I’ve missed our beneath-the-surface trysts.
You and your buoyant love, deep caress, soothing sparkle.
You are my quiet cove, splashing symphony, ever-gliding channel.
With every stroke, you steal me away from the din of demands.
Your flow–lapping up and racing by with no questions–surrounds me.
With each passing whoosh, you lead me by the hand and whisper.
“Float with me now in these reassuring moments.
This is where peace, promise, and repetition reside.”
The calendar says September, but August-like heat abounds across the American west.
Thanks to a dome of high pressure, triple-digit Septemperatures in the Pacific Northwest, California, the Intermountain West, and (of course) here in Arizona are expected through the Labor Day weekend.
In the desert, we know how to navigate the heat. Carry a water bottle everywhere. Slather on sunscreen. Wear a hat. Exercise early. Do your chores in the morning. Stay inside during the heat of the afternoon. Reemerge at sundown to catch another dazzling sunset.
But there are troubling resource ramifications for this region that lie beneath the stark beauty, beyond late-summer-heat inconveniences.
Lake Powell, our country’s second largest reservoir–it straddles the Utah and Arizona border–now stands at its lowest level since 1967.
According to a recent article on scitechdaily.com by Michael Carlowicz of the NASA Earth Observatory, on August 6, 2022, the water elevation of Lake Powell’s surface at Glen Canyon Dam was 3,535.38 feet. That’s 98 feet lower than August 2017 … and only twenty-six percent of its capacity.
In August, the U.S. Department of the Interior announced it will reduce the amount of water apportioned to states in the region.
Arizona will receive 21 percent less water from the Colorado River system in 2023. That is certain to hit farmers in the Grand Canyon State particularly hard.
Fortunately, water conservation efforts are trickling down across our state and communities like Scottsdale have begun to more aggressively manage the use of water. Plus, a wet monsoon season in our state has alleviated the drought in the short term.
But, with burgeoning population growth and climate uncertainties in this region, what will the future hold for the Colorado River basin and 40 million people–Las Vegas, Phoenix, Los Angeles, and San Diego–who rely on it for electric power and water?
Water is a precious commodity. Especially on days like this in the Sonoran Desert. It’s 111 degrees outside. Perfect for a little heat-related sci fi.
***
Your throat is parched. All of your water jugs are empty. But all is not lost. You’re less than five minutes away from a water station in a strip mall.
You step in your car and prepare to drive there. You grip the wheel. It feels as if it’s been baking in an oven. But you persevere and crank up the AC.
Five minutes later, you’ve arrived. You exit your sedan with two empty gallon jugs. One in each hand. A magnificent blue oasis is looming on the near horizon. It’s calling your name. It’s glowing and quivering like a mirage in a dusty old western.
You walk to the water station entrance. You fumble in your pocket for twenty-five cents. Still in a stupor from the pulsating heat, you slide two dimes and a nickel into the slot to fill the first jug. The water begins to bubble out of the machine into your first container. A gasping-and-grateful female voice startles you. It calls out from inside the machine. It utters two words … “Thank You.”
You don’t believe your ears. You tighten the blue cap on the first jug and place the second empty one where it had been. You slide two more dimes and another nickel into the same slot in the Glacier water machine. Again, the voice inside repeats her weary declaration … “Thank You.”
You wonder.
“Have I entered the Twilight Zone?”
“Is this a new Stephen King novel about an automated creature dying of thirst, who can only survive and get more water when patrons visit her and deposit their coins?”
“Or perhaps the frail voice inside is simply thanking me for bottling my own water and reusing my plastic containers.”
You decide.
Mark Johnson Stories 