Saving water to relieve an aquifer, conserve a river, reintroduce its fish, and preserve a communitys quality of life
That movie title, “A River Runs
Through It,” would make a pretty good one for the story that follows, especially
if you take the words literally. In the film, the river courses through rustic
mountain vales of the Rockies as it also runs through the lives of fly-fishing
young men and their dad. In the admittedly more prosaic account that follows
here, the river is not really a metaphor of coming of age, but the tale of a
hydrologically complex water usage challenge. It might easily have become a
regulatory and economic nightmare as well. This actually did occur, notoriously,
in a river basin nearby. Fortunately—in part, because that earlier fiasco was so
instructive—the rough events did not recur.
Now, the “it” that the river runs
through is not the life of a fictional character, but a striking geologic
feature: a deep bed of rocky volcanic basalt, hundreds of feet thick. “Through
it,” the river in this story does not run so much as it seeps, at an alarmingly
rapid pace, as through a rocky, multi-story sieve. Far below, it eventually
pools into a subterranean aquifer: a sort of second underwater river or lake.
The unusual vertical “trickle-down” terrain presents the surrounding rural
region of about 200,000-plus people, one piece of a daunting puzzle of how to
integrate water usage, conservation, and apportionment.
The challenge actually begins with
the arcane task of scientifically defining the geologic characteristics. This is
necessitated, not so much for attaining knowledge, but to marshal facts in
high-profile legal water-rights battles. These have been fought out, so far,
across several state supreme courts. Being a vital economic and political
challenge, this puzzle morphs into a shared, communitywide enterprise.
In both stories, a river meanders
in high mountain canyons. Adventuring boaters catch sight of evergreens and
snow-capped mountain peaks. Our river is the Deschutes, in Central Oregon—named
for its dramatic chutes or churning rapids, which make it a mecca for whitewater
enthusiasts. These and other regional attractions have also been drawing new
residents at a spectacular rate: Over the past three-plus decades, local
population has grown four-fold. As of the mid 2000s, the US Census Bureau ranked
Deschutes County as the fastest growing in Oregon, and twenty-ninth fastest in
the nation.
During the decades of explosive
growth, accommodating the many claims became increasingly challenging. A very
obvious, and somewhat painful, visual reminder of this was the river itself and
its tributary flows. Once known for their unfailing gurgling chutes, these have
lately shriveled here and there at a worrying pace, into meekly murmuring
trickles.
As for the river’s sustaining
role, the Deschutes and tributaries support seven irrigation districts, a
Central Oregon Cities Organization consisting of nine cities (the largest being
Bend, population 60,000) and affiliated drinking water suppliers, the
Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs, scattered towns, and farming. All of the
cities, towns, farms, and tribes collectively enjoy specific water rights to the
Deschutes, its tributaries, or aquifer below.
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| Photos: Andy Fisher |
Agriculturally, a 2002 census
reports that 1.77 million acres of this basin are given to farming and
livestock; roughly one-tenth is irrigated. Family farms predominate—but most of
these draw income from non-farm sources. Deschutes County proper notes one
resident involved in its river “is largely home to lifestyle or hobby farming,
with just a few areas remaining of large commercial farms,” says Bruce Aylward,
Ph.D, director of Ecosystem Economics LLC. For most of the past decade, Aylward
has been closely involved in local water, conservation, and biodiversity
issues.
Conflicts between cities and
environmentalists over how to balance growth with preservation have simmered for
years, notes Aylward. Historically, growth has surged with relative little
restraint. “Given that we have this system of water rights, it works pretty well
for water users, but hasn't worked as well for the environment,” he says.
Concurring is Steve Johnson,
district secretary and manager for the Central Oregon Irrigation District
(COID), who points out, “This is a common story all over the West—and in the
world. There’s increasing demand for water [both for human consumption and in
food production], and, at the same time, there’s the question of how to protect,
preserve, and sustain the environment—and especially the aquatic systems.”
In early days of Western
settlement, the US government built dams to foster farming. States then
apportioned water rights to users, and, even all these years later, notes
Johnson, “Agriculture still commands about 80% to 90% of water flows,” despite
dramatically changing land use and quadrupling newcomers. “So, where does that
leave the cities and fish?” he asks.
Johnson’s COID residential users
draw little or nothing from river, but do tap the aquifer—to which the river is
hydrostatically connected.
Herein lies the heart of local
problems.
Conflicts over this connectedness
and its consequences came to a head in the mid-1990s, when surging growth
necessitated that Bend seek more groundwater. This was answered briskly with a
legal writ from WaterWatch of Oregon (WWO). WWO aims, per its mission statement,
to “protect and restore flows” to waterways and to “sustain the native fish,
wildlife, and the people who depend on healthy rivers.” (www.waterwatch.org)
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Photos: Bea Arnstrong
The Swalley Irrigation District Main Canal Piping Project alone will put four times more water back into the Deschutes
River than any other project to date. |
The core issue here is thus a
scientific one: Why should siphoning aquifer hurt the river? Literally
“underlying” the hydrology is a physical relationship between the Deschutes’
flow along its bed, and a water table below. Despite the intervening rock–up to
900 feet thick, in some places, Johnson notes—it turns out that, as water is
extracted from that deep pool, flows of the river belatedly decrease. The
relationship is intuitively perhaps hard to accept. Besides the great physical
separation, the voluminous aquifer itself is so huge that, as Aylward says, “the
total amount being pumped out [for home use regionwide] is barely
measurable”—something like 1.8% of the whole.
This seemed paltry and not worth
fighting over. Yet, the physical reality of an alarming impact on surface flows
is undeniable. Aylward elaborates on the connectedness as being “linked to the
pressure that draws the river down through its rocky substrate. It’s a fairly
obvious hydrologic fact, and legal fact, that groundwater is connected to
surface water,” he says. “But the impact is definitely less obvious here than in
other places”—which he has toured in his professional work.
In the Deschutes, specifically,
“if you pull water today, there’s less water in stream three days
later—something that has been understood, but [until fairly recently] was not
scientifically calculated,” he adds.
With the WaterWatch case in the
docket, hydrologists from the US Geological Survey were summoned as experts to
investigate the linkage, confirm it scientifically, and, if possible, suggest
equitable solutions. The eventual findings fully upheld the WWO claim.
As Aylward recounts, the case
eventually landed in the Oregon Supreme Court. After the victory, the state
legislature then codified the river-to-aquifer relationship as law. This “was
sort of the first necessary step towards developing sustainable surface and
groundwater management in Oregon,” he says. “And once the law was passed, there
was nothing else to fight.” Similar cases, he adds, have subsequently hit the
supreme courts of Idaho and Montana as well.
In this case again, Oregon’s
legislative solution, although technically somewhat complex, embodies a simple
principle: Pumping water out of the aquifer impacts the river above, even though
the actual diminishment may be long delayed. As a fairly straightforward legal
solution for aquifer-tapping cities, he says the statute requires that, “You
don’t have to worry about when that mitigation water needs to be put in the
stream,” you merely have to account for “how much did you pull all year long?
And then you go and acquire the water from irrigators [for replenishment]. And
then you leave it in stream in the summer.”
As a threshold for determining at
what point extraction must be compensated by mitigation, Oregon sets a fairly
low impact level of just 1 cubic foot per second (cfs) or 1%, whichever is less,
Aylward adds. Bottom line: If a city needs to drink from the aquifer, it must
somehow obtain irrigation water from farmers for replenishment—and return it to
the river.
Creating a Water
Alliance
Thus, from the necessity for
cooperation arose the idea of creating an informal Deschutes Water Alliance
(DWA). A precursor of this ad hoc group, the non-profit Deschutes River
Conservancy (DRC), had already been in the business of river-flow restoration
since the mid-1980s, and so the DRC provided a ready umbrella structure for the
DWA, notes DRC’s executive director Tod Heisler.
Whenever the subject of Oregon and
water conflict arises, it’s probably impossible not to think of what has been
happening, during this same period, in nearby Klamath. The allusion to that
river came up in several discussions, in comparing the legal battle in
Deschutes. Each time, the tone of voice is lowered, as when one speaks of a
somber or regrettable episode—Klamath. In local parlance, it is almost
synonymous with a water management fiasco and worst-case outcome.
As for what happened, here is the
short version.
In the 1980s–90s, droughts
impacted flows, and suckerfish and coho became endangered. Around 2000, droughts
worsened. Farming began to “suck” too—crops were failing badly. In 2001, the US
government declared a drought disaster. River water was deemed inadequate to
support both farming and fish habitats. Environmentalists sued on behalf of the
suckers. US regulators cut off water supply to hundreds of farms.
You can only imagine the
bitterness of farm families, perceiving themselves and their livelihoods
“sacrificed,” literally, for suckerfish. After almost a decade of pain,
commercial disaster, and angry battles often spilling over to the highest
national political levels, a Klamath Restoration Agreement was released, in
2008. Heisler observes, “We’re one basin north of Klamath.”
However, and fortunately—when the
DRC was formed a dozen years ago—he points out, “We were not at the time under
the immediate gun of ESA [the Endangered Species Act], having all that pressure
and the threat of possible litigation. Once you get to that point, it’s very
hard to establish a multi-stakeholder collaborative process—because fear rules,
and the bunker mentality takes over. It’s all turned over to the lawyers.”
To avoid such a fate, then, about
20 Deschutes groups—consisting of public and private interests, cities, tribes,
irrigators, environmentalists, real estate groups, representatives from
recreation and tourism, and two state departments—began meeting in 2004 to
thrash out the question of how the water demands of cities, farms, and fish
could possibly be harmonized.
As noted earlier, the key with
surface flows lay with farmers. It is they who, again, own up to 90% of what’s
available. However, unlike other communities, a fair number of Deschutes farmers
do not find themselves in the extremity of having to defend their farming
livelihoods. As Heisler explains, though, “rights-owners still do tend to want
to protect their water rights” and don’t necessarily wish to “let go” easily.
Nor are irrigation districts keen on losing assessment incomes.
However, in the Deschutes case, a
happy meeting-point is reachable if farmers, who may not always be in full
production, find they can lease water right to the conservancy, to replenish the
river. In fact, this strategy, says Heisler, “has worked incredibly well to
create a wonderful incentive for folks who might want to be occasionally ‘hobby
farmers’ or ‘gentlemen farmers’ … to put some of their water in-stream for
temporary periods.” In so doing, they preserve ownership rights and maintain the
land for exclusive farm use—without actually farming.
On these terms, then, the DRC has
reached the point of transferring about 6,000 to 7,000 acres per feet of water a
year to the river, through farm-right leasing.
To Conserve Water: Line or Pipe Irrigation
Canals
Leasing water is one solution, but
what is now the centerpiece of the Deschutes Alliance campaign, is piping.
Long-term, the group envisions spending millions of dollars to buy hundreds of
miles of lining materials and pipes for its network of irrigation canals and
ditches, spanning seven districts.
Excavated into the region’s
fractured basalt, this web of gaping troughs is steadily seeping water at rates
in excess of 40%. In order to deliver one cubic foot per second of water to
farmers living miles away, almost 2 cfs must be removed from the river, Johnson
says, “to push it along the channel,” in which nearly half soaks away.
Pipes or liners do a nice job
saving it.
So, to date, a half dozen of
projects are either underway or finished, on stretches of canals or laterals
ranging from 3 to 12 miles each. As more funds become available, more pipes or
liners can be completed. Typical of projects so far is a 7.5-mile span of HDPE
in Bend, equipped with sprinkler meters (to replace wasteful flood irrigation)
and McCrometer propeller meters; it cost about $2.1 million and is saving 2,302
acre-feet per year. And the affiliated Swalley Irrigation District is piping
nearly two miles of canal, enabling 7 cfs to revert to the Deschutes (nearly
3,000 acre-feet per year); the cost is about $1.5 million.
Under law, all water saved becomes
free and clear of former rights claim. It can be left in the Deschutes—from
which it eventually also replenishes the Columbia, says Johnson. Farmers still
receive their water as always, even enjoying a boost in its steadier pressure
and flow controls, gained by piping. All in all, Johnson observes, “Piping to
conserve water is nearly a ‘no brainer’—except for the expense involved.”
That is indeed the hurdle. Piping
is costly, and money is getting harder to come by. Economizing on cost has been
one of his chief concerns in selecting materials. For this reason, for example,
smaller-diameter 20-inch to 36-inch HDPE is chosen where possible, and is
proving optimal in pressurized spans. HDPE, Johnson notes, “will last forever
[it’s rated to go 50 or so years under pressure] with minimal maintenance.”
Unlike steel, it bends and is less susceptible to long-term scouring from
sediment, he has found. “Anything to reduce the need” for enormous cost of
pipe-replacement down the road “is a good investment,” he adds.
Also, global demand for
construction materials, and even petroleum pricing, both impact costs
significantly, up or down. Avoiding the need for steel welding in the field is
also desirable, he adds, to reduce the potential for leaks or errors. HDPE is
again preferable, because it can be fused and fabricated in-shop, where the
equipment investment easily pays for itself.
Using larger-dimension spans
(e.g., 8-foot to 10-foot diameters) he adds, “You’re almost forced to go to
steel” for its added strength. In such cases, use care to maintain the liner
integrity, he advises, “and prevent potential corrosion points” which may leak
and cause expenses down the road.
Hydro-Powered Finance
At this point, the enormous task
and expense is only begun. And yet, already, says Heisler, the Alliance “has
identified more than $100 million [in feasible projects], without really trying
very hard.”
Water districts don’t have that
kind of money. So, the Conservancy is taking a lead in helping to ferret out
more.
Typically, modest matching grants
can be found which might cover one portion of the pipe laying or lining work.
For example, a $90,000 award from the Bureau of Reclamation to Johnson’s COID in
winter 2008–09 is paying for pipes in a half-mile lateral. This is matched by
$90,000 from the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation (funded by the Bonneville
Power Administration [BPA] utility). “Just under 1 cfs will go in-stream
permanently” from this project, notes Johnson. “This actually works out to a
very good deal for water.”
He’s found that, with outside help
to pay for materials, small lining and piping jobs can be constructed by water
agencies in-house, within budgets.
To fund costlier sections, says
Heisler, a key element is to design the pipe to include hydroelectric power
generation. Proceeds from sales of power to the electrical grid can then, of
course, recoup the investment in coming years.
In winter 2008–09, the first such
pilot—a small, three-quarter megawatt plant—was installed along a 7-plus mile
stretch of the Swalley Irrigation District in Bend, at a combined cost (pipe and
plant) of about $12 million. Commissioning is set for early 2009. Much larger is
a 5 MW plant for a two-and-a-half-mile-long piece of the Butte Canal within
COID; it will cost about $22 million and should conserve about the same quantity
of water as the Swalley plant. Besides earning revenues from power sales,
Heisler anticipates that this one, and others, should qualify for a Business
Energy Tax credit and win green funding from a local energy trust.
Just a bit more cost-recovery
should be available too, someday, from tapping the developed value of the “new”
real estate that is created when a canal is piped and then refilled with earth,
owing to the reduced liability of not having a canal anymore, and reduced
operational cost, Heisler says.
Permanent Rights Sales
Besides power sales, though, the
biggest chunk of revenue is expected from sales of water rights to restoration
buyers. Note that: sales, not leases. Here, as Johnson explains, the deals being
envisioned are rather innovative and unusual. Under the Deschutes Alliance, as
the various cities’ growth removes land out of agricultural production, the city
is now managing to acquire water rights, not just on occasional leases, but
permanently. This is extraordinary, because, under Oregon law, the water right
must usually first be reallocated before any construction may occur. At this
point, the water right belongs to the developer who bought it with the land—but
the developer can’t use it and has no obvious customer to sell it to
(agriculture demand being on the wane), so that’s out. In effect, the water
value is lost.
Meanwhile, the irrigation district
is also negatively impacted, because it is now losing the revenue from a farm
now defunct. And the population-swollen urban area is also stuck, because it
needs to pump more water from the aquifer, but can’t. (Also, under EPA
standards, cities may not simply draw from open irrigation canals.)
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Photo: Oregon Water Conservation District
Steel piping replaces wasteful unlined irrigation canal in the Central Oregon Water Conservation District, preventing a seepage rate in excess of 40%. |
Again, as emphasized earlier, that
is the central problem here: Depleting the aquifer harms the river. The obvious
solution then, is this: Somehow, the no-longer-needed water right of the old
farm must be shifted back to the river. Doing this should hopefully offset the
aquifer depletion envisioned by the city.
And everybody wins. In the
innovative multi-party deal that ensues, as Johnson recounts it, “The irrigation
district first buys this right from the developer and sells the right to the
city—which doesn’t really want river water—except in order exchange it for the
right to extract more water from the aquifer.”
Next, the city will raise the
needed funds, from added water sales it will enjoy, to repay the water
district—agreeing to cover the annual assessment that the farmer used to
pay.
Here, he says, “We add another
little twist.” Cities typically receive big fees from developers during the
permit process—and so, Johnson’s district allows the cities to pass these fees
along to the district, to pay for water rights in one lump, too. Cities, he
explains, typically prefer this arrangement because, “They don’t necessarily
want to pay the irrigation districts forever, because they don’t know what their
revenues are going to be.”
Other, more complex fees are also
applied. But the above brief sketch illustrates how, if they’re determined to,
the parties work something out. Thanks to a collaborative spirit, it’s done
almost by handshake—“all voluntary and agreed to,” says Johnson.
And besides this innovative sales
transaction to “pay the piper,” outright grants are being awarded by
organizations such as the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife; the Oregon
Watershed Enhancement Board (funded by state lottery); Portland Gas and Electric
and BPA utilities, which pay to mitigate the river impact of hydro projects; the
US Bureau of Reclamation; and assorted philanthropies and private interests. An
example of the latter: A housing developer pitched in no less than $200,000,
which it was able to raise by promising home buyers that 2% of their closing
cost would help restore the heavily dewatered river, visible in nearby
canyon.
Now the Fish Swim Through
It
Having successfully maneuvered
legal “rapids” by such means, the Alliance has lately come to a smooth patch: In
recent years, steelhead trout and salmon have begun to be reintroduced. This,
notes Heisler, will likely raise the visibility of river restoration activity
even more—and further motivate states, private citizens, and conservationists
towards enhancing the habitat.
Meanwhile, the cities continue to
recognize their obligation not to withdraw more water from the aquifer than
needed. As Johnson points out, city departments have begun to impose new
self-discipline by applying a range of conservation measures. In Bend, for
instance, building codes govern water meters on new connections and now require
minimum-flow toilets. And flat-rate metering for water has been discarded in
favor of a sliding scale that increases with use. So far, these and other
measures have helped his district avoid any net increase in water demand for the
past three years—despite concurrent population growth of about 14%. He sums up:
“The cities are doing what they need to do.”
Aylward—who actually directed the
DRC’s water-banking operation from 2002 to 2007—has recently moved on to doing
similar work and replicating the principles elsewhere. He’s now setting up banks
and consulting for four or five western communities.
Reflecting on the conflicts and
challenges that are still routinely encountered, Aylward observes that,
typically, “land-use changes are the driver in changing water use. New uses for
water are not necessarily the same ones as before.”
“So,” he asks, “how does water
management adapt to that?”
This becomes the starting point.
In the absence of well-established models to follow, agencies must somehow
become innovative and resourceful. Meanwhile, each local situation tends to
present its own special angle or dominant interest, be it municipal,
agricultural, environmental, governmental, or tribal. “A lot of factors go into
this,” notes Aylward. But the one constant is that, “Everything is always
changing, and water use cannot be static. Water is going to need to move
wherever the demand is.”
Conflicts arise because change is
hard for some constituencies to accept, and interests are often mired in modes
of operation that no longer apply. The challenge becomes one of communicating to
all, the reality and necessity of adaptive change, and then assuaging fears and
concerns. This can be especially difficult when lifestyles, and even
livelihoods, are facing disruption. He says that sometimes “the question becomes
whether it is all going to go through courts and conflicts—or, be resolved
through agreements and consensus, cooperation, and business transactions.”
On this point, the Deschutes
region was fortunate in that, after the legal challenges were settled and the
science work completed, the community succeeded in coming together to arrive at
viable outcomes. So far, at least, this has brought only minimal disruption at
most, to anyone.
But,
then again: On the river, as in life, conditions are always changing.