I don’t spend a lot of time reliving my college days, except to occasionally consider how remarkable it is that I survived them. It’s not a stretch to suggest that in those four years, I met my lifetime quota for bad decisions and questionable judgment. I have the tattoos and ex boyfriends to prove it. But every once in a while, I think back to my time in College Station, Texas and memories float to the surface. Lately, that’s been a rather literal experience.
My junior year, some friends and I decided to spend half of our spring break in Vegas, then a few days at Lake Mead on a boat. The latter part of our adventure ended with an insurance claim. None of us were very seaworthy, and we all considered the “maximum occupancy” number a mere suggestion, learning the hard way what happens when you overload a boat. Spoiler alert: it sinks. Fortunately, we were not far from the shore and no one was hurt, aside from the verbal lashings most of us got from our parents. We were too old to be grounded and too broke to be financially liable, so there was a lot of yelling.
I don’t think about that experience often; it’s not exactly my proudest moment. Over the years, my parents have occasionally mentioned it at Thanksgiving, or my sister has brought it up in an effort to reclaim her title as the favorite child. But for the most part, it’s a memory I prefer to keep under the surface. Though that is nearly impossible now given how often there’s news coverage of yet another long-sunken boat at Lake Mead suddenly visible due to the rapidly disappearing water. Every time a new vessel is found, my phone chimes. Some variation of, “Do you think that’s the one we sunk?” displays on my screen. The question is usually posed by one of my college friends, many of whom now have kids of their own in college, and followed with a vow to never let their children know just how reckless we once were. As one friend put it, “I’d rather my kid believe that kind of stupidity isn’t survivable.”
Unfortunately, it seems as though these discoveries are going to be more and more likely.
Every day is a new record low level at Lake Mead – a water source for nearly 25 million people across seven states, including Utah. Two decades of drought plus increasingly warmer temperatures have left both Lake Mead and Lake Powell at less than 30% of full capacity. The situation is so dire, the U.S. Department of the Interior took the unprecedented step of demanding Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, and California drastically cut back on water use. The emergency cuts didn’t come with much of an instructional manual, but it’s clear someone is expected to manage the faucet’s flow a bit better. Water managers and agencies within those seven states are working with the federal government on the best approach.
As likely as a “do nothing” response seems with some of the governors involved, the reality is — if the well runs dry, the lights turn off. Should water levels continue to drop, the dams that generate electricity for millions of people simply won’t be able to. You can have water, or you can have WiFi, but you can’t have both.
Lake Mead and Lake Powell are fed by the Colorado River, which is literally being sucked dry by agriculture. Roughly 80% of the water that is diverted from the Colorado River is used to water alfalfa crops for livestock and much of it is exported to the Middle East and Asia. Somehow, it’s cheaper for farmers to ship their hay to Saudi Arabia than it is to feed cattle in the same state. I’m not a water conservation expert, but it seems logical cutting back on meat might be the only way to keep our heads above water.