Proposed Federal Irrigation Project Releases Torrent of Passion, Distrust

From a bluff over Durango, river guide Mike Black points to the Animas--the River of Lost Souls, the Spanish called it--as it snakes down from the mountains, past tourist shops and restaurants, to gush through a grassy field.

That’s where the pumping station will be, he says.

It’s where, if supporters of the West’s last colossal taxpayer-financed federal irrigation project get their way, millions of gallons of water a day will be pumped from the Animas, pushed 1,000 feet over two mountain ridges and sent through pipes to irrigate a parched corner of southwest Colorado.

No earth has yet been turned. But in its simplest form, the $714-million project--many believe it could exceed $1 billion--calls for water to be taken from one river, stored in a huge reservoir and then placed in another river, the low-flowing LaPlata. It would take 1,000 workers and 15 years to complete.

“It doesn’t make sense,” complains Black, who fears the project will destroy the recreational value of one of the West’s last free-flowing rivers while spurring unneeded growth.

But the controversy over Animas-LaPlata is more complex than that. It is a classic Western conflict over water, Indian claims, the pace of development and environmental protection.

And in the West, where water is more precious than silver, the conflict is fierce.

“An agreement is an agreement,” says Leonard Burch, tribal chairman of the Southern Utes tribe for most of the last 30 years. “Why should the Indians back off? Who else is going to back off from a good deal with the United States government?”

The West is dotted with mammoth water projects--from the string of dams along the Pacific Northwest’s Columbia River to the massive Colorado River dams that turned Southwest deserts to fertile fields and allowed Los Angeles and Las Vegas to boom.

Animas-LaPlata dates to that era when southern Colorado farmers looked to the government to harness the river and keep the water--as one supporter still grouses today--from ending up in California hot tubs.

But critics cite government studies that call the project an economic disaster with an expected return of only 36 cents for every $1 spent. One study estimates it will cost $7,400 an acre to irrigate parched farmland worth only several hundred dollars an acre.

And critics say its water will be so expensive that towns won’t be able to buy it.

“It’s the last of the big Western pork-barrel projects. It’s the end of an era, an enormous boondoggle,” said David Conrad of the National Wildlife Federation.

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Even some Utes call it little more than a scheme to benefit land developers more than the Indians.

Authorized by Congress in the 1960s, the project was near death when it was resuscitated in 1988 as a way to satisfy the Colorado Ute Indian’s water claims. In all, Congress has provided $62 million over the last 10 years, including $10 million this year.

The plan calls for 190,000 acre-feet of water to be diverted for irrigation and town uses, with about a third going to the Ute tribes--both the Southern Ute and their brethren farther west, the Ute Mountain Ute.

In some months, more than a third of the Animas’ water would be siphoned off and pumped into the reservoir. An acre-foot is about 321,000 gallons. By comparison, one person uses about 70 gallons of water a day.

Burch says the environmental problems can be solved. But the Environmental Protection Agency has held off approval, citing concerns that water quality will be harmed downstream, a concern also raised by New Mexico’s attorney general.

And then there’s the Endangered Species Act.

Until two endangered fish species recover--the squawfish and razorback sucker--the amount of water that can be taken from the Animas has been cut by almost 60%.

Those and other problems--including the fact that there is no plan for a system to actually get the water to Ute reservations--have spurred dissension.

On the Southern Ute reservation that stretches 75 miles along the Colorado-New Mexico border, the Animas project has put family members on opposing sides.

Ray Frost, a member of the tribe’s governing council, calls the project a “hoax . . . that will benefit non-Indians more than it will us,” and says there are other ways to satisfy the Indians’ water claims.

“I think we’re only being used,” adds Annabelle Eagle, in her 70s and a Southern Ute tribal elder.

But over lunch with his crusty, gruff-talking attorney, Sam Maynes, Burch accuses groups like the Sierra Club of spreading misinformation. He says the water will allow his tribe to cultivate land now too arid for farming and make it easier to develop the tribe’s coal reserves.

“Environmental groups are saying, ‘Give them money, buy them off, give them wampum and they’ll go away,’ ” he said. “We want no money. We want water, wet water that we can use to develop reservation land.”

A distribution system eventually will be built to the reservations, Burch and Maynes said. In the meantime, it’s better to own water in a reservoir than rely on promises.

The two men go back nearly 30 years to when both knew a young Indian hired by Burch to train horses. His name was Ben “Nighthorse” Campbell, now a senator from Colorado. Earlier this year, when the House voted to kill the Animas project, it was Campbell who fought successfully to keep it alive.

But Maynes also represents non-Indians who could benefit. And, in the past, he has represented a coal company that could reap millions if water makes it easier to develop Ute coal. That has caused some tribal members to suggest he has divided interests.

“That’s just a bunch of horse manure,” Maynes snaps.

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If the Indians are divided, so is the region.

While farmers in the LaPlata watershed and on the “dry side” between the two rivers stand to benefit, others downstream fear they will lose water they have relied on for a century.

“[They] will be stealing our water,” complains Orion Utton, a northern New Mexico farmer. Navajos also fear some of their water will be used to replace water taken from the Animas.

Durango Mayor Lee Goddard won’t even guess if the project will survive. “It’s one of the most divisive things in our community. Every faction and every individual has an opinion.”