The Encyclopedia of Trouble and Spaciousness (11 page)

No one holds a monopoly, but Americans have proved very good at junk science. It’s a specialty field, in which the claims about Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction, aluminum “centrifuge” tubes and the like, are only the most widely noted. The Panglossian “rain follows the plow” was the motto used to dispatch hapless would-be farmers to the arid lands of the American West, where rainfall is inadequate to raise crops, and irrigation started as a corruption racket and ended up as an environmental disaster. Its agenda is short-term convenience. Its methodology is lies. An atmospheric scientist once told me that he had checked Edward Teller’s projections of the amount of fallout that would reach Americans during the years of above-ground nuclear testing in southern Nevada. The great genius had somehow left off some zeros, reducing the impact a hundred- or a thousandfold, while other scientists created arbitrary standards of exposure safety and schoolchildren were taught to duck and cover to protect themselves from atomic blasts. Scientific facts about the environment—water flow, radioactive half-lives, principles of containment, et cetera—were jiggled until they could be used to justify the dumping of nuclear waste near the atomic test site.

Junk science might be too generous a label for the way conclusions have been reached about the water of the Colorado River—how much there is and how much and how securely it can change the arid landscape around it. The water has transformed that landscape. Without it, Arizona and southern Nevada would still be barely populated, and a lot of the agriculture in the Southwest wouldn’t exist. But the supply was always precarious and overcommitted, and it is already running out. Water limitations were
noticed from the beginning, when Major John Wesley Powell and his crew became the first white men to float down the Colorado. Powell’s 1875
Exploration of the Colorado River and Its Canyons
, an expansion of his magazine reports, is still in print. It is a gorgeous book about adventure, geology, anthropology, and hydrology, with illustrations carrying captions like “The Great Unconformity at the Head of the Grand Canyon” and chapters such as “From Flaming Gorge to the Gate of Lodore.” But it was the sobering
A Report on the Lands of the Arid Region of the United States, with a More Detailed Account of the Lands of Utah
of 1878 that makes Powell matter even today. A Civil War veteran and government explorer, he saw that there wasn’t enough water to irrigate people’s visions of a big agricultural society and that the limits on water would ultimately be the limit on everything else. Ignoring Powell has been the basis of almost everything that has come since, except the literature on the river, which Powell presides over as a kind of god.

James Lawrence Powell’s
Dead Pool: Lake Powell, Global Warming, and the Future of Water in the West
tells the story of the Colorado well and moves it forward to speculate on what the era of climate change will bring. He isn’t optimistic—in his account, climate change is just one more factor that the engineers and hydrologists who are responsible for plotting the river’s fate refuse to face. He begins with two crises at Glen Canyon Dam—one of a sudden abundance of water that nearly destroyed the dam in the 1980s, and another in 2005, when the water level fell lower than the official scientists had calculated it would ever go. (A disaster for water managers, it was a miracle for explorers, who got to see canyons and cliff faces that were thought to have been lost forever.)
Dead Pool
then doubles back to begin the story at the beginning, with Major Powell and his warnings on the finitude of the Southwest’s water:

To a man of Powell’s principles and background, that his nation encouraged thousands of poor farmers to move to lands so dry that the settlers were bound to fail was a tragedy. He would spend most of the rest of his career trying to save them from that fate. . . . By March 1888 one of Powell’s scientific facts was undeniable: the West had too little water to irrigate all
the land. To collect and best use what water did exist would require a system of dams and reservoirs.

Building those dams and reservoirs would, in theory, be a cooperative enterprise; in practice, it was a big-government project for the benefit of Westerners who for the most part considered themselves individualists and independents. This delusion of self-sufficiency, along with the fantasy that enough water could be found to supply the region, launched the eco-tragedy now unfolding.

Toward the end of his book, Powell points out that the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation has decided not to take climate change into account when planning water management and allocation for the twenty-first century. Instead, it has been basing its projections on what we now know was the unusually wet twentieth century. No shortage, no problems to plan for. The author points out that climate change is not something that
may happen
to the American West or that is now happening only in the Arctic. It is here, now. And at the end of
Dead Pool
he describes what a post–climate change Southwest might look like—the book’s title, incidentally, is the term used to describe a reservoir when its water level drops too low to feed the intake valves for hydropower generators.

“Mistakes were made” is the locution politicians like to use, and it could be used for a lot of the plans for the Southwest, which have left follies in their wake. The Salton Sea, for example, a little west of the tail end of the Colorado, became the biggest lake in California when it was accidentally created around the time the Tulare Lake was drained into nonexistence. It was the result of an attempt early in the last century to divert a little irrigation water. The whole river raged into the new canal, ripped it into a broad channel, and for two years emptied itself into the low point that in another climatological era had been a lake and now became one again, full of the salts of the desert. Only one force in the West was mighty enough to do battle with the river: the Southern Pacific Railroad (SP), the monster corporation that dominated California politics and land for decades. It took the SP two years to stuff enough rubbish into the gap to send the river back into its usual bed. The Salton Sea is recharged by farm runoff
and other filthy waters; it has become a major bird sanctuary because their old wetland habitat, the delta where the Colorado runs into the sea, has largely dried up. Most of the attempts to develop resorts around the lake have turned into ruins; the most famous site there is Salvation Mountain, a folksy one-man religious complex made of concrete poured a few bags at a time and painted with discarded house paint.

The Salton Sea is already a conundrum, a toxic bird sanctuary in a place where water doesn’t belong, and the reservoir-dam systems will go the same way. But not all the strange phenomena that have arisen from the long wrestling match with the Colorado are situated near it. Take the San Francisco–based, family-owned Bechtel Corporation, which is to the United States what the Bin Laden construction firm is to Saudi Arabia—a colossus itself and a maker of colossi. Bechtel emerged from the building of the Hoover Dam to become a major force in reshaping the West and then the world: it is responsible for nuclear power plants and infrastructure for mining in hitherto roadless jungle and for triggering Bolivia’s water war earlier this decade when its attempts to privatize Cochabamba’s water backfired. And it was one of the more visibly problematic contractors in Bush’s Iraq. (The bin Laden family was earlier this decade a “substantial investor,” with $10 million in a private equity fund owned by Bechtel, but that’s another story.)

No one opposed the Hoover Dam, built at the height of the Depression and the height of hope in technology, but Glen Canyon Dam, built thirty years later, was controversial from the outset. Furious about the development, the Sierra Club transformed from a genteel regional mountaineering society into the most powerful environmental group in the country. The canyon that would be dammed was one of the most beautiful places in the Southwest. Although the Sierra Club knew this, it originally signed off on it as a replacement for a dam upstream. But then the club changed its course and began to fight—in vain, ultimately—to save the canyon and the river ecology downstream. Yet the struggle produced soul-searching and rabble-rousing, out of which came the modern environmental movement.

The logic for the dam was hard to find, but the junk science was not: basic errors were made concerning the rate of evaporation (creating a big
lake in a desert entails giving a lot of the water to the sky); cost figures were squirrelly; the estimates for how much water the river collects annually were off. In his book, James Lawrence Powell concludes that the dam and Lake Powell exist because a powerful Colorado representative wanted them and because the Bureau of Reclamation “needed new dams to burnish its reputation and justify its funding and staff levels.”

The battle over the damming of Glen Canyon is one of the great epics of twentieth-century America, and out of it came two classics. One was Eliot Porter’s elegiac photographic book,
The Place No One Knew: Glen Canyon on the Colorado
, a book that helped create the genre of color nature photography. The other was by John McPhee, the
New Yorker
’s science writer.
Encounters with the Archdruid
recounts what transpired when McPhee managed to get the dam’s chief advocate, Floyd Dominy, and its bitterest opponent, Porter’s publisher and the Sierra Club’s executive director, David Brower, to float together down the Grand Canyon below the dam, arguing all the way. Neither of them imagined the fate the dam now faces. But others hoped. Two classics, or maybe three. In his 1975 novel,
The Monkey Wrench Gang,
the insurrectionary environmental writer Edward Abbey coined the verb “monkey-wrenching” for a certain kind of ecological sabotage: its four central characters plot to float a houseboat full of explosives to the dam. The book helped prompt the formation of the radical environmental group Earth First!, which announced its arrival on the scene in 1981, when some of its founders unfurled a vast line of black plastic resembling a crack down the 700-foot-high face of Glen Canyon Dam. “Surely no man-made structure in modern American history has been so hated for so long by so many with such good reason,” said Abbey, speaking to a crowd in a parking lot with a good view of the dam and the prank. It was Earth First! that came up with the optimistic bumper sticker about all this: “Nature Bats Last.” But Bechtel keeps the profits.

The docks and ramps at both reservoirs have had to be relocated and rebuilt in pursuit of the fleeing waterline, and one dock simply closed. One ramp at Lake Powell grew to 1,300 feet long, another to more than 1,500 feet, new additions to the collection of landscape follies across the American West. Phoenix and Vegas seem fated, the book argues, to become dusty ruins, for the water to sustain them is already vanishing (though
Vegas has a murderous scheme to drain much of the rest of Nevada for its golf courses and casino fountains, to the detriment of rural communities and wildlife). If the lack of water doesn’t get them, climate change might: the author predicts that summer temperatures in the 120s (above 48°C) will be routine in Phoenix. Aridity, he proposes, could well kill off much of the agriculture and two of the biggest cities of the Southwest by the middle of this century. (In California, my local paper reports that a severe drought, now into its third year, is forcing state and federal water agencies to cut water deliveries to farmers in the Central Valley, perhaps the world’s single richest agricultural region, by “85 to 100 percent.” A 100 percent cut would be a death sentence in this Mediterranean climate without rain between May and October.)

“When all the rivers are used, when all the creeks in the ravines, when all the brooks, when all the springs are used, when all the reservoirs along the streams are used, when all the canyon waters are taken up, when all the artesian waters are taken up, when all the wells are sunk or dug that can be dug in all this arid region, there is still not sufficient water to irrigate all this arid region,” Major Powell told an audience gathered in support of large-scale irrigation in Los Angeles in 1893. Booed and shouted down, the major retorted: “I tell you, gentlemen, you are piling up a heritage of conflict and litigation over water rights, for there is not sufficient water to supply these lands.” The day he spoke, Las Vegas did not yet exist; Los Angeles had 50,000 residents, and Phoenix, a tenth of that. The other Powell, the author of
Dead Pool
, confirms that the Earth First! bumper sticker is correct.

The waters that are insufficient for this desert civilization will continue to flow anyway. The river that carved a canyon a mile deep will eventually remove all the concrete in its way and scour out the massive piles of silt built up behind both megadams. The process will be catastrophic at some point, but in geological time, it will mean restoration of the live, continuous river. Long before then, Phoenix will be like Jericho or Ur of the Chaldees, with the shriveled relics of golf courses and the dusty hulls of swimming pools added on. The snake may break up into dead pools in this century, but unlike Phoenix, it will rise again.

2009

DETROIT ARCADIA

Exploring the Post-American Landscape

Until recently there was a frieze around the lobby of the Hotel Pontchartrain in downtown Detroit, a naively charming painting of a forested lakefront landscape with Indians peeping out from behind the trees. The hotel was built on the site of Fort Pontchartrain du Détroit, the old French garrison that three hundred years ago held a hundred or so pioneer families inside its walls while several thousand Ottawas and Hurons and Potawatomis went about their business outside, but the frieze evoked an era before even that rude structure was built in the lush woodlands of the place that was not yet Michigan or the United States. Scraped clear by glaciers during the last ice age, the landscape the French invaded was young, soggy, and densely forested. The river frontage that would become Detroit was probably mostly sugar maple and beech forest, with black ash or mixed hardwood swamps, a few patches of conifers, and the occasional expanse of what naturalists like to call wet prairie—grasslands you might not want to walk on. The Indians killed the trees by girdling them and planted corn in the clearings, but the wild rice they gathered and the fish and game they hunted were also important parts of their diet. One pioneer counted badger, bear, fisher, fox, mink, muskrat, porcupine, rabbit, raccoon, weasel, wildcat, wolf, and woodchuck among the local species, and cougar and deer could have been added to the list. The French would later recruit the Indians to trap beaver, which were plentiful in those once-riverine territories—
détroit
means “strait” or “narrows,” but in its thirty-two-mile journey from Lake St. Clair to Lake Erie, the Detroit River also had several tributaries, including Parent’s Creek, which was later named Bloody Run after some newly arrived English soldiers managed to lose a fight they picked with the local Ottawas.