizona and the other Lower Basin states against the Upper Basin states. Because the Compact is essentially a treaty between multiple states, that would go directly before the Supreme Court. But such cases are often grindingly long: Arizona’s 1952 lawsuit against California over Colorado River rights took a dozen years to resolve. A case in the Supreme Court could put the river in protracted litigation during a time of profound crisis.

Other, more limited challenges are possible, most likely against the Bureau of Reclamation or the secretary of the Interior for failure to comply with the Compact or violating environmental laws. But they, too, are not without risk.

“I have a hard time believing you could keep litigation contained, once that genie’s out of the bottle,” says Kenney. “I just have to believe that inevitably blows up into a full-fledged interstate litigation and it bumping right up to the Supreme Court.”

As the odds rise of a legal challenge to the Compact that could ultimately wind up before the highest court in the land, the fundamental tension the grand bargain was intended to resolve will likely be front and center before the justices. And, paradoxically, that could force the states themselves to finally make the really tough sacrifices they’ve been trying to avoid.

“I think that a road to a grand bargain runs through litigation,” says Kuhn.

That’s because in past interstate fights over shared rivers, the Supreme Court has typically appointed a water-law expert known as a special master to referee such cases. The most recent example is the dispute between Texas, New Mexico and Colorado over the Rio Grande. In that case, Kuhn notes, “the special master said, ‘You don’t want me or the court to decide this; get in a room and negotiate it.’ The special master kept the pressure on the states to negotiate.”

This May, the Supreme Court approved a settlement between those three states. Still, even that resolution only came a full 13 years after the case was initially filed, and it involves relatively small reductions in overall water use.

On the Colorado River, both water and time are in far shorter supply.

Colorado River experts say agriculture must make permanent cuts to water use

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Heather Sackett, Aspen Journalism

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July 6, 2026

This field of alfalfa near Carbondale is grown with water from the Crystal River. Some Colorado River experts are advocating for a permanent reduction in the use of water by agriculture. Credit: Heather Sackett/Aspen Journalism

This story was originally published by Aspen Journalism on June 22, 2026.

Some Colorado River experts are floating a concept to address the basin’s water woes that is both radical and mundane: permanently reducing the amount of water used by agriculture.

Many cities have already reduced their water use in recent decades while adding residents, proving that population growth doesn’t have to be tied to an increase in water use. A 2024 study by Colorado River scientists found that agriculture is responsible for about 74% of water used by people in the basin, meaning urban conservation alone cannot solve the crisis.

“I think we need to have permanent reductions in use on the table and agriculture will have to be part of that,” said Anne Castle, a Colorado River expert and a former federal representative to the Upper Colorado River Commission.

Castle was the lead author on a June 1 paper that urgently called on the entire basin to permanently decrease consumptive uses to avoid the worst impacts to reservoirs and water users. Castle and the paper’s other authors are Colorado River experts and academics, and are the brain trust of the basin sometimes referred to as the Traveling Wilburys, a joking reference to the rock music supergroup. But their message is anything but humorous.

The latest paper says another dry winter would deplete remaining storage and result in devastating consequences like run-of-the-river operations where the nation’s two largest reservoirs can only release downstream the same amount of water that flows into them. It’s the last stop before deadpool, when levels are too low to release water. The authors urge water managers to act immediately to reduce use and avoid a system crash.

But permanently cutting the amount of water that goes to agriculture remains a controversial topic, and water managers from both the Upper and Lower basins say drying up land is not a solution for their basin. Most conservation programs up until now either have been temporary or have allowed the saved water to be used elsewhere. Castle said the problem is especially difficult when people’s livelihoods are on the line.

“The folks who are vulnerable to those kinds of permanent reductions are understandably resistant,” Castle said. “But there’s not enough water. The river won’t allow us to use the same amount of water that we’ve been accustomed to using in the past.”

The seven states that share the Colorado River are under increasing pressure to cut water use as one of the worst droughts on record threatens the water supply for millions of people. On the heels of one of the hottest and driest winters since measuring began, spring flows into Lake Powell this year are projected to be the lowest on record.

Much of the $4 billion from the Inflation Reduction Act earmarked for drought mitigation has gone toward short-term conservation. Water users in the Lower Basin states (California, Arizona and Nevada) were paid to temporarily leave water in Lake Mead. And in the Upper Basin (Colorado, New Mexico, Utah and Wyoming), the feds paid irrigators $45 million to leave fields dry during a two-year reboot of a pilot conservation program.

But in the midst of a climate change-fueled megadrought that has already robbed the river of at least 20% of its flows, experts say temporary measures no longer cut it. Water managers are reckoning with the reality that the river will probably never again deliver what was promised a century ago by the Colorado River Compact. The demand for water now far outstrips the dwindling supply.

“Are we going to continue to spend hundreds of millions of dollars a year and not have a permanent solution?” said author and Colorado River expert Eric Kuhn. “I think, at some point, it just makes economic sense to go ahead and say, ‘Let’s buy out the existing demand.’”

Hay bales stacked on a ranch just south of Carbondale. Much of the water in the Colorado River basin is used to grow forage crops for livestock. Credit: Heather Sackett/Aspen Journalism

Buying out demand

Against this backdrop, some in the academic community are advocating for the federal government to either set up a voluntary program to buy and retire lands that use a lot of water or pay landowners who agree to permanent restrictions on water use.

A paper released last year and authored by Kathryn Sorensen and Sarah Porter, who are Colorado River experts at the Kyl Center for Water Policy at Arizona State, lays out how this could be done. Eligible land would have to meet certain characteristics, including being in an area where the economic impacts of not using water are least painful and where impacted crops could be feasibly grown outside of the Colorado River basin, among others.

According to Porter, the federal government should be the entity that buys down demand. The large infrastructure projects funded by the feds in the 20th century are what created booming irrigated agriculture in the West to begin with. And the other entities in the basin that have the ability to buy agricultural water want to use it themselves, not keep it in the system.

“A reset in the Colorado River basin really is needed,” Porter said. “We have a lot of agriculture that’s really a legacy of how the United States was settled… . And now we’re grappling with overallocation and shortage and struggling to figure out a way to manage the Colorado River.”

The proposal is different from the much-derided “buy-and-dry” which usually involves an opportunistic transferring of water from agriculture to cities, not an overall reduction in water use. Still, the potential negative impacts to rural communities have to be considered.

“You have to have a provision for what happens to the land when you remove agriculture and what happens to the local economy when you remove agriculture,” Porter said.

And experts say there is a precedent for the type of federal buyouts that could help the drought-stricken river: the Bankhead-Jones Tenant Farm Act from 1937. This New Deal piece of legislation was a response to the Dust Bowl and allowed the federal government to buy and retire badly eroded or economically unproductive farmland.

The paper says a Colorado River program could start not with those that grow valuable vegetables in winter but, rather, with lands that use a lot of water but have low economic output. The paper says retired agricultural lands could be used for alternative purposes that support local economies such as recreational opportunities or low water-use industries.

Figuring out how to implement conservation programs without harming rural agricultural communities has been a main focus in recent years of the Colorado River Water Conservation District, which works to keep water on the Western Slope. River District General Manager Andy Mueller said that agriculture has a role to play in reducing water consumption, but that permanently retiring agricultural land is a misguided approach that will put the country in danger of not being able to feed itself. Programs should remain temporary, and focus on efficiency improvements and growing less-thirsty crops, he said.

“If it’s temporary, if it’s well-designed in a way that respects local communities, traditions and practices, is custom-built for each community in a way that really tries to do as little economic damage as possible — potentially even bringing some benefits to those farming families that participate — there are ways to do it,” Mueller said.

A tractor on a farm in California’s Imperial Irrigation District, the largest user of agricultural water in the Colorado River basin. A California representative says there is no interest in drying up ag land because it’s so extremely productive. Credit: Heather Sackett/Aspen Journalism

On the fringe

Although certain academics and experts are talking about permanently drying up agricultural lands as a means of saving water, the concept remains on the fringe of Colorado River politics. It’s both the third rail and the elephant in the room.

“It’s going to pull away from the fringe really quickly when you’ve got to really justify continuing to pay on an annual basis forever,” Kuhn said. “We’re just trying to get the discussion out there, make it acceptable to have the discussion.”

On top of the abysmal hydrologic conditions, the basin is also in the midst of a management crisis. After two years of negotiating, the Upper Basin and Lower Basin states have failed to reach a consensus on how they will share future cuts and have blown past deadlines to come up with a plan. The responsibility for river management now falls to the federal government, which is scheduled to release this summer a short-term operating plan for Lake Powell and Lake Mead.

Part of what makes the problem so tricky is that water managers are still guided by the Colorado River Compact, a century-old agreement that splits the river’s flows evenly between the two basins. Upper Basin water managers still cling to the notion that because their states are already living within the 7.5 million acre-feet of water allotted to them annually, cutbacks are the responsibility of the Lower Basin, which they say uses more than its fair share.

Becky Mitchell, Colorado’s lead negotiator in talks among the seven states, said that permanent dry-up of agriculture in the Upper Basin isn’t necessary because the Upper Basin states already send more than 8 million acre-feet — more than legally required — of water downstream per year. Dry-up may be part of the overall solution, she said, but each state should take its own individual approach to making cuts.

“Those durable reductions are going to be required (for the Lower Basin) to first get in line with their apportionment, but then getting in line with the available supplies is a whole ’nother conversation,” Mitchell said.

California’s representative, JB Hamby, said permanent fallowing doesn’t have a place in reducing the state’s demand either. California is home to the biggest urban and agricultural water districts, as well as the largest allocation of Colorado River water of any of the seven states that share the river.

“In the case of California, there’s no real discussion or interest whatsoever in the retirement of ag lands,” Hamby said. “Land in Southern California that receives Colorado River water is so extremely productive. There is a year-round growing season where every single day of the year there are things being grown.”

Past water savings in Southern California have mostly come from efficiency improvements on farms and in delivery systems, and from deficit irrigation programs in which water is temporarily taken off fields for part of a season. In the absence of a seven-state deal, the Lower Basin states have offered up 700,000 acre-feet of cuts per year through 2028, which is on top of an initial 1.5 million acre-feet in cuts. Most estimates say the basin needs to cut water use by 2 million to 4 million acre-feet.

“There’s full agreement that water should be reduced,” he said. “There’s not agreement in how or where it should be reduced. So the Lower Basin is moving forward, doing our thing, making reductions.”

Cowgirls wrangle a calf at a Delta County ranch. Farming and ranching are an important part of the heritage of the American West, which makes permanently reducing water for agriculture a tricky issue. Credit: Heather Sackett/Aspen Journalism

Ultimately, discussions about permanently reducing the amount of water that goes to farmlands in the basin remain difficult, in part because agricultural water rights are some of the biggest, oldest and most politically powerful in the basin. But there is also an attachment to the American West’s farming and ranching heritage.

“We love agriculture; it’s part of our roots,” Porter said. “We don’t like to think about losing agricultural production. I think we are generally hesitant to have that conversation, and we really haven’t had it as a basin.”

How universities in the West justify staying green during drought

By

Annie MacKeigan, The Water Desk

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July 6, 2026

About 90% of the University of Colorado Boulder’s campus is irrigated by water from Boulder Creek that runs through ditches. (Annie MacKeigan / The Water Desk)

In early June, water experts gathered at the University of Colorado Boulder to talk about the future of the Colorado River.

The lifeline for 40 million people in the Southwest is in dire shape. Too much demand and not enough supply has sapped its largest reservoirs. And in discussions of western water the finger-pointing on who is the best steward of the region’s scarce water can ramp up quickly.

So when a panel of state-level water negotiators took the stage, one finger pointed directly at the expansive green lawns outside the university’s law school building.

“There is a metric shit ton of turf grass on this campus,” said John Entsminger, Nevada’s top Colorado River negotiator, to the room of western water policy experts.

Entsminger used a less than precise measure, but CU-Boulder is blanketed in rolling quads, athletic fields, and decorative grass. Entsminger runs the Southern Nevada Water Authority, an agency that has prided itself on city-scale turf removal, and has said Las Vegas’s water conservation effort is the reason behind its ability to grow in population and stay within their Colorado River allocation.

College campuses across the nation play host to oasis-like landscapes. Some qualify as designated arboretums, others give shaded and grassy sanctuary to students, staff, faculty and community members. A beautiful campus is also a selling point for prospective students, which is why grounds and maintenance crews work year-round to upkeep the trees, shrubs and lawns.

But universities in the West are beginning to contend with water-intensive landscapes as water availability decreases. The approaches in finding the balance between a green, inviting campus and responsible water stewardship are a mixed bag. Some universities continue to irrigate away, while touting their sustainability goals, while others aim to set a new standard for university landscaping in the West.

In Boulder, ditch water rules the day

The University of Colorado Boulder irrigates most of their campus through the Anderson Ditch system — a senior water right that has been held since 1860 and pulls raw water directly from Boulder Creek. The senior rights allow the university to irrigate quads and landscaping features freely even though the city of Boulder has been under voluntary watering restrictions since April 1.

Following the city’s restrictions announcement in early April, CU Boulder addressed the issue in a statement, stating that, “the Outdoor Services team at CU Boulder uses all of these tools to make informed decisions about when to irrigate areas of campus, and for how long.” The statement broadly suggested students, staff and faculty conserve water by limiting watering to essential plants and trees, being efficient with water use, fixing known leaks, and being mindful of everyday use.

The University of Colorado Boulder’s irrigation ditches are visible from Norlin Quad, a central grassy area where students and community members gather. (Annie MacKeigan / The Water Desk)

CU did not respond to an interview request, but in an email response, the university said that only 10% of the campus uses potable city water for irrigation. The other 90% is irrigated with water via ditch systems: the Smith and Goss Ditch and the Anderson Ditch which pull from Boulder Creek.

“We prioritize efficient and responsible water use across campus and continuously adjust operations based on weather, soil conditions and overall system performance,” the university said in the same email. CU uses an automated monitoring system to assess levels in ponds used for water storage, pulling from the ditch only for replenishment.

Because of the senior water rights used to irrigate the campus, CU can justify continued irrigation. “To our knowledge, neither [Smith and Goss Ditch or Anderson Ditch] has ever been called out of priority or required to cease operations due to insufficient water flow in Boulder Creek,” CU’s Strategic Relations and Communications Team said in an email response.

But deferring to separate water rights does not solve the problem of a shrinking supply. Although CU’s irrigation water is not part of the city’s potable water supply, it still has to come from somewhere; Boulder Creek is fueled by snowmelt high in the Rocky Mountains, which continues to be threatened by warming temperatures.

The university claims its approach to water use is flexible. In the case that water restrictions tighten, the university says it will reevaluate, “working to conserve water while maintaining a safe, sustainable and vibrant campus environment.”

But for other universities across the West, the current amount of water going to irrigation is not sustainable. Some are looking for creative ways to both maintain their campus and reduce water use at the same time.

In Albuquerque, a university with a golf course

In 2024, the University of New Mexico used 182 million gallons per year to irrigate its nearly 800 acre campus. On top of that, it used 43 million gallons per year to irrigate its 9-hole North Golf Course, and 234 million gallons a year to irrigate its 18-hole Championship Golf Course. Most of the 459 million gallons of irrigation water comes from a groundwater well system that was established on the campus in 1904.

“Western water law doesn’t do any favors to conservation,” said Anne Jakle, director of the office of sustainability at the University of New Mexico. “The ‘use it or lose it’ philosophy is not helpful.”

Trees and green spaces on UNM’s campus serve as a community sanctuary from heat and sun in the high desert climate. (Photo courtesy of The University of New Mexico)

Of the North Golf Course’s 43 million gallons, around 7 million are reclaimed water. The university is using blowdown from a utility chiller tower to help water the golf course, an effort that comes on the heels of a project that cooled and reused water to help the university conserve 2.8 million gallons of water each year.

UNM’s campus, located in Albuquerque’s high desert climate, is decorated with more landscaping than occurs naturally. “We’re an open campus too, so people from the community are here all the time, utilizing it, recreating,” said Jakle.

According to Jakle, members of the community seek refuge on the campus from the urban heat island effect, which can artificially raise the temperature in an area due to surrounding materials absorbing heat from the sun. This can be curbed by the cooling shade of a tree canopy.

The university is planning a 20% reduction in water use by 2030, outlined by the UNM Sustainability Strategic Plan released in 2025. “Our goal is not to maintain a lush campus indefinitely as it exists today,” UNM Facility Services said in a statement response, “but to thoughtfully transition to a landscape that remains beautiful and functional while using less water.”

One of the strategies UNM is using to eliminate excess water use is to target non-functional turf, or grass that serves no purpose beyond aesthetics. The goal is to replace those plots with native species through xeric landscaping, which will not only use less water, but promote ecological health by attracting pollinator species.

But eliminating decorative grass is not without its challenges, and those challenges are not unique to UNM.

A Mojave desert university struggles to keep its trees

The University of Nevada Las Vegas spearheaded efforts to remove excessive grass from their campus located in the Mojave Desert starting in the late 1980s. But since removing over 1 million square feet of turf, conserving what the university estimates to be 77 million gallons of water a year, tree die-out has become a major problem.

“We removed so much grass that we’re noticing the effect on the trees,” UNLV grounds superintendent James Kearney said. “The trees are all dying or suffering.”

Tree die-out extends beyond the campus. In early 2026, some Las Vegas residents filed a lawsuit against the Southern Nevada Water Authority, claiming their grass removal incentives and mandates have killed tens of thousands of trees.

The university is focused on utilizing native species for landscaping design. Those native species should, in theory, be resilient enough to survive the conditions of the Mojave Desert without irrigation. However, UNLV irrigates those plants, too.

“We found that even if it’s a native species, it’s beneficial to still irrigate it,” Kearney said. “[They] should survive without any irrigation, and it’s possible, but it’s not going to look great.”

On UNLV’s campus, trees require more water than native plants. Both trees and native plants are irrigated by the same drip systems; the system can’t differentiate between a water-intensive tree and a native plant.

Targeted irrigation could help the plants and reduce water waste by giving different plants and trees their own valves. But that transition would be costly. And according to Kearney, it is an intensive process. “You’re either tunneling under a sidewalk or ripping out and repouring concrete, so you don’t really have a choice,” he said.

Cost and labor are not the only prohibitive measures a university faces when battling irrigation challenges. For some, the source of their water is just as prohibitive.

In Golden, Colo., city water restrictions force change

Because of the source of its water, Golden’s Colorado School of Mines is faced with a problem of not knowing exactly how much is used for irrigation. The city supplies the school with all of its water. According to grounds manager Roger Jensen, this water is not metered by use, which means the university can’t measure how much is used for irrigation on campus versus how much water is used in buildings.

Despite not knowing how much water is being used for irrigation, conservation efforts persist. Over the course of the summer, Mines’ baseball field will be converted from natural turf to synthetic turf. It will be the last of the five full-size fields in their athletic complex to be converted to synthetic turf.

The Colorado School of Mines has worked to change each of their five athletic fields to artificial turf, but the recreational fields remain grass. (Annie MacKeigan / The Water Desk)

“That cuts a lot of water out,” Jensen said. By his estimate, around 1.5 million gallons of water were used to irrigate just that one baseball field over the course of two academic years.

Regardless of the change on the baseball field, the university still manages club sports fields and quads that are natural grass and require watering through an underground drip system.

“We know that having this lush green campus, this oasis, is not a natural thing,” Jensen said. “It’s a balance between maintaining what we’ve inherited from generations past, providing insight and advocating towards more ecosystem-appropriate plantings while still honoring that oasis-feel.”

The Colorado School of Mines’ Kafadar Commons is one of the only central grassy areas where people are able to gather. (Annie MacKeigan / The Water Desk)

This is the first year that School of Mines has been put under mandatory watering restrictions by the city of Golden.

“Back in 2012, it was rough, but there were no water restrictions,” Jensen said. The city is not so particular about the underground drip systems, so long as they are optimized and in good repair. “This time, they’re saying two irrigation days a week,” he said.

The thought to remove non-functional turf to reduce water use is common among universities in the West; some have to take it a step further in order to grapple with a changing climate and dwindling water supply.

Turf removal ramps up at ASU

Contending with a shrinking supply of Colorado River water, the senior administration at Arizona State University employed grounds teams and landscaping architects to look at ways to remove turf grass from the campus within the last few years. “That took everyone by surprise,” said Norman Yatabe, senior project manager of the office of the university architect and landscape architect at ASU.

Yatabe says that eliminating turf grass is “low hanging fruit,” and that it is the easiest and most effective way to reduce water usage on campus. At ASU, ground cover, shrubs and native plants mimic the green, verdant landscape expected of universities, and do so with less water.

Arizona State University is experimenting with rainwater gardens and bioswales as a way to conserve water and keep the campus beautiful. (Photo courtesy of Arizona State University)

ASU uses potable city water on its East Valley, Polytechnic, Downtown and Tempe campuses, and groundwater from wells on the West Valley campus. Because it uses city water, the university must work within municipal water restrictions as they come.

Looking to other solutions, ASU has begun to passively collect rainwater from summer monsoons that do little to recharge groundwater supply due to evaporation and rapid runoff. The university does not store the rainwater, but instead uses it in bioswales and rain gardens. “The rainwater flushes out a lot of the salts that are in the ground,” Yatabe said. Because of a lower salt content in these rainwater gardens, Yatabe says they are observing better plant growth in these areas.

In addition to rainwater collection, ASU is capturing condensate from air conditioning systems in new buildings to use in landscaping planters.

According to Yatabe, one of the most important initiatives for limiting water use is changing the perception of what campus greenery is. The plants may look different as the climate warms, he said. “We’re constantly being forced to adapt and change to these varying conditions, ever-changing conditions.”

This story was produced and distributed by The Water Desk, an independent reporting initiative at the University of Colorado Boulder’s Center for Environmental Journalism.

As a Colorado aquifer runs low, dangerous heavy metals threaten rural communities’ drinking water

By

Emily Payne, Inside Climate News

-

June 25, 2026

Anna Vargas, of Manassa, Colorado, is a sixth-generation resident of the San Luis Valley who is deeply embedded in local water management initiatives. She hasn’t drunk her own tap water in years out of fear of contamination. Credit: Jacob Spetzler/Inside Climate News

This article originally appeared on Inside Climate News, a nonprofit, non-partisan news organization that covers climate, energy and the environment. Sign up for their newsletter here.

Julie Zahringer hears a common refrain at her environmental laboratory in Alamosa, Colorado: A customer has been drinking well water on family land where they’ve lived for years, but recently noticed it has changed. They want to know why.

“All of a sudden it looks different, tastes different, there’s odor, there’s color,” said Zahringer.

Zahringer’s SDC Laboratory is one of the few testing water in the San Luis Valley, an 8,000-square-mile, high-altitude desert in south-central Colorado. She has tested thousands of wells during more than 30 years in the field.

Residents of the valley, which has large Hispanic populations and a high poverty rate, have been concerned about naturally occurring heavy metals in their water for decades, she said. But in the past five years, the rate of change has accelerated.

“Every year it just seems like this is the climax of it, and the next year, it gets worse,” said Zahringer. “This year, we’re looking at probably the worst as far as water quality.”

The San Luis Valley relies on surface water from the Rio Grande and a massive aquifer system, one of the largest in North America, to drive its agricultural economy. But the aquifer is severely overallocated, losing an estimated 1.2 million acre-feet of water between 1976, when tracking began, and 2013—equivalent to more than five times what the city of Denver consumes each year. This year, the aquifer could hit another record low, as Colorado’s snowpack, which recharges the state’s aquifers, is at the lowest level since record-keeping began in 1941.

The sun sets over agriculture fields in San Luis, Colorado on Tuesday, May 5, 2026. The Rio Grande recharges the aquifer, which is the source of water for the entire San Luis Valley, including its agriculture, which is the industry which economically sustains the area. The amount of water necessary for large scale agriculture is also the primary reason for the aquifer’s depletion. Credit: Jacob Spetzler/Inside Climate News

A water control gate controls flow in an irrigation ditch in Manassa, Colorado. Credit: Jacob Spetzler/Inside Climate News

Researchers are finding that as groundwater levels drop, the remaining water can contain higher concentrations of carcinogenic heavy metals.

The valley’s well water users, many of them in historically underserved communities, are increasingly concerned about what’s in their drinking water. But with little governmental oversight of private wells or resources to help track and manage quality, they have few options to make it safe.

Shifting chemistry

Anna Vargas, a sixth-generation resident of the San Luis Valley, remembers making snowmen often as a child, and her mother talking about the daily rains during the summer monsoon season. Now, monsoon season barely exists here, Vargas said.

“As the years have gone by, there’s less rain, less snowfall. I’ve lived in the valley long enough to see the changes in weather patterns,” says Vargas, project manager with the SLV Ecosystem Council. “We depend a lot on snowpack, and we have hardly any this year. It’s concerning for all of us in the Rio Grande basin…The heavy metals will just become more concentrated.”

Heavy metals like arsenic, tungsten, uranium, manganese and selenium occur naturally in rocks and soils and come up with groundwater that is pumped to the surface. With drought, Zahringer said, they can become a problem.

“We’re not seeing a dilution of any of the contaminants…so anything that’s in the geologic makeup is just really concentrating,” said Zahringer, whose tests have documented contaminant levels rising in the wells during dry periods.

Julie Zahringer, owner and laboratory director of the Sangre de Cristo (SDC) Laboratory, in her office in Alamosa, Colorado. The SDC Laboratory, the only lab testing water in the San Luis Valley, serves private well owners, municipalities and agricultural water users. (Photo by Jacob Spetzler/Special to Inside Climate News)

In addition, as aquifer levels drop during droughts—and due to overpumping—its geochemistry shifts, says Kathy James, Ph.D., associate professor with the Colorado School of Public Health. Users reaching deeper into the ground to access the remaining water can draw small amounts of water connected to geothermal sources or underground reservoirs of hot water, which can have high arsenic concentrations, into the drinking supply. Even in small amounts, this can increase arsenic concentrations to dangerous levels. James notes that these relationships are complex and non-linear, however, and additional research is needed.

This year, James led a study finding that up to one in four private wells producing drinking water in the San Luis Valley contain elevated levels of heavy metals like arsenic and uranium.

Zahringer’s estimates mirror these results: Of all the well waters her lab tests in southern Colorado, about 25 percent exceed the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency’s maximum contaminant level for arsenic in drinking water.

And “that’s just going up,” Zahringer said.

Unanswered questions

Exposure to arsenic in drinking water is linked to cancer, cardiovascular disease and diabetes, and can impair children’s cognitive development. James’s previous research also found that long-term exposure to low levels of arsenic can increase the risk of coronary heart disease.

Other studies have shown that both uranium and arsenic in irrigation water can stunt crop growth and accumulate in plants, compounding public health risk through the food supply.

Zahringer said that some customers come to her lab on referrals from their primary care physicians trying to determine the root cause of elevated levels of heavy metals in their bloodstream. Her own well water is high in arsenic, but her filtration system thoroughly treats it before it enters her house.

“I’m in a unique situation where I’m educated and vigilant, and I have the resources to test and make sure it’s OK,” said Zahringer. “A lot of my neighbors, I know they’re just drinking it right out of the ground.”

Half of the U.S. population relies on groundwater for drinking, irrigation, industry and livestock. Much of it is pumped through public water systems, which must limit contaminants to comply with the federal Safe Drinking Water Act, in addition to state requirements that may be more stringent. But private wells, which are the main source of drinking water for 15 percent of Americans and about a third of San Luis Valley residents, are not regulated or monitored. In effect, about 51 million Americans are responsible for monitoring the safety of their own drinking water.

In the San Luis Valley, residents are asking more questions about how their water is impacting their health, crops and cattle, Vargas said, making it easy for her to recruit some of the more than 800 private well owners involved in James’s study.

“We filled it up so fast that that just shows how much the community members wanted their wells tested,” says Vargas.

After a few months of recruiting, the study group was nearly at capacity.

Later, neighbors would stop her at the grocery store to tell her about their results: manganese, arsenic, uranium or other contaminants were often above the EPA thresholds.

Today, many residents in Vargas’s community have turned to bottled water. “They just don’t know if they can drink the water,” she said.

Climate justice

With the ongoing megadrought and this year’s record-low snowpack in Colorado, small communities, private well owners and municipal water systems alike will struggle to keep up with changing groundwater supply, Zahringer said. Researchers estimate that U.S. drought conditions could expose roughly 1 in 10 well-water users to unsafe arsenic levels.

“As those contaminants are increasing, we are going to start to see these rural areas really can’t afford these treatment plants and mitigation for it,” said Zahringer. “We’re dealing with a lot of really small communities that are really struggling to pay for their water testing, let alone to build these new plants.”

San Luis Valley is one of the poorest rural areas of Colorado, with an estimated 21.4 percent poverty rate. Even if well users can access a water test, consistent filtration remains an economic burden.

Water from a natural spring pours out of a pipe in the town of San Luis in the San Luis Valley of Colorado. Credit: Jacob Spetzler/Inside Climate News

The town of San Luis in the San Luis Valley, Colorado on Tuesday, May 5, 2026. Credit: Jacob Spetzler/Inside Climate News

Household reverse osmosis systems can remove up to 99 percent of contaminants, including arsenic. But they are expensive—often costing thousands of dollars to install and hundreds more annually to maintain—and can waste up to 80 percent of the water that passes through them. And because the San Luis Valley has moderately to extremely hard water, compounds and metals accumulate much faster on filtration systems, requiring replacement more than twice as frequently as in areas with soft water.

“I come from a rural and impoverished community, and my community members can’t always be changing out these filters for this reverse osmosis filtration system,” Vargas said.

Researchers at Arizona State University are planning to field test a new type of filter that removes a range of heavy metals from hard water systems without losing water in hopes of providing more accessible water quality mitigation for residents. Alireza Farsad, a postdoctoral research scholar at ASU who founded AmorPH2O, the company developing the filter, expects it to be commercially available next year.

Meanwhile, Vargas and James have presented the water quality study results to local county commissioners and talked with state lawmakers about the increasing concentrations of heavy metals.

But, for now, the issue has seen little action beyond testing.

Shirley Romero Otero, an educator and activist in San Luis, Colorado, has spent decades organizing for land and water rights in the San Luis Valley. Credit: Jacob Spetzler/Inside Climate News

For Shirley Romero Otero, a local educator and activist who helped implement James’s study, water quality in the San Luis Valley is an issue of environmental justice. She says the valley, home to the state’s largest native Hispanic population, is often left out of policymaking conversations.

“Those folks in Denver that make those decisions for testing and resources need to pay attention…We are part of Colorado. We should have equality when it comes to testing and finding out what the hell is really going on,” says Otero, who lives in San Luis, the state’s oldest continuously occupied town, which has fewer than 600 residents.

“Regardless of socioeconomic status, political affiliation or racial geographic areas, water is the most precious resource that we have. It is the lifeblood of every community. You don’t have water, you die. It’s that simple.”

An acequia, a traditional community-managed irrigation ditch that channels water from rivers and streams to farms and towns, flows into San Luis, Colorado. Credit: Jacob Spetzler/Inside Climate News

Correction: A previous version of this story misstated how arsenic concentrations increase as groundwater declines in aquifers.

New website offers advice on drone photography

By

Mitch Tobin, The Water Desk

-

June 22, 2026

The Colorado River near Moab, Utah, in December 2019. Photo by Mitch Tobin / The Water Desk.

Drones can provide a fascinating perspective on the world, revealing views that are impossible to see from the ground.

My new website, dronereporters.org, provides practical advice for using drones for photography.

For journalists and others, drones can engage and educate audiences by offering helpful or unusual vantage points.

In my own specialty of Western water issues, I’ve found the drone’s-eye view invaluable for telling the story.

For the past seven years, I’ve used a drone to capture photos and videos of key water-related locations in the American Southwest as part of my work for The Water Desk. This imagery is available for free download through our multimedia library.

I created dronereporters.org to share lessons learned while flying my drone in the Four Corners states of Colorado, Utah, Arizona and New Mexico. Although my portfolio focuses on water issues, nearly all of my advice applies to any subject matter.

While the site is primarily geared toward journalists, I believe it will also be of value to anyone who flies drones.

My basic setup: Mavic 2 Pro drone, controller, landing pad, batteries, charger, and carrying case. Photo by Mitch Tobin / The Water Desk.

dronereporters.org is organized around four themes:

Principles: the basics of flying a drone, such as getting certified by the FAA, finding interesting locations to photograph and operating your system in a safe, ethical manner.

Gear essentials: a description of the equipment that I’ve been using, from the pre-flight checklist to the landing pad, plus other pieces of technology that are helpful.

Photography tips: the basic concepts of photography still apply when using a drone, but some ideas are especially important when your camera is flying.

Video tips: there are many ways to move your drone and steer the viewer’s attention, so I offer examples of useful techniques.

To see more drone (and ground-based) imagery of key water locations in the Southwest, please visit The Water Desk’s multimedia library on this site or consult our full library of high-resolution photos at waterdesk.photos.

I welcome suggestions and questions. You can email me at mitchtobin@colorado.edu

An orchard along the Rio Grande near Las Cruces, New Mexico, in March 2026. Photo by Mitch Tobin / The Water Desk.

Critics oppose Wyoming hydroelectric project, pointing to climate-driven drought crisis

By

Dustin Bleizeffer, WyoFile

-

June 22, 2026

A summer visitor boating at Seminoe State Park. (courtesy Wyoming State Parks & Cultural Resources)

This story was originally published by WyoFile on May 29, 2026.

A proposed pumped-water electricity storage facility at Seminoe Reservoir could decimate the prized Miracle Mile trout fishery on the North Platte River and jeopardize a bighorn sheep herd that wildlife officials rely on to support the species’ populations in other areas, critics of the $4 billion project say.

Anglers, business owners and wildlife biologists joined state and federal regulatory officials Thursday to testify before the Legislature’s Travel, Recreation, Wildlife and Cultural Resources Committee. They cautioned that a primary federal permitting review — by the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission — is too lax on “acceptable” impacts and riddled with inaccurate assumptions fed to it by project developer rPlus Hydro.

“These concerns are not theoretical for us,” Casper Mayor Ray Pacheco told the legislative panel. “Casper relies directly on the North Platte River for drinking water, wastewater treatment, recreation, tourism and the quality of life.”

The Wyoming Game and Fish Department’s concerns regarding impacts to the Ferris-Seminoe bighorn sheep herd, mostly due to blasting and industrial traffic during the project’s five-year construction period, “may be unresolvable,” one department official said, adding that the agency still has an opportunity to object to the project.

The Legislature’s Travel, Recreation, Wildlife and Cultural Resources Committee hears public testimony in Casper. (Dustin Bleizeffer/WyoFile) Credit: Dustin Bleizeffer/WyoFile

The company’s touted enhancement to the electrical grid is actually a net energy loss, others claimed. Several commenters were concerned about the effect of warmer water temperatures on trout. They cautioned that rPlus Hydro’s assurance that its project will only minimally raise temperatures is based on an analysis of five years of data from the 2010s that is outdated and doesn’t account for climate change-driven drought that has resulted in higher stream water temperatures and has helped sap Seminoe Reservoir to just 32% of its storage capacity today.

“I think we’re all acutely aware of what’s going on on the Colorado River system and with Flaming Gorge,” Baggs Republican Sen. Larry Hicks said, referring to the drought and water crisis wreaking havoc in the West. “The way I understand the analysis is that there’s going to be many more low water years.”

Seminoe pumped water storage project

“Pumped water storage” involves pumping water uphill during daytime “off-peak demand” hours for electricity when wind and solar power are plentiful and wholesale electricity is cheapest, according to rPlus Hydro. The pumped water would be temporarily stored in a to-be-constructed reservoir above the current reservoir and released to generate hydroelectricity during higher-demand evening hours.

The company proposes building a 13,400-acre-foot reservoir in the Bennett Mountains overlooking Seminoe Reservoir near the dam — one of several reservoirs on the North Platte River. The facility provides “energy‑storage.” “Think of it as a ‘water battery’ that stores energy generated when demand is low,” the company told WyoFile. “When demand increases, water is released from the upper reservoir back into Seminoe, driving hydroelectric turbines to produce electricity.”

“It’s an enormously large project to meet Wyoming’s future energy needs,” rPlus Hydro Deputy General Counsel Kevin Baker told the legislative committee, adding that it would help lower the cost of electricity. “Pumped [water] storage is actually one of the longest duration, most effective and most cost-efficient types of energy storage that’s on the market today.”

Baker said that FERC’s analysis of the project suggests the Seminoe project represents a $200 million annual savings to ratepayers. Further, according to Baker, FERC has suggested, the “absence of this project carries with it its own set of impacts: reduced resource adequacy, higher cost to ratepayers, and the likely need to pursue other projects that may impose greater environmental impacts or plans to the state.”

Hicks objected to the notion that the project will enhance electrical availability or affordability in Wyoming, noting that the state is a net-electrical exporting state, and that rPlus Hydro is relying on federal tax credits to help finance the project.

Anglers attempt to land a trout at Miracle Mile on the North Platte River. (Dustin Bleizeffer/WyoFile)

Despite those facts, Baker responded, the energy storage function does improve reliability and affordability throughout the western grid, including Wyoming. The project, he said, “does not consume serious amounts of water.

“The water,” he added, “will be protected. The fish habitat will be protected. Casper will still have the opportunity to use it as drinking water. Irrigation will still occur. The project will not affect Wyoming’s waters.”

Several people, including local elected officials, Trout Unlimited and local businesses, took issue with Baker’s claims, citing what they say is a flawed federal review process that hasn’t dutifully tested the company’s claims or considered locals’ concerns.

“I think what concerns me the most about this project is the precedent that it sets,” said CiCi Oliver of the Ugly Bug Fly Shop in Casper, which employs 45 people and is dependent on the North Platte River fishery. “This proposal requires exemptions from existing land use and wildlife protections in order to move forward. It is my belief that if a project only works by loosening protections that were specifically created to safeguard habitat and sensitive resources, then perhaps it is not suited for the location in the first place.”

What now?

The FERC is the primary permitting agency for the project because of its reliance on federally managed water storage reservoirs and hydroelectric systems on the North Platte River. That’s a source of heartburn for many stakeholders, including state regulatory agencies, according to Thursday’s testimony.

Members of the Travel Committee lamented that the Legislature doesn’t have a direct role in setting terms for the project. But it concluded that rPlus Hydro and FERC did not meet expectations to engage with locals during the permitting review process, which was initiated some five years ago.

So what can state lawmakers do?

There are still permitting steps where the Legislature can exert its influence, committee leadership noted.

The federal Bureau of Land Management is a cooperating agency for the project, and agency officials noted that when the FERC issues its final environmental impact statement — expected in June — they may request an amendment process if the BLM is not satisfied with natural resource protections. Wyoming Game and Fish also has an influential say in whether it is satisfied with the FERC’s final review.

Plus, others noted, the project still must go before Wyoming’s Industrial Siting Council for approval.

The committee’s cochairs suggested drafting a letter to Wyoming’s congressional delegation, as well as FERC and other permitting agencies, imploring them to address concerns expressed by Wyoming stakeholders. The committee approved that idea in a unanimous vote.

WyoFile is an independent nonprofit news organization focused on Wyoming people, places and policy.

California will soon have more than 300 data centers. Where will they get their water?

By

Steven Rodas, Inside Climate News

-

June 18, 2026

Margie Padilla is worried that a proposed data center near her home in Imperial, Calif., will increase power and water costs for her family. Credit: Steven Rodas/Inside Climate News

This article originally appeared on Inside Climate News, a nonprofit, non-partisan news organization that covers climate, energy and the environment. Sign up for their newsletter here.

IMPERIAL, Calif.—The new data center proposed for a quiet city about 115 miles east of San Diego came across people’s radars in different ways.

For patrons of the deli on West Aten Road, it was the white “Not In My Backyard” signs jutting out of lawns.

For local irrigation district workers, it was something called an “electric service application.”

For Margie Padilla, it was a rant on Facebook.

The 43-year-old mom came across a post online while she had a few minutes to scan social media last spring after a day spent tending her garden and taking care of her two boys.

“Somebody was complaining about this center,” Padilla said. “I was like, ‘Whoa, what’s going on here?’”

What’s going on is the second-largest new data center being considered statewide, which would be less than half a mile from Padilla’s stucco home in the center of Imperial Valley. If finished by 2028, as the developer expects, the at least 950,000-square-foot, two-story data center could be the largest operating statewide, taking up 17 football fields’ worth of land.

The roughly $10 billion, 330-megawatt data center would require 750,000 gallons of water a day to operate, said developer Sebastian Rucci, who insists electricity and water costs won’t rise due to the data center.

“We have studies on the air. We have studies on the water. The electricity could be handled,” Rucci said. “We did our homework.”

Imperial officials haven’t quelled local concerns, only noting that the project is facing litigation and that the center’s long-term impacts on utilities haven’t been determined.

On top of the financial burden of maintaining her family’s health, gas and grocery expenses strain Padilla’s budget and she’s worried a new data center will only increase water and power costs. Padilla, who first heard of the data center a year ago, has only grown more concerned and she’s not alone.

Some residents would see it from their backyards.

“I can only imagine the rates going up once that data center is up and running,” she said, shading her eyes from the beaming sun.

This is one of two dozen data centers expected to open in California in the next few years.

Growing concern and regulatory gaps

A majority of respondents to a nationwide poll by the US Water Alliance’s Value of Water campaign share Padilla’s worries, with 54 percent extremely or very concerned about the eﬀect data centers will have on water quality, water supply and costs in their area.

In its first question about data centers since the poll began in 2016, two-thirds of voters said it was important for their state to have a plan for the eﬀects of data centers on water in the coming years.

“I suspect that as data centers continue to be part of the broad conversation, then these numbers will probably continue to go up as people are more concerned about the impacts they have on the things that affect them and their communities, like supply, quality and cost,” said Scott Berry, the senior advisor on policy and external affairs at the US Water Alliance, from Water Week in Washington D.C. this month.

More than 90 percent of data centers in the U.S. get most of the water they need for cooling from municipal systems, estimated Shaolei Ren, an associate professor of electrical and computer engineering at the University of California, Riverside.

During the hottest summer days, a large 100-megawatt facility can use about 1 million gallons of water for evaporative cooling. That amount is the same as about 10,000 people’s daily water use at home, Ren said.

But those centers require “zero water for many days of the year when it’s cool outside,” he said.

Some data centers are exploring alternatives like treated wastewater or graywater for cooling instead of drinkable water, providing residents and officials with options that could reduce strain on local water supplies.

California doesn’t require AI data centers to report water usage, and the state’s Water Resources Control Board does not maintain a specific list of water rights held by data centers. Although residents are working to require more transparency about water use from data centers, recent efforts to require the facilities’ owners to report how much water they use to the state have faltered.

On top of the data center boom in California, the hundreds of water districts, a deepening Southwestern megadrought and the diminishing of the Colorado River increasingly complicate water issues.

“Water is not purely an environmental issue. In many places, it is fundamentally an infrastructure challenge.”— Shaolei Ren, University of California, Riverside

Also, while data centers can take as little as two to three years to build, developing new water sources can take as long as 20 years, said Ren.

Plans for the steep increase in water demand from California data centers inevitably focus on infrastructure, experts said.

“Water is not purely an environmental issue,” Ren noted. “In many places, it is fundamentally an infrastructure challenge.”

Across the country, water infrastructure upgrades are estimated to cost between $10 billion to $58 billion, Ren’s research team found. How many more facilities are built and where will be a big factor in future infrastructure costs.

The amount of electricity a data center uses, to some degree, determines how much heat it produces, and consequently how much cooling it requires and, in turn, how much water it needs.

The Imperial County data center is one of 24 planned for completion across California by 2030, according to the latest information gathered by analysts at Cleanview, a market intelligence platform.

Based on the about 1.7 GW of electricity the proposed data centers would use, with at least two projects for which there aren’t energy consumption figures, water infrastructure upgrade costs just for the demands of the centers in the state could run from about $200 million to $800 million, Ren said.

“This number assumes that California data centers’ water use intensity is the same as the national average,” he explained.

There is no central permitting authority for data centers in California, and most are overseen by city and county governments, according to the California Public Utilities Commission. Data Center Map shows 286 of the facilities currently operating in California.

While California’s size and tech focus lead some to expect many more data centers here, the cost and availability of power and land, as well as the general tax and regulatory climate, have been hurdles to building them out, according to the Data Center Coalition, which represents big corporations like Amazon, Meta, Google and Microsoft.

Nonetheless, California trails only Virginia and Texas in the number of individual data center locations, but its centers have much lower total new electricity capacity, which may also indicate lower water demand.

A research team at the University of California, Riverside, recently found that data centers could collectively require 697 to 1,451 million gallons per day (MGD) of new water capacity nationally through 2030. New York City’s average daily supply is about 1,000 MGD.

Currently, data centers are estimated to use about 39 billion gallons of water nationally each year, Khara Boender, the senior manager for state policy at the Data Center Coalition, said, citing market research from Bluefield.

“I know when we start to talk about billions of gallons of water in a year, that sounds absolutely crazy,” Boender said. “Looking at how that falls into context with some of these other large water users, I think that that kind of contextualization could be surprising to folks.”

Alfalfa irrigation in California’s Imperial Valley alone uses more than 800 billion gallons a year, an April essay in Outside highlighted. The beverage industry uses 533 billion gallons of water a year and the semiconductor industry uses 59 billion gallons, Boender noted.

But spikes in water needs for data centers can lead to bottlenecks in small community water systems, Ren, at the University of California, Riverside, noted. “Only comparing the annual totals can obscure the real water challenge,” he said.

There is no single fix for the pressure data centers are placing on water supplies across the state, which will be different depending on the location and water systems where each facility is built, said Shivaji Deshmukh, the general manager of the Metropolitan Water District of Southern California—the largest supplier of treated water in the U.S. The district serves 19 million people in six California counties.

“Every community—even within our service area—is different in terms of costs, what type of supply they have. Some regions have access to groundwater. Some have access to treated wastewater or recycled water somewhere along the coast,” Deshmukh said.

So industries, most of which require water for cooling, will look to satisfy that thirst from different sources, depending on their location.

“Imperial Irrigation District is one where I know they’re discussing … installation of data centers in their area,” Deshmukh said.

The imperial dilemma

The plot of dirt on West Aton Road betrays nothing of the colossal data center that could one day sit on the land. Owner Sebastian Rucci hopes to have the facility up and running by the summer of 2028, he said.

Rucci, who is also a lawyer, has purchased 235 acres for his data center so far. He says the data center will allow Google to train its Gemini artificial intelligence, although Google denies any involvement “in a data center project in Imperial County.”

Before he can begin building on the site, a judge will weigh in on the city of Imperial’s lawsuit against the project, which demands that it clear higher environmental hurdles, including the California Environmental Quality Act—which often draws ire from developers who claim it can needlessly stall proposals. The local water district also has to complete its review of the project.

The site of the proposed data center in Imperial, Calif. Credit: Steven Rodas/Inside Climate News

Rucci is determined, though, citing a series of studies conducted by survey and consulting groups, and by the district itself, which manages water and provides power. He posted those reports online to show the data center made sense—in part because water and power could be effectively provided to the data center and the land was permitted for industrial use.

The debate between supporters and opponents of the facility has escalated, with the next court date set for the end of April.

With that date in mind, Padilla, the Imperial mother, set out to work in her garden on a balmy Thursday morning.

Donning a green, short-sleeved shirt and flip-flops, she checked on her squash, poked at her cherry tomatoes and dug in her spade to move periwinkle to a better spot for watering. And through it all, she wondered what the thirst of the proposed data center would do to her garden. And her monthly water bill.

Her payment for water, sewer and trash services currently ranges from $90 to $130 a month—more than double what she paid six years ago.

“I’m also afraid they’re going to put [water] restrictions for us, for the residents,” said Padilla, who estimates her family of four uses about 300 gallons of water a day. “That’s going to be harsh on me, particularly, because of my garden. I grow my own food, my own vegetables.”

Margie Padilla tours her garden on April 16, where she holds a carrot that she thinks hasn’t grown well due to drier temperatures in the Imperial Valley. Credit: Steven Rodas/Inside Climate News

Worries over power and water price surges are misguided, Rucci said. He has been considering power and water needs for the 18 months he has worked on the project, he said, and outlined how it would bring various economic benefits to the region, including about 100 permanent jobs post-construction.

Still, Padilla is thinking about other things. She says her two sons were anemic when they were younger, requiring them to eat fresh produce to supplement the iron their bodies needed. Even after treating the condition, the Imperial mom keeps her sons’ diet filled with veggies and fruits. She needs her garden for that.

The Imperial Irrigation District declined to be interviewed for this story but, in a written statement, noted that it has yet to receive a formal request for water for the project.

The District, which provides water and power to all of Imperial County as well as parts of Riverside and San Diego counties, did not have specific estimates of how demand from the data center could impact its costs.

“Water was very concerning to us from the beginning,” Rucci said.

He’s spoken with city officials in Imperial and El Centro to arrange a water deal for the facility, he said, and proposed getting 6 million gallons per day of reclaimed water from both cities.

“Our plan was we would do all the municipal upgrades at our cost, and then we would take the excess water and run it clean to the Salton Sea,” he said.

Those conversations have not paid off, although Rucci said he remains hopeful municipal officials will help him get water for his facility.

“We first tried to do reclaimed water. I still prefer that but that seems to be taking months and I don’t know if that … will happen,” Rucci said. “Probably we’ll just get it from the (Imperial Irrigation District)” by purchasing it for industrial use.

How the center obtains its water may change as its plans are updated, he added.

Through it all, he remains confident the data center will be built in Imperial County and be good for the area.

Carolina Paez disagrees.

The 46-year-old mother’s backyard abuts the data center site. She says she’d be able to hit it with a rock from her property.

Both she and her son have asthma, and she’s worried about the construction dust, potential pollution and noise from the data center. And higher bills.

“I’m not just thinking about the expenses that are going to increase, but also about the things that are going to lose value—for instance, my house,” Paez said in Spanish.

“What am I going to do with this property? Who would even want to live here?”

Want to predict wildfires? The key may be underground

By

Annie MacKeigan, The Water Desk

-

June 12, 2026

A team of researchers recorded more than 1,500 data points for soil moisture at Independence Pass in Colorado in July 2025. Photo courtesy of Colin Kinsman.

Western wildfires start and spread because of a whole host of factors—wind, temperature, drought, forest health. But scientists are finding that the most important indicator of where the next big fire might ignite isn’t held in the trees themselves, but in the soil their roots are buried in.

Recent studies demonstrate how soil moisture data can help wildfire experts predict a potential fire’s location and severity. Those studies could eventually aid in developing more precise forecasts for fires across the country.

This link, between how moist the ground is under a forest or grassland and fire risk, is gaining more traction among scientists due to an increasingly expansive network of monitoring equipment.

In Colorado’s Roaring Fork Valley, 10 remote soil moisture sensors transmit data hourly, measuring the amount of water in the soil at that specific location and a certain depth, so scientists and researchers can better understand the ecosystem.

In the Rocky Mountain region of northern Idaho and western Montana, the U.S. Forest Service is working to install soil moisture networks at existing remote weather stations to increase the federal government’s observational capacity.

In the Oklahoma grasslands, 120 monitoring sites make up a network for automated soil moisture data collection that spans the whole state, collecting data once every 30 minutes. The network, called the Oklahoma Mesonet, is one of the densest monitoring networks in the world, and is managed in collaboration between the University of Oklahoma, Oklahoma State University and Oklahoma Climatological Survey.

In Colorado’s Garfield County, the Middle Colorado Watershed Council uses soil moisture data to better understand wildfire risk for their mountain communities. The council uses available satellite data as an indicator for wildfire risk through drying trends and overall watershed health.

“It doesn’t look like a lot on the surface,” said Stephanie Kampf, professor of ecosystem science and sustainability at Colorado State University. The sensors are buried underground, collecting soil moisture data from different depths across the West.

But what may not look like much from the surface is a developing network of soil moisture data that could prove invaluable in predicting, and potentially preventing, some of the West’s most destructive fires.

A growing link

The West is in an era of megafires. Decades of fire suppression have put the region in a fire deficit. Fire is an important part of the landscape, but changing climate conditions foster more severe and destructive burns.

Soil moisture data could help better predict the location and severity of these potentially catastrophic wildfires.

“There is growing acknowledgment in fire science that soil moisture is really important,” said Zachary Holden, research ecologist for the U.S. Forest Service and contributor to a 2025 research study that explored soil moisture as a strong predictor for wildfire.

Holden helped create a forecasting model that used archival soil moisture data to estimate wildfire growth from 140 wildfires in the U.S. northern Rocky Mountains from 2012 to 2021, later expanded to include Oregon and Washington.

The forecasting model, now publicly available, aims to be a more detailed tool for prediction as climate change alters our foundational understanding of ecosystems, a model that will combine weather and hydrology.

In addition to Holden’s research, which focuses on the U.S. northern Rocky Mountains, a number of other researchers in the West are linking soil moisture with wildfire prediction, finding that soil moisture and hydrologic conditions are an even stronger predictor for wildfire than drought and weather conditions.

“You can predict whether something is going to be wet or dry, just looking at precipitation patterns, but soil moisture itself gives you the combination of how much water came in, and then how much water went back out through evaporation,” Kampf said.

A 2023 study aimed to better understand the relationship between soil moisture and wildfire risk. According to Erik Krueger, contributor of the study and plant and soil sciences researcher at Oklahoma State University, wildfire researchers were collecting data related to vegetation fuel, fuel load and fuel moisture properties when the relationship between soil moisture and wildfire became clear.

“We just said, ‘Hey, we’ve got this soil moisture database, how can we use it to look at the relationship between when and where wildfires will occur?’” Krueger said.

According to Krueger, scientists have understood that there is a relationship between soil moisture and wildfire, but the data could not be found in one place. “There was no way to quantify [the risk] without the soil moisture data,” he said.

After combining the data, Kruger said, they could better understand wildfire risk.

Wildfire scientists have worked for decades without the soil moisture data that is now becoming available. “We can make their jobs a little bit easier, and make our wildfire prediction a little better,” Krueger said.

*A team of field researchers collects data in the rugged terrain that surrounds a soil moisture monitor at Independence Pass in Colorado. Photo courtesy of Colin Kinsman.*

Applying the science

It’s not just scientists interested in this link between soil moisture and wildfire. Western land and water managers are seeing the benefits of the emerging fire indicator as well.

“Wildfire isn’t just a forest issue, it’s fundamentally a watershed issue,” said Kate Collins, executive director of Middle Colorado Watershed Council and the Colorado River Wildfire Collaborative in Garfield County, Colorado. “Watershed health and wildfire are just not siloed issues at all, they are inextricably linked.”

But wildfire prevention can be contentious, especially in places like Garfield County, which is considered a wildland urban interface, or WUI, where people live in areas affected by wildfire.

“We do need to have fire in our landscapes regularly,” Kampf said. Routine fire lessens the impact of excess dry fuels in an area, limiting the severity of the burn. And emerging as a tool to plan less severe burns, or prescribed fire, is soil moisture.

Prompted by the increased risk of severe wildfire, the Colorado River Wildfire Collaborative has shifted their focus to mitigation efforts, which include riparian restoration, mechanical thinning of vegetation, creating defensible spaces, and prescribed fire. Each of these efforts not only helps reduce wildfire risk, but also supports soil moisture retention.

The process of building a usable set of soil moisture data is just beginning. Using the data as a tool, particularly in relation to wildfire risk, is relatively new. Building a strong dataset not only takes time, but also additional resources that are still being pulled together.

A new approach’s limitations

Sensors can only collect soil moisture data for the specific soil column they are inserted in, which brings other challenges.

“One is topography, so not just the elevation, but what aspect you are on and sloping around, and then you have the vegetation at that site,” Holden said.

In a high alpine area, soil moisture data collected at one point may not be representative of an entire region. How do you apply one finding across a shifting landscape?

In July 2025, a team with Aspen Global Change Institute set out to answer that question. “Single point moisture data has value in that it can give you an insight into what’s happening in the soil across a watershed,” said Asa DeHaan, research technician at AGCI.

A single watershed has a wealth of different types of soils, especially in complex, mountainous regions like Independence Pass near Aspen, Colorado, where the data was collected. “This one spot is really dry. We need to go out and see, is this the case across a larger area?”

DeHaan and a group of 14 others embarked on a three-day mission of collecting soil moisture data with handheld probes every 5 meters in a 100 square meter area around the monitoring site. “There really was a high variability across this area, kind of what we hypothesized was going to be the case,” DeHaan said.

This idea is called “slope granularity.” AGCI’s continued research on slope granularity aims to understand if the patterns that were recorded among different vegetation types and in different alpine environments may extend to larger landscapes.

According to Colin Kinsman, a team member on the July 2025 trip, the group collected somewhere between 1,500 and 1,700 data points within the region. “All this was in an effort to see what the deviation is across the slope,” Kinsman said, information that is necessary to groups looking to better understand severe wildfire risk.

*A collaborative project led by AGCI in July 2025 aimed to better understand the differences in soil moisture in areas of varied topography. Photo courtesy of Colin Kinsman.*

Expanding the networks

But the predictive ability of soil moisture monitoring hinges on there being robust measurements and data collection available to wildfire researchers and managers. Integrating soil moisture data is made more difficult by sparse observations across the West.

According to Helen Silver, co-director of the Integrated Rocky Mountain-region Innovation Center for Healthy Soils, IN-RICHES, and Quench soil moisture monitoring programs out of Colorado State University, advancing soil moisture as a tool for wildfire prediction means not only expanding the monitoring network, but also putting all the data in one accessible place.

Silver is working with the U.S. Forest Service to introduce more monitoring sites across Colorado to create a larger network of data. More data could help wildfire managers use the network as a tool for predicting wildfires. “We have a really large opportunity to install more sites that will help with prediction,” Silver said.

But maintenance and installation of such sites is expensive. Together with the Forest Service, Silver is working to bring in more money. “I would love to see federal funds and state funds put towards this,” she said.

But getting the data, having the data and using the data are all separate issues. “What we need is a few champions, a few wildfire scientists that are champions for using this practically, for implementing these new tools,” Krueger said.

Ultimately, soil moisture monitoring can’t predict with total certainty where a wildfire will begin. But Krueger said it could give an additional boost to forecasts. Is that worth the investment? “If it’s your house that is downwind from where the fire is, it probably is,” he said.

This story was produced and distributed by The Water Desk at the University of Colorado Boulder’s Center for Environmental Journalism.

Editor’s note: This story was updated to correct information from Colin Kinsman. His team collected 1,500 and 1,700 data points, not 15,000 to 17,000.

‘It’s devastating’: Drawdown at Flaming Gorge hits local recreation economy

By

Dustin Bleizeffer, WyoFile & Hannah Romero, Green River Star

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June 11, 2026

Anglers flock to Flaming Gorge Reservoir on Memorial Day weekend. Kokanee salmon and trophy-sized lake trout draw tens of thousands of visitors to the reservoir each year, supporting a recreational economy in southwestern Wyoming and northeastern Utah. (Hannah Romero/Green River Star)

As campers with boats flocked to Buckboard Marina at the start of Memorial Day weekend, Tony Valdez was busy issuing refunds and repairing broken boat ramps. One older Green River man, who walked with two canes, left with his money refunded for the season after discovering he could not safely make it down to the boat slip. Due to dropping water levels at Flaming Gorge Reservoir, the ramp is now buckled, angling up and down like a pitched roof.

“It’s devastating, not just to me, it’s all the marina owners,” said Valdez, who owns Buckboard Marina, south of Green River. “It’s a big loss, and this is a big loss to the community.”

Along the cliffs and shoreline, darker and lighter lines of rock and sand trace the water’s elevations, showing where the water hits when the marina is full, where it hovered this spring and where it dropped after an initial “flush.” Valdez estimates the reservoir has dropped by 7 feet since April.

But that’s not the worst of it. Valdez anticipates that by the end of this summer, the reservoir will be as low as it’s ever been.

Why the drain?

For all its charm as a beloved recreation spot and its utility as a local economic driver, Flaming Gorge Reservoir owes its existence to a legal compact that essentially regards it as an insurance policy in times of drought.

Its primary purpose, according to federal officials and Colorado River Compact scholars, is to serve as a backup water bank to help maintain the Colorado River system. Specifically, Flaming Gorge and a handful of other reservoirs in the upper Colorado River Basin states of Wyoming, Colorado, Utah and New Mexico are key to ensuring a minimum flow of 7.5 million acre-feet of water, on a running 10-year average, at Lees Ferry just downstream of Lake Powell, a massive man-made reservoir straddling the Utah-Arizona border.

Today, after more than 20 years of drought intensified by human-caused climate change, the Colorado River is in crisis, putting at risk massive agricultural irrigation operations that consume about 80% of its water. This past winter saw historically low snowpack in the Upper Colorado River Basin — a primary source for the river’s flow.

This annotated 1963 photo of the Glen Canyon Dam shows the minimum level of Lake Powell, below which would render the dam’s power generation components inoperable. (Bureau of Reclamation)

Combined with record heat in March, Lake Powell is at risk of dropping below Glen Canyon Dam’s “minimum power pool,” the point at which it can no longer produce hydroelectric power, according to water officials. If it falls even lower, the dam, which holds back Lake Powell, could be at risk of structural damage or unable to allow water to flow downstream.

The situation triggered a drought response operations agreement that calls for restricting releases from Lake Powell and an order to draw extra water from Flaming Gorge upstream. In total, water managers will release about 1 million additional acre-feet of water from Flaming Gorge in April 2026 through April 2027.

“These actions are expected to lower [Flaming Gorge’s] elevation by roughly 35 feet over the next year to approximately 59% of capacity,” the bureau said in April.

“The elevations are real critical,” Valdez said. At Buckboard Marina, high water has hovered between 6,030 and 6,040 feet above sea level over the past 50 years, he said. Dropping 35 feet could expose 400 feet of shoreline in some places, including marinas with boat ramps, he said.

Dropping water levels in the Flaming Gorge Reservoir by 35 feet could expose over 400 feet of shoreline in some places, including marinas with boat ramps, according to Buckboard Marina owner Tony Valdez. (Hannah Romero/Green River Star)

If the water elevation continues to retreat, it could reach a point where boats can’t be brought in or out.

“By September, this thing is going to be down to 6,000 feet. That’s it,” Valdez said. “Next year, if it goes below that, there’s no more marina here.”

Setting a course

Water managers set a course in April to “stabilize” Flaming Gorge’s outflow to about 1,100 cubic feet per second, representing the rate needed to achieve the 1 million acre-feet of extra water release, according to the bureau. On top of that, there are two previously planned “flushes” from the Gorge. The first, in early May, temporarily increased the outflow to about 8,600 cubic feet per second to enhance the proliferation of razorback sucker larvae, and a second 72-hour flush beginning June 8 will temporarily increase the outflow to about 4,600 cubic feet per second to discourage the proliferation of smallmouth bass.

So far, Flaming Gorge has dropped from about 3 million acre-feet in April (or 82% capacity) to about 2.83 million acre-feet as of May 25. Meanwhile, water managers warn, “This release plan is subject to change depending on evolving river conditions and weather forecasts.”

Those evolving conditions include forecasted versus actual flows from streams feeding the system. For example, those “unregulated” or natural flows are forecasted to be much lower than normal: 70,000 acre-feet of water into Flaming Gorge during May (28% of average), 175,000 acre-feet in June (45% of average) and 84,000 acre-feet (42%), according to the Bureau of Reclamation.

Water officials caution that water flowing from the Flaming Gorge Dam could change, and that those recreating on the Green River below should monitor release schedules at this website. The bureau also noted, “Water will be colder than usual and will run high and swift during periods of elevated releases.”

Water floats recreation economy

Buckboard Marina went through a similar drop in water a few years ago. The Bureau of Reclamation began pulling water from the Flaming Gorge in 2021, and by 2022, the marina’s water level was at an all-time low. While the reservoir recovered somewhat in 2023 thanks to a good year for moisture, Valdez said, the reservoir has continued to decline since then.

Buckboard Marina owner Tony Valdez stands next to a stake that indicates the extent of dropping water levels at Flaming Gorge Reservoir on Sept. 26, 2022. (Dustin Bleizeffer/WyoFile)

Kokanee salmon and trophy-sized lake trout draw tens of thousands of visitors to Flaming Gorge each year, supporting a recreational economy in southwestern Wyoming and northeastern Utah. But as the lake is drawn down, water recedes from shallow shorelines and fish are forced into a smaller space, essentially shrinking the fishery toward the dam side of the reservoir.

One of Valdez’s primary concerns is that water levels could drop below the ideal elevation for kokanee to spawn in the reservoir.

“I think people don’t realize the economic value it brings,” he said. “It is a big deal when you lose your kokanees.”

Already, kokanee are struggling to thrive in the reservoir.

Drinking water dries up

Valdez has already lost money this year just from people being concerned about water levels. He estimated that the marina lost roughly $30,000 in cancellations when discussions about releasing water began as early as February.

Other problems also start to arise as the water drops. The marina will lose access to drinking water at 6,010 feet, below their floating pump that supplies potable water. It’s only 7 feet away from the current level.

“That’s scary to me,” Valdez said.

The marina can truck in water from Rock Springs, but it costs about $1,200 to bring in 8,000 gallons, which lasts about two weeks. For Valdez, it feels “asinine” to lose water at a marina.

“Why would we run out of water on a lake?”

Water levels also impact the location of the fuel dock and fuel lines extending to it. If the reservoir sinks too low, it could cost up to $100,000 to adapt, he said.

Drawing down water levels quickly — as happened in early May — can damage marina structures. After the 2021-22 drawdown, Valdez said he spent about $130,000 in repairs.

Buckboard Marina owner Tony Valdez shows a boat ramp that now angles up steeply before dropping down after the reservoir’s water levels dropped several feet. (Hannah Romero/Green River Star)

This time, he’d hoped to keep up. He and a group of 10 men worked to keep pace with the dropping water levels, repairing and modifying ramps. It wasn’t enough.

“The drop was dramatic enough to break all of our approaches, our bridges, our stuff, so it broke a lot of the welds, broke a lot of the structured steel, because it just vertically dropped too fast for the weight,” he said.

When structures go from water to land that quickly, the weight is too much for them to hold up, Valdez said.

“I’m re-rigging everything, and this is only a temporary fix ’til September, because that’s when the season ends.”

The marina should remain mostly functional until the summer season ends, he said. But with extra water releases set to continue through the winter, the lake could drop another 10 to 12 feet by the spring.

“We’re getting into numbers that I don’t even want to talk about,” Valdez said. “I mean, there’s no marina.”

What’s next?

“The guy with the boots on the ground that watches this every day,” as Valdez describes himself, can see what water managers can’t, and he questions whether official numbers and estimates match reality.

“It’s hard to watch this when it’s out of your hands.”

Valdez is critical of the 1922 compact, doubting the legal rationale of sending Wyoming water to places like Arizona. He also wonders about the role of local industries — refineries, coal-fired power plants and trona mines — that use large amounts of water, and the idea of adding more industrial facilities that require even more water, like data centers.

“We don’t have the water to give away,” Valdez said.

Bryan Seppie, general manager for the Joint Powers Water Board for Sweetwater County, Rock Springs and Green River, agrees. “The poor hydrology this past winter has affected most all water users in some form or another,” he said.

His board monitors the Colorado River system closely. Just upstream from Flaming Gorge, the Bureau of Reclamation reduced releases from Fontenelle Reservoir due to poor inflow projections. Although the water will still be enough for river users, the low summer flows will have a negative impact.

“Low river flows typically result in higher water temperatures, which generally leads to higher levels of moss/algae and overall lower water quality,” Seppie said in an email.

What about recovery?

Valdez wonders: What’s the plan to allow the reservoir to bounce back?

Wyoming State Engineer Brandon Gebhart and his staff have warned for months that although Flaming Gorge can serve as a backup to Lake Powell this year, it drains the Gorge’s ability to play a similar role next year, or the year after. It takes time for Mother Nature to replenish the bank.

Rings line the shore of Flaming Gorge Reservoir, showing the drop in the water level at the popular recreation spot that spans the Wyoming-Utah border. (Hannah Romero/Green River Star)

“The big thing that nobody is talking about is the recovery,” Valdez said. “Where is the recovery of our water?”

This year’s drain on Flaming Gorge began at a low point. The reservoir hadn’t fully recovered after the last major pull. Rather than starting at a high point of 6,040 feet, the marina was at about 6,024 feet, he said.

“There’s no recovery plan,” he said. “We can’t just let them keep taking. I mean, where’s this end?”

If there is no grace period for the reservoir to replenish and officials want to take even more in the near future, starting from such a low elevation point, it will be “devastating,” Valdez said.

“The water going down is not the end of the world, it’s the recovery in a timely manner that really matters,” he said. “I can’t preach recovery enough.”

Watching people come to the marina and seeing how happy they are still motivates Valdez to keep going. Despite the drawdown, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“We’re not going to run away. We’re not going to give up,” he said. “We’re going to fight.”

This story was produced by WyoFile, and distributed by The Water Desk at the University of Colorado Boulder’s Center for Environmental Journalism.

As Lake Powell drops, a thriving ecosystem is emerging

By

Brooke Larsen, The Salt Lake Tribune

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June 10, 2026

Eric Balken, Glen Canyon Institute executive director, navigates coyote and seep willow taking hold at La Gorce Arch in Davis Gulch, during a tour of side canyon tributaries and their ecosystems at Lake Powell on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

“We’re entering beaver land!” Zanna Stutz yelled joyfully.

Stepping lightly over slick, wobbly mud and splashing through ankle-deep water, she approached a small dam created by nature’s engineers.

A Woodhouse toad began croaking, harmonizing with the water trickling through a stack of sticks and chewed logs.

Stutz, the program director of the Glen Canyon Institute, and other environmental advocates looked for the amphibian. They spotted one hiding in the willows next to the stream. A few steps later, they saw another swimming in the water pooled behind the dam.

“That’s a great indicator of really good water quality,” said David Wegner, a founding trustee of the Glen Canyon Institute and former Bureau of Reclamation scientist. “How cool is that?”

As the group continued up Davis Gulch — one of the 127 side canyons that have reemerged as Lake Powell has receded — more beaver dams came into view. Each dam gave the stream a different pitch and rhythm as the water flowed over and through woven branches and twigs.

Willows, which started at shin height at the bottom of the gulch, now brushed shoulders and eventually towered above heads. The plethora of native plants mixed with the moist, muddy earth gave a sweet, woody smell.

“People said it was a wasteland. But just look: the desert varnish is recovering,” Wegner said as he pointed to the sandstone walls, once bleached from the lake but now regaining orange and brown streaks.

“Vegetation is coming back,” he continued, as he gestured to the native grasses stabilizing the soil. “It’s not a wasteland. It’s valuable and important.”

Next to the reeds, an occasional old Pepsi can and folding beach chair peeked out from layers of sand and clay. The objects served as a reminder: not so long ago, this was underwater.

*Frogs are seen within the first three miles into Davis Gulch.* *(Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)*

A 1970s Pepsi can sits on the canyon floor in Davis Gulch on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

The Bureau of Reclamation began filling Lake Powell in 1963, flooding narrow canyons that were once so lush with cottonwood trees that John Wesley Powell named the area Glen Canyon. The reservoir kept climbing, swallowing shrines sacred to several tribes, including the Diné, Hopi, Pueblo and Paiute people.

“There’s thousands of years of prayers here,” said Daryl Vigil, co-director of the Water & Tribes Initiative and former water administrator for the Jicarilla Apache Nation.

It took nearly twenty years for Lake Powell to fill to 3,700 feet in elevation. It only stayed near that level for two decades before climate change-induced drought and overuse started shrinking the flows of the Colorado, San Juan and other rivers that feed the reservoir.

Now Lake Powell teeters on the brink of collapse: Forecasts show it could drop to its lowest level since filling and reach elevations at which Glen Canyon Dam was not designed to operate. That could threaten Reclamation’s ability to safely and reliably send water downstream to major cities and agricultural regions in Arizona, California, Nevada and Mexico.

But environmental groups and scientists have found a silver lining to the Southwest’s water crisis: As Lake Powell recedes, the once-drowned Glen Canyon is surfacing and thriving ecosystems are emerging.

A fast moving skiff navigates the main channel of Lake Powell on Sunday, April 26, 2026, as bathtub rings are indicative of how far the waters levels have fallen since being at full capacity in the early 1980s. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

Eric Balken, Glen Canyon Institute executive director, lines up photos of Davis Gulch to show the before and after comparison of vegetation growth during a tour of side canyon tributaries at Lake Powell on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

“In Glen Canyon, that recovery is happening all on its own without human intervention,” said Eric Balken, director of Glen Canyon Institute. “I think that’s one of the most impressive things about this place, is that all of the recipes for ecological recovery are here. We just have to get out of the way.”

Dramatic changes

In late April, the Glen Canyon Institute and Returning Rapids Project, organizations that are documenting what’s emerging as the reservoir recedes, took 11 Colorado River advocates and a few journalists to witness Glen Canyon’s recovery.

“We’re in unprecedented times,” Mike DeHoff, a co-founder of the Returning Rapids Project and former river guide, told the group the night before they departed from Bullfrog Marina — a popular gateway to Lake Powell that was forced to relocate boats and docks to deeper water near Halls Crossing this spring.

Non-profit organizations that work on the Colorado River, come upon La Gorce arch in Davis Gulch as they see changes taking place in side canyon tributaries at Lake Powell on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

While the chirp of songbirds and sweet aroma of wildflowers awaited ahead, quicksand and sharp shells of invasive quagga mussels also loomed.

“Pay attention to your senses,” DeHoff said while describing the changing landscape ahead. “And don’t trust anything.”

The next morning, it took the group nearly three hours to motor across the reservoir in pontoons and aluminum skiffs to reach the Escalante River Arm, where smaller side canyons such as Davis Gulch have emerged. Even at near-record lows, the group was amazed by how vast the reservoir felt.

The journey across the blue expanse was familiar to Balken. He has taken over 50 trips to the newly formed streams and surfaced rock features around Powell since he started working for Glen Canyon Institute 20 years ago. He was 19 years old then, and the reservoir was 74 feet higher than it is today.

“I’ve seen really dramatic changes in the canyon,” he said.

The reservoir’s steep drop had become obvious. A stark line ran across the middle of towering sandstone walls where waves once lapped: the top half dark orange like a terracotta pot, the bottom half resembling a creamsicle.

In shallower spots, grey trunks and branches poked out like skeletons crawling out of the water. “Ghost trees,” Balken explained.

“You can only imagine what it would have been like with all these trees green and thriving,” he then said.

In some side canyons, though, imagination is no longer needed.

*A pontoon boat motors down the main channel of Lake Powell.* *(Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)*

Once covered by water, drowned trees are seen in Davis Gulch during a tour of reemerging ecosystems in side canyon tributaries at Lake Powell on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

Eric Balken, Glen Canyon Institute executive director, talks about the changes he has seen in Davis Gulch during a tour of reemerging ecosystems in side canyon tributaries at Lake Powell on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

Fifteen years ago, the three miles of Davis Gulch that Balken led the group through in April were underwater. Some of the willows and cottonwoods that now line the gentle ribbon of water in the canyon have only been above Lake Powell for six years.

“In that short amount of time, they have recovered to such a great extent that we’re seeing diverse, functional ecosystems,” he said.

Tree canopies have formed. Purple-flowered American speedwell, long, green cattail grass and a variety of willows have filled the stream banks.

Those plants have created homes for insects, birds, frogs and larger wildlife. Balken counted 14 beaver dams in the three miles the group trekked. Others on the trip pointed out animal scat potentially left by otters, coyotes and cougars.

“It’s this huge natural laboratory for studying how ecosystems develop,” said Seth Arens, Utah Information Specialist with the Western Water Assessment, during an interview in May. “In some ways it’s this experiment on removing a dam without actually removing a dam.”

Davis Gulch, in Glen Canyon, is pictured in this photo match on Monday, May 17, 2021. Below, Eric Balken, Glen Canyon Institute executive director, revisits the site on Saturday, April 25, 2026, during a tour of the changes taking place in side canyon tributaries at Lake Powell. (Rick Egan (top) & Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

‘A living, breathing thing’

Arens wasn’t on the trip in April, but his research was. While on the pontoon, Balken passed out a one-pager summarizing Arens’ and his co-authors’ upcoming paper on ecosystems emerging from Lake Powell.

In 2022, Arens set up plant surveys in 20 side canyons and began exploring two questions: What plants and ecosystems are establishing on landscapes previously flooded by Lake Powell? And how are those ecosystems changing over time?

About 100,000 acres of once-submerged land has surfaced since the reservoir was at its highest point in the 1980s, Arens said, including more than 180 miles of rivers and streams.

“[The] most surprising thing for me was just how quickly native ecosystems started regrowing along tributary creeks with flowing water some of the year,” he said. “There’s definitely a big difference between what happens on very dry landscapes and what happens on landscapes that are along or near a creek with flowing water.”

Native American speedwell creates a tapestry of color in Davis Gulch during a tour of side canyon tributaries at Lake Powell on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

In the first year or two after a landscape emerges from Lake Powell, it’s barren and devoid of life. “The original surface features of that canyon — the rocks, the boulders — all of those have been buried smooth with sediment,” Arens said.

In the smaller side canyons, anywhere from 10 to 70 feet of sand, clay and shale has been left in Lake Powell’s tracks, Arens said. In Cataract Canyon, where the main stem of the Colorado River runs, there’s closer to 200 feet of sediment.

Non-native plants like Russian thistle — or tumbleweed — first grow in the exposed landscape. But eventually, monsoonal rains dump into the canyons and form flash floods. The rushing water carves stream channels, and if water flows in the canyon year to year, native grasses and shrubs begin to thrive.

Davis Gulch is pictured during a tour of reemerging ecosystems in side canyon tributaries at Lake Powell on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

“By four to seven years, you’re starting to see a system that really resembles a system that was never flooded,” Arens said.

In areas that surfaced 25 years ago, Arens has documented cottonwoods that are 40 to 50 feet tall and over a foot in diameter. At that point, there’s typically not a difference between once drowned landscapes and areas above Powell’s high water line.

“It’s not a slick rock container for water anymore,” Arens said. “It’s a living, breathing thing. They’re vibrant, rich, native ecosystems that are growing in many locations. I think that needs to be considered, because it’s not the same situation as it was before.”

An opportunity to rethink management

*A skiff travels under Gregory Natural Bridge, once completely submerged, in Fiftymile Canyon.* *(Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)*

Arens’ research is the first comprehensive survey of the returning vegetation in Glen Canyon.

“The park service has so much on their plate already in managing the changes in Glen Canyon that they have not yet had the resources to do these kinds of large scale ecological observations in the canyon,” Balken said.

The National Park Service manages emerging landscapes the same way it manages the rest of Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, a park spokesperson said over email. “Ecologically, natural systems adjust as the shoreline changes, and we continue to monitor conditions to support those natural processes,” they wrote.

Because of the park service’s limited capacity, Balken said nonprofits, researchers and visitors to the area can fill the gaps in data collection. Glen Canyon Institute set up a “Glen Canyon Restoring Ecosystems Project” page on iNaturalist where people can upload their observations.

“This is all just brand new science, and I think we’re just barely starting to scratch the surface,” Balken said. “It’s exciting. This is a place that people wrote off a long time ago, and it was assumed that these canyons could never come back to life, and here they are.”

“It’s such a hopeful sign that nature can be resilient in the face of climate change and over consumption of water,” he added.

A great blue heron glides over the waters of Lake Powell as invasive quagga mussels cling to the sandstone on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

Balken and Arens said they hope land and water managers will consider Glen Canyon in future decisions.

Reclamation cites Arens’ research in its draft environmental impact statement that lays out future management alternatives for Lake Powell and Lake Mead. However, the returning ecosystem is mentioned in just a few paragraphs of the over 2,000-page document released in January.

“We have a second opportunity to potentially rethink how we manage this landscape,” Arens said.

“By no means is it the most important, or probably even cracking the top 100 of most important issues when it comes to water management,” he added. “However, it would be a mistake — it would be a tragedy — to see this issue just not considered at all in those decisions.”

A new generation

Non-profit organizations that work on the Colorado River tour Davis Gulch as they see changes taking place in side canyon tributaries at Lake Powell on Saturday, April 25, 2026. (Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)

The group’s three-mile journey up Davis Gulch ended at a small waterfall that gently flowed over two rounded sandstone benches. Tall cottonwoods grew around the pool that formed above the cascade, which was underwater 15 years ago.

“Now it’s this little, magical fern gully,” Balken said.

The group wove a path down the canyon, whacking through dense thickets of willows and trudging through knee-deep water pooled behind beaver dams.

“One of the worst things that could happen to Glen Canyon already happened,” Stutz said as she quickly stepped across sinking sediment.

The generation of Katie Lee, a singer and avid defender of Glen Canyon until her passing, were moved by what they lost, Stutz continued. But now, Stutz’s generation of twenty-somethings is motivated by what’s returning.

“We’re rewriting the narrative,” she said.

*Invasive quagga mussels line the sandstone walls.* *(Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune)*

As the group neared the border between land and lake, the buzz of insects quieted and the willows shrunk. A gust of wind shook the invasive quagga mussels lining the sandstone walls like a maraca.

“A quagga windchime,” Balken said.

Bird tracks covered the mud at the edge of the reservoir. The group loaded onto the pontoons, hugged by ghost trees. Now it was a bit easier for them to imagine what those gray branches once looked like, lush and green above water.

Note to readers • The Salt Lake Tribune traveled with Glen Canyon Institute as part of the reporting for this story. The Tribune paid for its share of costs related to travel and food on the trip, which was recorded as a donation to the organization.

This story was reported in partnership with the Colorado River Collaborative, with support from The Water Desk at the University of Colorado, Boulder.

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‘A wild idea’

A second life

Hard math

Coming full circle?

Buying out demand

On the fringe

Shifting chemistry

Unanswered questions

Climate justice

Seminoe pumped water storage project

What now?

Growing concern and regulatory gaps

The imperial dilemma

A growing link

Applying the science

A new approach’s limitations

Expanding the networks

Why the drain?

Setting a course

Water floats recreation economy

Drinking water dries up

What’s next?

What about recovery?

Dramatic changes

‘A living, breathing thing’

An opportunity to rethink management

A new generation

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