Recently, my colleagues at High Country News and I had a bit of a kerfuffle over whether the place on the Colorado River that divides the Upper Basin from the Lower Basin was called Lee Ferry, Lee’s Ferry, or Lees Ferry. Our esteemed copyeditor, Diane Sylvain, was beating herself up for letting a “Lee Ferry” sneak into an article I wrote, when the HCN style guide says it should be “Lees Ferry.”

I pointed out that it was fine, since “Lee Ferry” is an accepted spelling, as is “Lee’s Ferry.” This prompted a sharp rebuke: “Its name is Lees. … Dissenters can use apostrophes on their own time.”

Great. Now I’ve been labelled as a copyedit dissenter. That hurts. But it also sent me down a wormhole on this whole Lee Lees Lee’s Ferry thing, not in an effort to catch any copyeditors out, not as an act of dissent, but just because I’m curious about how we got to where “Lees Ferry” is the accepted spelling, in defiance of apostrophes and, perhaps, history. In the process I learned a lot about one of the coolest spots I know.

Honestly, I wish we could use a different name altogether for this place of convergence in the far reaches of northern Arizona, something grander and more suited to the landscape, to the condors that ply the skies over the Marble Canyon, to the towering Vermillion Cliffs, and the way the light plays off the stone and dances across the ripply waters of the Colorado River, a dim echo of the geological turmoil that occurred here. Lees Ferry is where the Wingate sandstone of Glen Canyon gives way to the Kaibab limestone of Marble Canyon, where the deep gorge of the Paria River meets up with the Colorado, and — more arbitrarily — where the Upper Basin of the Colorado River meets the Lower Basin.

The geologic transition influenced the topography, making this one of the few places in the region that people and their horses and wagons can reach the Colorado River safely without winches and ropes or parachutes.

Hopi people probably forged the first footpaths to the river from the east, making their way down the giant limestone ramp. Much later, the Escalante-Dominguez expedition of 1776, searching for a return route to Santa Fe, stumbled upon this place, naming it San Benito de Salsipuedes1. “The entire terrain from San Fructo up to here is very troublesome,” the friars wrote, “and altogether impassible when it contains a little moisture from snow and rain.” They also said the land was “pleasingly jumbled,” which seems a perfect descriptor. Some of the Spaniard colonists tried to cross the river, but found that the water was too deep and the current too swift — although they managed to survive. They had to exit the canyon and continue upstream for miles before finding a way across.

Paiute guide Naraguts led explorer Jacob Hamblin to the crossing in the 1860s, putting it, figuratively, on the Euro-American maps. And in 1871, a man named John Doyle Lee and his wife Emma settled near the mouth of the Paria and, with a boat abandoned by John Wesley Powell, established a ferry river crossing just upstream from the confluence of the Paria River, naming the place Lonely Dell.

Lee was the adopted son of Brigham Young and had been a Church of Latter Day Saints leader. However, the church excommunicated him after he helped lead the Mountain Meadows Massacre in southwestern Utah, which resulted in the killing of more than 100 non-Mormon white settlers. Whether he chose to go to the remote Lonely Dell to escape prosecution for mass-murder or was exiled there isn’t really clear. Either way, it didn’t work out: Federal marshals arrested him in 1874. In a jail-house interview with the Philadelphia Times the following year, Lee said he had 18 wives, 63 children, 100 grandchildren, and one great grandchild. He also refused to implicate Brigham Young for his role in the massacre. Lee was tried, convicted of first-degree murder, and executed by firing squad in 1877.

Emma Lee continued operations at the ferry until 1879 (meaning she ran it for longer than her husband). Then Warren Johnson and sons ran the enterprise on behalf of the LDS Church, followed by James Emmet and the Grand Canyon Cattle Co., followed again by Johnson and sons for Coconino County. The ferry was finally shut down in 1928 after an accident killed three people. The Navajo Bridge downstream was under construction at the time and would have displaced the ferry, so it would have been abandoned anyway.

John Lee’s notoriety and his conviction didn’t dissuade folks from using his name to refer to the ferry and the place — although it could be argued that it’s named after Emma, not John.

George F. Cram maps from 1879 and 1900 show “Lee’s Ferry” at the confluence of the Paria and the Colorado rivers, but an 1881 version of Cram’s map calls it “Lees Ferry.” Newspaper articles in 1899, 1905, and 1935 refer to the place as “Lee’s Ferry,” as does an 1884 Rand McNally map. It goes like this up until the 1930s, with mapmakers and others generally using both Lee’s and Lees, depending, perhaps, on the typesetter’s fondness for apostrophes. Another theory (albeit likely false): “Lees” is actually the plural form, not the possessive without the apostrophe, so as to give both Emma and John credit for starting and running the ferry. Whatever the case, by the 1940s “Lees Ferry” had edged out “Lee’s Ferry” as most cartographers’ preferred form.

It seems, then, that we have come to the end of this journey, and that “Lees Ferry” is the most acceptable spelling, whether or not it’s grammatically correct. But then along comes “Lee Ferry” to throw it all out of whack.

In 1916, Eric C. LaRue wrote a paper on “The Colorado River and its Utilization” for the U.S. Geological Survey, which is the arbiter of place names. In it, he refers to the place where the Paria River meets the Colorado River as “Lee Ferry.” Except then, five years later, the USGS installed a Colorado River streamflow gage just upstream of the Paria River confluence and called it “Lees Ferry.”

Does this settle it? Nope. Because in 1922, the Colorado River Compact was hammered out. This is the foundational document of the “Law of the River,” and it partitioned the Colorado River watershed into the Upper Basin and Lower Basin states and parceled out its waters to each. The dividing line between the two? Lee Ferry. No, the authors did not accidentally omit the “s” in “Lees.” In its definition-of-terms section, the Compact says: “The term ‘Lee Ferry’ means a point in the main stream of the Colorado River one mile below the mouth of the Paria River.” Yet, the ferry established by John and Emma Lee — along with the USGS streamflow gage — are located above the mouth of the Paria River (because sediment from the Paria can mess up measurements and, possibly, ferries).

While these two points on the map are close enough together to be considered the same place, there is a significant distinction when it comes to accounting for the water in the Colorado River: By putting the dividing point (Lee Ferry) below the mouth of the Paria, it includes the Paria River in the Upper Basin, and includes those flows in the 75 million acre-feet every ten years the Upper Basin is obligated to allow to flow past Lee Ferry. To determine the flow at Lee Ferry, the USGS adds the measurement from the Lees Ferry streamflow gage to the one from the Paria River gage.

It’s about as clear as a sediment-choked Colorado River now, isn’t it? Here it is in a slightly more concise version:

• Lees Ferry = Lee’s Ferry ≠ Lee Ferry

• Lees Ferry is the most widely accepted term for the geographical location at and around the confluence of the Colorado River and Paria River in northern Arizona. It’s probably derived from “Lee’s Ferry,” as the USGS typically drops apostrophes from possessive place names for reasons unknown. Lees Ferry also refers to the USGS Colorado River streamflow gage located just upstream from the mouth of the Paria River.

  

• Lee Ferry is the correct term for the point one mile downstream from the mouth2 of the Paria River that divides the Colorado River’s Upper Basin from the Lower Basin. The Colorado River Compact mandates that the Upper Basin “will not cause the flow of the river at Lee Ferry to be depleted below an aggregate of 75,000,000 acre-feet for any period of ten consecutive years.”

• The streamflow at Lee Ferry is determined by adding the measured flow at the Lees Ferry streamflow gage to that at the Paria River gage just upstream from the Paria River’s mouth.

• So, if one is writing about the Upper Basin’s non-depletion obligation, they should use “Lee Ferry.” If they are writing about the historical settlement, the general place, or the streamflow gage, they should write "Lees Ferry.”

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🌵 Public Lands 🌲

THE NEWS: MAGA Sen. Mike Lee, of Utah, is back on his anti-public-lands crusade, this time with an underhanded attempt to repeal the wildly popular 2001 Roadless Area Conservation Rule, which protects some 45 million acres of U.S. Forest Service land from roadbuilding and logging3. And yes, Mike Lee is related to the aforementioned convicted mass murderer John D. Lee, though I’m sure that has nothing to do with this.

THE CONTEXT: Lee had a busy week. First, he went ballistic on social media after the Trump Defense Department removed the Church of Latter Day Saints from its list of Christian religious denominations (it’s still a recognized faith, but lost the “Christian” label). Apparently he was worried Mormons would be left out of Pete Hegseth’s white Christian Nationalist holy wars.

Then, ol’ Jell-O-Social Lee snuck a last-minute amendment into the bipartisan Wildfire Prevention Act that would not only kill the Roadless Rule, but also prevent a similar rule from being implemented later. The Senate’s energy and natural resources committee voted to advance the amended legislation along party lines. Next it will be subject to a full Senate vote.

Lee’s amendment “just blows up” the bipartisan support for the larger Wildfire Prevention Act, said a clearly dismayed Sen. Martin Heinrich, a New Mexico Democrat. The larger legislation, introduced by Sen. John Barrasso, R-Wyo., aims to increase forest thinning and other vegetation treatments as well as prescribed burns on Forest Service and BLM land. It would also guide the agencies to develop strategies for using “livestock grazing as a wildlife risk reduction tool.”

The jury is certainly still out on the efficacy of forest thinning as a wildfire hazard mitigation method. As for livestock grazing? Yeah, probably not, unless all vegetation is eaten down to bare dirt. And once all of the native grasses are gone, it opens the door to cheatgrass, which is especially flammable. Then there’s the question of whether wildfires are really a bad thing — but we’ll leave that debate for later.

Lee claims his motives are pure, and that the Roadless Rule is hampering access for fire prevention and fighting efforts. That’s not true. While the rule generally prohibits roadbuilding and timber harvesting in inventoried roadless areas, it makes exceptions for both if they are deemed necessary for wildfire hazard mitigation or to fight fires. In a public hearing, Sen. Alex Padilla, D-California, pointed out that 240,000 acres of inventoried roadless areas in his state alone had been treated for wildfire hazard mitigation treatment, proving Lee wrong. And the Trump administration, for better or worse, has lagged on forest thinning: A Center for Western Priorities analysis found the Forest Service treated 35% less acreage in 2025 than it did under Biden in 2024.

In fact, building more roads increases access to remote areas. Since most fires are started by humans, it follows that putting more humans into a forest makes it more likely that forest is going to be ignited by an errant spark, cigarette, campfire, or a hot catalytic converter in some tinder-dry grass. So if you really want to prevent wildfires, consider closing some of the thousands of miles of existing roads across public lands.

It’s not clear what Lee hopes to accomplish with these inane, and often futile moves, but what he has done is given strength and energy to the environmental movement. His bid last year to sell off public lands to real estate developers not only flopped, but enlarged the constituency opposing land transfers of any kind. His latest assault on public lands has riled up the hook and bullet crowd, who don’t want roads and timber operations sullying game habitat and streams. And his amendment may very well kill the wildfire bill’s chances at passing, disrupting the efforts of his right-wing colleagues.

Maybe Lee’s inherent extremism forces him to lash out at bipartisanship and pragmatism, in general. After all, he got into the Senate by unseating the late Sen. Bob Bennett, a conservative Republican who lost favor with the more extreme wing of his state’s party by attempting to broker a compromise on public lands in Utah.

It’s tempting to blame Lee’s zealotry on genetics, given that he is the great-great-grandson of John D. Lee, who was convicted and executed for his role in the Mountain Meadows Massacre of 1857, when a group of Mormon militia members killed about 120 gentile emigrants as their wagon train made its way from Arkansas to California. The attack came during a time of heightened tension and conflict between the LDS church and the federal government.

The problem with that theory is that John D. Lee’s direct descendants — who likely number in the thousands by now — also include Stewart and Morris Udall, influential Western Democratic politicians and public lands champions. Stewart served as Interior Secretary under John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson, and Morris was an Arizona congressman for three decades. Stewart’s son Tom represented New Mexico in the House and Senate, and Mo’s son Mark, a Colorado Democrat, served in the Senate and House as well.

Those Udalls were (and are) Democrats and environmentalists and, according to some takes, “staunch liberals.” But they were also old-school Western politicians who valued pragmatism over ideology and values over party, everything Mike Lee is not. Lee could learn a lot from his kin.

🛢️ Hydrocarbon Hoedown 📈

I’ve written here often about how the Trump administration is handing out drilling permits to petroleum companies like Shriners throwing candy at a parade. Over the last six months, for example, the BLM has issued drilling permits at a rate of 500 per month; you’d have to go back to the George W. Bush administration to see the agency acting at a more rapid pace. But the administration is supplicating itself even more to the fossil fuel industries in a different realm: leasing as much public land to oil and gas companies as they possibly can.

Earlier this month, for example, the Bureau of Land Management auctioned 114,439 acres of public land in Wyoming to the oil and gas industry. Next week, the BLM will put a whopping 160,268 acres in Colorado on the auction block, which could open 174 parcels in Arapahoe, Garfield, Jackson, Mesa, Moffat, Rio Blanco, Routt, and Weld counties — including prime elk habitat — to drilling. And in December, the agency is looking to auction nearly 79,000 acres on the Arizona Strip, despite the fact that there are no known petroleum reserves there.

The public comment period is long gone for those lands, but another planned December sale in Colorado is still subject to your input. This time the BLM is looking to sell 114 parcels on nearly 127,000 acres. The parcels are scattered around the state, with the biggest chunk east of Trinidad, including a block along the Purgatoire River. More than 2,000 acres in and around the HD Mountains in southwestern Colorado — including one big swath south of Chimney Rock — are also going on the block.

The San Juan Basin in northwestern New Mexico was once one of the busiest fossil fuel extraction zones in the nation — maybe even the world. Now it’s a gas-patch in decline, but the leftovers from more than a century of heavy drilling continue to sully the landscape, the water, and the air of the Four Corners region.

Beginning in the 1920s, petroleum companies such as Standard Oil, Sinclair, and others began drilling the 10,000-square-mile swath of mesas, valleys, and badlands that resembles a huge dinner plate. Since then, they have drilled at least 40,000 wells in search of oil and natural gas, the hydrocarbon remnants of ancient aquatic critters that plied the salty waters of an inland sea some 70 million years ago. Meanwhile, towering draglines gouged into the Fruitland coal formation, exhuming what was left of the fecund swamps along that receding sea’s shores to burn it in the nearby coal plants.

While the Basin is relatively rich in coal, oil, and even uranium, it mostly became known for its vast stores of natural gas, or methane, in the form of conventional reservoirs, in tight shales, and adsorbed to coal seams, a.k.a. coalbed methane. Spurred by tax incentives, technological advances, high natural gas prices, and a friendly regulatory environment — not to mention a willingness to turn the region into an energy sacrifice zone — fossil fuel firms descended on the Basin in the 1990s and early 2000s and a drilling frenzy ensued.

Ironically, it was another technological advance that busted the long-running boom. The advent of “fracking,” or the combination of horizontal drilling and multi-stage hydraulic fracturing, rendered vast stores of oil and gas stored up in tight shale formations economically extractable. That opened up the Bakken in North Dakota and the Marcellus formation in Pennsylvania and Ohio, glutting the domestic natural gas market and substantially depressing prices. When drillers started targeting more profitable oil, they also brought up oodles of methane, further deflating natural gas prices. In 2009, the San Juan Basin’s gas industry slid into a slump from which it has yet to emerge.

One might hope that as drilling and production (and tax revenues and other economic benefits) subside, so would the attendant impacts, giving the land and water and air a chance to heal. But even a gas patch in decline is a busy place, what with workers driving the web of roads to service aging wells and to haul off the millions of gallons of wastewater that is pumped up with the crude and the methane. And, nearly every one of those tens of thousands of wells drilled over the years, whether producing or not, can still be a source of pollution.

The natural gas industry as a whole is hoping the Big Data Center Buildup will open new markets for its wares, possibly boosting the price enough to give drillers an incentive to return to the San Juan Basin. Not to give anyone any wild ideas, but I’m kind of surprised no one has proposed a hyperscale data center complex in the San Juan Basin with a co-located gas-fired power plant (or maybe that’s what Navajo Transitional Energy Company plans to do with power from its proposed 742-megawatt natural gas plant on reclaimed portions of its Navajo coal mine?). But even if this does take place, it’s not likely to increase demand enough to spur another drilling boom.

I figured I’d check in to see whether business is kicking up in the Basin, and whether gas field “incidents” are on the rise or fall. Drilling activity has ramped up somewhat, but since it was starting at almost zero that’s not saying much: Over the past year or so there have been no more than three or four active rigs drilling at any given time. Meanwhile, oil and gas wells — old and new, active and idle — continue to experience spills and releases at a concerning rate.

In fact, Hilcorp, one of the largest operators in the San Juan Basin, was named Earthworks’ and the Gas Leak Project’s Polluter of the Month this June, mostly due to leaky facilities in the San Juan Basin.

Whether the Basin has a future as a gas patch or not, isn’t it about time to clean up the messes left from the last century? It’s not hyperbole to say that you could build a whole new industry around reclamation and remediation, land restoration and healing.

Some data points:

• 111: The number of drilling permits issued by the Bureau of Land Management’s Farmington Field Office (covering the San Juan Basin) over the last 12 months. (BLM)

• 3,892: The number of drilling permits issued by the BLM’s Carlsbad Field Office (covering the Permian Basin) during that same time period. (BLM)

• 96: Number of oil and gas drilling rigs operating in New Mexico as of June 5, 2026. That’s two less than the previous week, but five more than a year ago. (Baker Hughes)

• 7, 11, 26, 13, 16: Number of rigs operating in California, Colorado, North Dakota, Utah, and Wyoming, respectively, as of June 5. (Baker Hughes)

• 198: Number of idle oil and gas wells in the San Juan Basin as of June 2026.

• 315: Number of reported “incidents” in the San Juan Basin oil and gas fields that led to spills or gas releases between June 1, 2025, and June 1, 2026. (New Mexico Energy, Minerals, and Natural Resources Department)

• 63,732 Mcf: Volume of natural gas (consisting of methane and other compounds) released during the aforementioned incidents via leaks, venting, or flaring. (NM EMNRD)

• 1 barrel = 42 gallons

• 385 barrels: Amount of condensate released during the aforementioned incidents. (NM EMNRD)

• 367 barrels: Amount of crude oil released during the aforementioned incidents. (NM EMNRD)

• 11,588 barrels: Amount of produced water, which consists of the briney, contaminated water that accompanies oil and gas along with drilling and hydraulic fracturing fluids. (NM EMNRD)

• $850 million: Amount by which New Mexico state revenues for fiscal year 2026 will exceed previously projected revenues, due to oil price increases stemming from Trump’s war on Iran.

• $750: Amount by which the average New Mexico household’s costs have increased due to oil price increases and inflation stemming from Trump’s war on Iran.

ICYMI: Also in the San Juan Basin, the Navajo Transitional Energy Company not only wants to keep running its Navajo coal mine for another 110 years, but it also wants to build a 742-megawatt natural gas plant on reclaimed portions of the mine. Oy.

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🥵 Aridification Watch 🐫

Wildfire season has arrived, and it looks like it could be a doozy. A handful of fires were sparked on Colorado’s Western Slope, most likely by lightning. The most significant of those is probably the Bee Hive Fire north of Bedrock on the edge of the Paradox Valley; as of Monday evening it had grown to 180 acres. The much smaller Paradox Trail Fire was burning further north and east.

The Tower Fire near Scipio, Utah, had grown to nearly 1,400 acres by Monday evening, and the fast-moving South Mountain Fire near Tooele, Utah, was at 1,000 acres as of early Tuesday morning. Meanwhile, the Papa Fire northeast of Flagstaff, Arizona, is raging through grasslands and conifers.

📸 Parting Shot 🎞️

🤖 Data Center Watch 👾

Phoenix is hot, thanks to its location and elevation; it’s getting hotter, due to climate change, all that concrete and steel and glass and the urban heat island effect, and heat output from thousands of overworked air conditioning units; and it’s bound to get even hotter thanks to … data centers.

A team of Arizona State University researchers recently published a report on data center waste heat as an “emerging thermal hazard.” What they found will make folks who live near the facilities sweat, literally.

Data centers do a lot of work crunching information to stream movies, power AI queries, make those Tik Tok videos, and keep you doomscrolling, and work creates heat, meaning that data centers need constant cooling. As the paper’s authors put it, “virtually all electrical energy consumed by information technology equipment is ultimately converted to sensible heat,” and data centers consume huge amounts of electricity. More and more data centers, especially in arid areas, are using air cooling technology, which means taking that heat away from the equipment and putting it elsewhere — i.e. outside the facility, creating thermal plumes.

The researchers determined that these thermal plumes are migrating into adjacent neighborhoods and heating them up, with downwind air temperatures measuring up to .9° C warmer than upwind temperatures. The data centers’ excess heat was detected up to 500 meters, or about 1,600 feet, away from the facility. This is troubling given that many data centers are being constructed in or next to residential neighborhoods. The massive Cyrus One server farm complex in Chandler, Arizona, for example, is about 600 feet from single-family residences.

The authors write:

With hundreds of megawatts of data center capacity currently operational in Phoenix and thousands more proposed, the aggregate thermal impact on the urban atmosphere could be substantial, leading to many pockets of data center heat islands, and potentially having wider-scale implications for the urban climate system.

Keep in mind that this study only looked at the warming effect of on-grid facilities. Many of the new hyperscale data centers in the pipeline are planning to install power generation infrastructure, usually natural gas-fired, on-site, most likely radiating even more heat than the data centers alone. Putting your data center in Wyoming or Alaska rather than Phoenix or Las Vegas is making more and more sense.

⛈️ Wacky Weather Watch⚡️

Will it be the Sultry Summer of 2026 for the Four Corners region? The long-range forecasts sure do look that way. The good news is that it’s looking more and more likely that the monsoon will be potent in the Southwest, with the National Weather Service predicting above average precipitation over the next three months. The bad news is they are also calling for higher-than-normal temperatures for the entire West during that time period, which could offset some of the benefits of the rain.

But whether it’s normally hot or abnormally so, the extra moisture will be especially welcome this year. Many an irrigation ditch is likely to go dry in the next month or so, thanks to extra-low streamflows, and regular afternoon downpours could help farmers get their crops to harvest, so long as the storms aren’t too severe and don’t produce softball-sized hail stones or whatever.

Once the monsoon arrives, it should help dampen wildfire hazard a bit (although the lightning that always comes with it will certainly spark many a blaze). In the meantime, however, big swaths of the West are expected to have above normal wildland fire potential for the next month or so.

And blazes are flaring up here and there, including a small conflagration atop Hermosa Mountain north of Durango that is eerily reminiscent of the 416 Fire in 2018: This winter’s snowpack resembled 2018’s, the 416 broke out on June 1, and the starting points are in the same general area.

The current fire is burning in a hard-to-reach area at higher elevation and was definitely not started by sparks from the railroad. It’s also growing relatively slowly, having reached just 18 acres as of the evening of June 4.

***

I don’t know about y’all, but the crazy winter and spring has screwed up my perception of the water situation. When skiing-obsessed snow-nerd Andy Gleason sent me this photo, I was somewhat surprised to see that there was any snow at all left in the high country, especially enough to carve a few turns on. When I see that the Animas River is running above 800 cfs right now, I think: That’s not so bad! And when I see Lake Powell’s surface level inching upwards rather than downwards a temporary feeling of relief washes over me.

Then I remember: It’s the beginning of June. The north facing high mountains should be coated with several feet of snow, not a few inches. The Animas should be running at 3,000 cfs, at least, and in a good year still would be approaching its peak. And Lake Powell’s inflows should far exceed releases at this time of year, bringing the surface level up by several feet or more, without requiring Flaming Gorge to be drawn down to “devastating” levels.

That bout of summer-like weather at the end of March set my internal season clock a couple of months ahead, so that I expect the conditions to be like they typically would be in late July. So once that split second of disorientation, and accompanying optimism, passes, there’s a sort of letdown.

Because, yes, the conditions are grim. And it was one of the worst winters, in terms of snowpack, on record. But there are reasons not to despair. While the snow was dismal, precipitation accumulation for the water year so far has been far less so, keeping extreme drought at bay. Temperatures cooled after the March heat spell, a series of storms kept the forests from becoming kindling, and desert rains summoned the wildflowers. Patches of globe mallow, sego lily, primrose, and prince’s plume brightened up the burnished sands of Utah, and my friend and I rode our bikes through a purple-hued super bloom near Farmington.

The land may be dry, but it still offers beauty, solace, and refuge from these trying times.

🐟 Colorado River Chronicles 💧

Last month I wrote about the despair I felt as I witnessed the virtually dry Dolores River bed a mile or so above its confluence with the San Miguel River. Neither the dryness nor the despair are new, though they both came early this year.

For decades, the wild Dolores would swell up into a raging torrent during the spring runoff. Then, during the summer, Montezuma Valley irrigators would divert nearly all of the stream’s flow, reducing these lower reaches to little more than a trickle come late July and August.

McPhee Dam started holding back those spring flows in the early 1980s. Like any dam, this one robbed so much life from the river. Yet this one also promised to give some life back to the beleaguered river by mitigating the impacts of all of that irrigation. The idea was to capture enough of the runoff to fill up the reservoir in the spring. During summer, the storage could be drawn down to serve irrigators, while most or all of the river’s natural flow could be sent through the dam to the Lower Dolores. It was like putting the river’s manic-depressive flows on lithium.

It worked, for a while: The massive spring runoffs, known to hit upwards of 11,000 cfs, were tempered, but enough water still flowed downstream to scour beaches and preserve Snaggletooth’s whitewater snarl. And for the first time in a century the lower Dolores didn’t run dry in July. In fact, the year-round flows were enough to build and sustain a cold-water fishery for trout in the first dozen or so miles below the dam and a habitat for native fish below that. Meanwhile, the Dolores River water was able to reach far more irrigators, including the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe and former dryland farmers out Dove Creek way.

It appeared to be a win-win situation. Then, beginning in 2000, things went awry as a long-term drought gripped the region. More often than not, the dam’s operators held back almost all of the water running into the reservoir to allow them to continue delivering something to the irrigators. And even then the reservoir still isn’t full enough to deliver all of the water that’s allocated: This year the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe and irrigators outside of the Montezuma Valley Irrigation Company will receive just 13% of their allotted amount. The river below the dam, of course, is the biggest loser, receiving virtually nothing.

And yet, not all is lost. The Dolores River Boating Advocates recently put out a post detailing the grim forecast for this year, but also reporting on a new Colorado Parks and Wildlife effort to help fish in the Lower Dolores: pulse flows. They tested the concept last year by holding water back behind the dam for a few days by reducing release flows to 24 cfs, then bumping up releases to 75 cfs create a slight surge of water to reconnect downstream pools, to induce enough current to keep the water cooler, and allow fish to move around again.

The Boating Advocates write:

While CPW’s new management concept won’t put more water in the river, it does try something new. This strategy begins to recognize that the ecological integrity of river ecosystems depends on their natural dynamic character. Just as the human heartbeat vacillates to stay alive, streams and rivers require variability to function well.

Of course streams also need water, and it’s so scarce this year that the base flows will be just 5 cfs, or one-fifth of last year’s base flows. And so the sorrows continue for the poor Dolores River.

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🌵 Public Lands 🌲

The Trump administration is attacking public lands again, this time in an apparent effort to open more special places to off-road vehicles. Late last Friday, Trump issued an executive order revoking a Nixon-era policy aimed at ensuring “that the use of off-road vehicles on public lands will be controlled and directed so as to protect the resources of those lands, to promote the safety of all users of those lands, and to minimize conflicts among the various uses of those lands.”

No, this does not mean unfettered swarms of ATVs will be kicking up dust on your favorite public lands next week. But it does bolster the off-road vehicle lobby’s effort to open up motorized access to federal lands, and takes away one of the long-term planning tools used by land management agencies to protect those places from off-road vehicle use and abuse.

In the nearer-term, Trump’s order could end or diminish the ban on OHVs in national parks, allowing the vehicles to travel backroads in, say, Capitol Reef National Park. This might not sound so bad: If a three-ton SUV can drive there, why not let a smaller side-by-side or four-wheeler on the same road?

The answer lies in the nature of the newer OHVs, namely “side-by-sides” or razors, which more closely resemble souped-up dune buggies than conventional SUVs. While some people use OHVs as mere modes of transportation, the vehicles are more commonly treated and utilized like recreational playthings — very powerful, fast, and noisy toys that tend to travel in herds. They therefore bring their own type of impacts.

Anyone who has traveled on or hiked around the Alpine Loop in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado on a busy summer day has likely experienced these particular impacts first-hand. Those roads were first opened up to OHVs in the early 2000s. Since then Alpine Loop traffic numbers have exploded, with at least half of the motorized traffic made up of OHVs.

Law enforcement officers now spend a disproportionate amount of time and energy trying to keep the OHV drivers on designated routes and in compliance with traffic laws. OHV crashes, often resulting in serious injury, are not uncommon. And each summer several riders surrender to the temptation to illegally leave the road — these are off-road vehicles, after all — and rip across the tundra, causing irreversible damage. Unlike regular vehicles, OHVs tend to travel in herds, spewing exhaust and kicking up dust, their collective buzzing reaching far beyond the roads on which they travel. It has become almost impossible during the high season to completely escape the incessant din of OHVs on the Alpine Loop, even in wilderness study areas.

This same phenomenon could now be coming to a national park near you.

The administration claims it eliminated the policy because it was outdated, vague, and redundant, because Congress has since passed a host of other laws protecting public lands from OHVs and other uses. The order goes on to say:

“These vague, subjective criteria often result in barriers to energy and timber production and utility maintenance, permit delays, and de facto bans on hiking and other forms of recreation that require accessing remote areas, all while doing little to benefit multiple use of Federal lands.”

This makes very little sense. Sure, the restrictions on OHVs could hamper energy or timber development if it required destructive off-road vehicle use, but you’re not going to haul a drill rig into the backcountry on a side-by-side. And the idea that a hiker might feel “banned” from a trail because they couldn’t ride get there on an OHV is just silly.

The dubious statement reeks of the rhetoric of the crowd that claims that motorized vehicle restrictions are locking folks out of public lands, and therefore are discriminating against the type of people who drive these vehicles. But the discrimination claim simply does not fly. Mountain bikes are banned from wilderness areas, from a majority of trails in national parks, from some trails on BLM land, and are not allowed to ride off-trail on all federal land. This has nothing to do with the people who ride the bikes, or even the funny clothes they tend to wear, and everything to do with the vehicles’ potential impacts.

Trump probably did this at the behest of the Blue Ribbon Coalition and the likes of Sen. Mike Lee, who has pushed legislation that would open up national parks to OHVs. Maybe he’s trying to garner support from somewhere, given his terrible favorability ratings. Or perhaps he’s trying to appease the motorized crowd, which is probably a bit miffed that their drug of choice — gasoline — is so damned expensive thanks to Donny’s dumb war. Maybe he’s even trying to increase national park entry fee revenues so he can funnel it to his ballroom/drone-port or his White House UFC fight.

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🐟 Colorado River Chronicles 💧

It pretty much goes without saying that if next winter is as bad as this past winter, in terms of mountain snowpack, then the collective users of the Colorado River and its infrastructure will be toast — at least figuratively (maybe literally, too?). Now, my favorite team of Colorado River wonks1 have crunched the latest water numbers, and they’ve found that even a nearly “normal” winter won’t stop depletion of “reasonably accessible storage in Lake Powell and Lake Mead, leading to “devastating consequences.”

Back in 1999, the Colorado River’s storage system, which consists of Lake Powell, Lake Mead, and several other smaller reservoirs in the Upper and Lower basins, was almost full, holding about 60 million acre-feet of active, or available, storage. This provided a robust savings account that could be tapped during the inevitable dry spells on the notoriously fluctuating river system.

The reserve, however, was not adequate for the megadrought — or long-term aridification — that started in 2000 and continues today. Instead of following the usual up-down cycle, the Colorado River’s flows began a downward trend that is on track to hit its lowest point so far this water year, while consumptive use stayed more or less steady. Demand exceeded supply more years than not, drawing the savings account down significantly. That has forced the Bureau of Reclamation to take extraordinary measures, such as reducing downstream releases and tapping upstream reservoirs, to keep Lake Powell’s surface level from dropping below 3,500 feet, or what I call de facto dead pool2.

Thanks in part to extra releases from Flaming Gorge Reservoir in May, Lake Powell’s surface level climbed slightly to 3,528 feet last month. Given that spring runoff in the Upper Basin has peaked and most tributary flows are decreasing, we can expect that number to start dropping, perhaps precipitously, at least until the monsoon arrives.

The wonks wanted an idea of how things might play out in the slightly longer-term, so they modeled two scenarios:

1. In the first scenario, they assume that the Colorado River’s natural flow, or the estimated amount of water in the river without human consumption or interference, will be similar to water year 2025, when the mountain snowpack was below average but not nearly as slim as this year. They also assume that consumptive uses will remain at the lowest levels in recent years.
   Natural flow: 8.5 MAF at Lees Ferry + .70 MAF from Grand Canyon and Virgin River = 9.20 MAF
   Consumptive use: 3.56 MAF Upper Basin (includes evaporation and other losses) + 8.23 MAF Lower Basin + Mexico (incl. evap and other losses) = 11.79 MAF
   Deficit and resulting reservoir drawdown: 2.59 MAF
   Realistically accessible storage (RAS) remaining in Mead, Powell, and Flaming Gorge: 3.63 MAF

2. For the second, they plug in snowpack/flow numbers similar to those from water year 2023, which was a huge winter. Consumptive use would be about the same as in 2023.
   Natural flow: 18.55 MAF
   Consumptive use: 13.10 MAF
   Surplus: 4.83 MAF
   RAS: 11.05 MAF

Under the first scenario, the BoR will almost certainly have to go to a run-of-the-river situation on Glen Canyon Dam to defend 3,500 feet. That would mean releases would be approximately equal to inflows minus evaporation and seepage from the reservoir, and might drop to 3,000 to 4,000 cubic feet per-second or even lower. In the summer of 2002 inflows at times dropped below 1,000 cfs. This would turn the river through the Grand Canyon into a relative trickle, and cause a significant drawdown of Lake Mead.

The second scenario would be far better, but is far from an enduring solution. At best it would buy a little time, perhaps enough for the feds to build bypass tunnels around Glen Canyon Dam to allow for sustained releases below 3,500 feet. If it were followed by another three or four 2023-like winters, then things would start to look pretty darned good.

But if it were followed by just one more dry year it would bring everything back to today’s rather dire situation.

Since there’s no way to bolster supplies, the only way out of this mess is to continue to slash demand. The paper’s authors write:

Avoiding the possibility of this significant drawdown and associated conflict requires immediate and substantial additional reductions in consumptive use across the Basin, because a dry coming winter is possible. The cuts needed to avoid this scenario, were it to come to pass, would be unprecedented and far larger than any accomplished thus far. Basin water users must focus on solutions to this fundamental, wet-water math problem, rather than legal arguments over paper water.

Oof.

As long as we’re on the topic, the BoR recently released its Lower Basin accounting report for 2025, which tallies up consumptive uses in the basin. As you can see from the following graphs, which the Land Desk whipped up using the BoR data, the Lower Basin uses significantly less water now than it did in 1999, just before the current megadrought began. Upper Basin consumptive use figures for 2025 are not yet available. The following figures do not include reservoir evaporation, conveyance losses, or Mexico’s use.

🤖 Data Center Watch 👾

Has Enchant Energy finally found a raison d’être? The Farmington-based company was created in 2019 to try to save the San Juan coal-fired power plant from retirement by retrofitting it with carbon capture equipment. Enchant would then sell the carbon to oil producers in the Permian Basin, while also receiving generous federal tax credits. Basically they wanted to turn the power plant into a taxpayer subsidized carbon dioxide factory. It flopped for various reasons. Now the San Juan plant — and all of its pollution — are no more. We suspected Enchant Energy had met a similar fate.

But then I received a press release letting me know the not-so-up upstart is not dead, but has instead signed a letter of intent with Creekstone Energy to capture carbon from the tech firm’s proposed hyperscale Delta Gigasite data center in Delta, Utah. As is often the case, Creekstone touts all of the renewable energy it plans on building for its center, but the first phase will be powered by natural gas, which emits carbon dioxide.

Enchant hopes to capture the carbon from the gas plant and convert it into marketable fuel. The company has apparently given up on trying to give coal-burning a slightly more climate-friendly veneer (after all, Trump has declared coal to be “clean” and “beautiful”). Instead, it looks like they’re jumping on the data center bandwagon, along with wannabe nuclear reactor developers and the like.

Who knows, maybe this is the thing that finally gives Enchant some meaning. But we’re not holding our breath. After spending gobs of money on lobbying, pulling in some hefty federal grants, then failing spectacularly with the San Juan generating bid, Enchant partnered with another firm and tried to buy the Intermountain coal plant in Delta to use it to power its own data center. That didn’t work, either.

🔋Notes from the Energy Transition 🔌

Yes, the energy transition may have run into some stumbling blocks, i.e. the Trump administration’s hatred for anything that might compete with coal and oil and gas, but it’s still quietly underway. For example, out by the aforementioned, defunct San Juan coal plant, DESRI recently broke ground on two utility-scale solar installations: the 170-megawatt Foxtail Flats solar-plus-battery storage array; and the 100-MW Four Mile Mesa solar-plus-storage project.

That’s some pretty serious generating capacity and adds to the existing San Juan solar facility nearby. Los Alamos County has signed on to purchase power from Foxtail Flats, and Meta will be drawing electricity Four Mile Mesa via PNM to power its data centers.

Both of the new facilities are under development on Ute Mountain Ute tribal land.

📸 Parting Shot 🎞️

In last week’s comments, ncoffey94 asked what kind of bike I ride. It’s a 2023 Niner RLT, with an aluminum frame, carbon fork, and SRAM Apex parts. It’s nothing fancy and isn’t super light. But I dig it for riding on the roads, dirt, and even singletrack. It’s got 40 mm tires, so isn’t so great in the sand, and with no suspension I don’t do big drops or super-cobbly stuff. But it sure is nice having just one bike for all uses.

Blue Castle Holdings is proposing to build a nuclear power plant in Green River, Utah. You have not gone through a time warp, nor is this a “this date in history” sorta thing, though it could be. The same company tried to build a reactor in Green River a couple of decades ago, during the last “nuclear renaissance,” but the project fizzled amid fierce opposition, uncertainty over water rights, and as the nuke boom busted before it ever really got going.

This week, Blue Castle announced that the concept had only been dormant, not dead, and that it was coming out of hibernation in a spiffed up form in hopes of serving rapidly growing data center-driven electricity demand. Instead of constructing two, 1,500 MW reactors, the company — in partnership with Fulcrum Point Holdings — looks to install small modular reactors. It has not specified what the nameplate capacity will be, but says the units can be air-cooled, meaning they wouldn’t use as much water as conventional reactors.

Blue Castle has a bit of a head start on the project, since they’ve already done most of the site characterization work (on private land about five miles west of Green River). But they’ll still have to jump through the nuclear reactor licensing hoops, which can be arduous. That said, it should be a lot easier with both the Trump administration and the Cox administration champing at the bit to get more nukes up and running. Meanwhile, opposition to the idea is not likely to be any less fervent now than it was 20 years ago, and they’ll still have to secure water in an increasingly aridified region.

The melon-farming town along the banks of the Green River has become a magnet for proposed and actual industrial projects lately. The prospective nuclear plant joins Anson Resources’ lithium extraction project, Western Uranium & Vanadium’s proposed uranium mill, a 400-megawatt solar-plus-storage installation, and various uranium, lithium, and potash extraction proposals in the surrounding areas.

🌵 Public Lands 🌲

Well, they’ve gone and done it now. Garfield County has paved the Hole-in-the-Rock Road, or at least the first 10 miles of it. To folks who are unfamiliar with the road situation in Utah, paving — chip-sealing, actually — a notoriously washboarded, suspension-blasting, teeth-rattling dead-end dirt road may not seem like such a big deal. But this little maintenance action could have real consequences for the public land it runs through, i.e. Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, and sets a dangerous legal precedent when it comes to roads on public lands. It is also a symbolic move for both the opponents and proponents of the asphalt-laying project.

The Hole-in-the-Rock (HITR) road roughly follows the first segment of the Hole-in-the-Rock trail, which is the route Church of Latter Day Saints colonists forged in 1879 to get from Escalante to what would become Bluff City on the banks of the San Juan River in the southeastern corner of Utah. When the early Mormon travelers reached the seemingly-impassable, 2,000-foot-deep Glen Canyon on the Colorado River, they blasted and built a passage for their wagons, horses, and cattle through a natural opening in the cliff and called it Hole in the Rock.

It may have been this experience, in part, that led the descendants of those folks to develop a kind of fetish for roads, especially ones that cross federal land. By building the path across an especially rugged chunk of country and even crossing the mighty Colorado, they were able to assert a certain amount of control over what they saw as a hostile and wild landscape. Now county commissioners in Utah fight for control over backcountry roads* as a sort of proxy for dominating the lands they pass through. Garfield County has long looked to take ownership of the HITR road so that they can improve and pave it and be sure the Bureau of Land Management never closes it.

Environmental groups, meanwhile, have pushed back against county control. While the feds almost never close roads, they are more likely than counties to do so if necessary to protect cultural or ecological resources**. Counties are more likely to improve the roads, which leads to more people and attendant impacts in the backcountry.

Today’s HITR road runs 62 miles, from just outside Escalante to Hole in the Rock, where the canyon below is now mostly inundated by Lake Powell. It snakes its way on a rough parallel path to the Escalante River and passes near the heads of many of its tributary canyons that are popular with backcountry adventurers.

As visitation to the national monument and its surroundings has increased, so has the HITRR’s traffic: Garfield County’s road crew says some 600 vehicles per day travel the washboard-plagued road, with as many as 1,500 each day on weekends. All those cars wreak havoc on the road, and the county says it has been spending $150,000 annually on maintenance, some of which it claims could be avoided if it were allowed to pave the road.

Last July, a federal court ruled in favor of Garfield County and granted it quiet title to the section of the HITR Road in the county (the lower section is in Kane County, which also won quiet title to that portion of the road). In February, the county began preparing the route for chip-sealing. It informed the BLM of the work, but did not apply for a permit, and the BLM did nothing to stop the work. That was two victories in a row for the local-control over the public’s land crowd.

The Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance sued both the BLM and the county, saying the work required federal approval, since it occurred on federal land. It also sought an emergency injunction on further work while the case is pending.

Earlier this month, a judge denied the injunction request, clearing the way for Garfield County to proceed. A few days later, the machines were out there laying asphalt, while county officials and their backers crowed triumphantly and public land lovers cried foul. The courts may eventually rule against the county, but the chip seal is there to stay.

“Paving will lead to more, faster, and louder traffic,” said SUWA attorneys in a written statement, “changing the remote, serene backcountry experience the monument was created to protect, and that draws visitors from around the world.”

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The HITR Road battle is an echo of an almost identical fight over the Burr Trail, another backcountry road between Boulder, Utah, which lies within Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, and Ticaboo/Bullfrog on the shores of Lake Powell. The sections on BLM land on either side of the route have been paved and/or chip-sealed after years of conflict. But the National Park Service has blocked Garfield County from paving the middle segment, which passes through Capitol Reef National Park.

I drive the Burr Trail any chance I get, simply because I love the country it travels through and because the slower pace the road requires allows me to see more, and facilitates frequent stops to get out of the car and look around.

I’m sure that traffic has increased since the paving. Just based on my observations, however, I would say that the added number of vehicles is not necessarily increasing the number of folks going into the surrounding backcountry. What I’ve seen are more RVs and low-slung sedans heading down the road from Boulder, going beyond the end of the pavement, stopping at the top of the switchbacks through the Waterpocket Fold (where the road is steep, loose gravel, and washboarded), then turning around and heading back up to Boulder. The eastern paved section, towards Bullfrog, has very little traffic. (On my most recent trip I did see a few vehicles drive up the Burr Trail switchbacks, then come back down before heading north on the Notom Road back toward Capitol Reef, a phenomenon that was also evident at the Moqui Dugway road in San Juan County.)

So while paving HITRR is a sort of symbolic and even spiritual defeat for those public lands and the folks looking to protect them, I’m also not sure that it will necessarily lead to more impacts to the surrounding backcountry. Garfield County’s vehicle count numbers, if correct, indicate that the automobile-driving masses are already driving the road. How could you cram more than 1,500 vehicles a day onto that little section?

In any event, it’s certainly the end of an era, and driving the first ten miles of the HITRR will be a completely different experience than it was pre-blacktop. Whether the phenomenon will be limited to those ten miles (and the Burr Trail), or spread throughout the rutted byways of Utah may depend on the outcome of SUWA’s lawsuit.

🛻 Notes from the Road 🏕️

The hummingbirds have come back to southern Utah for the spring. Are they earlier than usual? Later? Maybe all that really matters is the penstemon are blooming, scarlet red.

***

One of my non-Land Desk gigs is compiling and summarizing Western energy news for a Canary Media newsletter every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. This requires early morning internet, so when I’m out and about it means staying in a hotel on those nights or camping in a site where I know there is a strong and steady cell signal.

But on Tuesdays and Thursdays and weekends, I’m free to wander as far off grid as I can get. This is not difficult in southern Utah, which may have the highest proportion of out-of-cell-signal-range lands in the continental U.S.

Liberated from the digital shackles, I meander impulsively, by car, by bike, on foot, in search of the perfect campsite, a cool pool of desert water, a viewpoint from which the landscape unfurls before me, the post-storm light playing among the red rock crevices and spires far below. The sense of time slips away and I quickly forget what day it is. The lack of destination or deadline allows me to wander down whatever road, canyon, or trail looks appetizing. More often than not, they are dead ends, which is just fine.

Recently I set off on such an amble from Bullfrog Marina on Lake Powell. A storm had blown through the night before, leaving a few inches of wet snow on the steep slopes of the Henry Mountains and clearing the haze and smoke and dust from the air. Remnants of the storm lingered over the mountains and high mesas, defying the weather forecasts.

Following a bike ride up the paved part of the Burr Trail, I headed in el Burro Blanco onto the eastern slope of the Henries, and followed a back road that traversed the incline.

The soil was rocky enough to naturally gravel the road, or rather, to cobblestone it. While it wasn’t a smooth ride, it did keep the surface solid despite a couple of inches of moisture that fell the previous night and morning, at least for a while. Then, after topping a little rise, and as I descended a north-facing slope into a small drainage, the cobbles vanished, giving way to classic southern Utah clay. Goopy nasty stuff, that is, the kind of mud that steals your shoes, builds up on your tires, and turns a motorized vehicle into a slip-sliding, uncontrollable, wheeled sled and that inspires signs warning “Impassible When Wet.”

Luckily, the fall line followed the line of travel, meaning I landed safely on a more solid patch of road at the trough of the drainage. I got out and surveyed the path ahead on foot, only to find that conditions worsened. I could either camp there and wait for the road to dry, or try to make it back up the hill I had just slid down in my rear-wheel drive pickup.

The former was the more intelligent choice, of course. But the campsite was far from ideal, and the clouds were still pretty thick, meaning it might rain or snow even more, and I don’t always make the smartest choices. Then I remembered: I had bought chains for the truck soon after inheriting it. I broke them out, chained up the rear wheels, did a thirty-point turnaround, and barreled back up the way I came, no problemo.

A couple of hours later, after venturing down another backroad, albeit one on more stable soil and at a considerably lower elevation, I landed in a delightful campsite. The rain had flushed away the gnats, settled the dust, sculpted the sand in the arroyos that flowed past the camp, summoned the wildflowers to bloom, and filled the tinajas and potholes to the brim with murky, cool water.

***

I’ve included a lot of different types of content in the Land Desk, from Messing with Maps, to Data Dumps, to movie reviews, but I don’t believe I’ve ever included a recipe here. That all changes today. I would recommend that you not try this recipe at home; it’s refined nature can only be fully appreciated when prepared on a camp stove and eaten in the outdoors, preferably while watching the evening light slide slowly across the desert.

I grew up going camping, usually in the Utah desert, with my family. It’s just what we did on many a weekend and on just about every school break. We didn’t have enough money for “real” family vacations, and we wouldn’t have wanted to do the Disneyland thing, anyway. This means I also grew up eating my father’s distinctive camp cooking, almost always made over a campfire because we didn’t have a camp stove.

I remember liking the food back then, but looking back I do have to wonder whether it wasn’t a form of child abuse. Delicacies included Dinty Moore beef stew on top of a bed of those canned deep-fried chow mein noodles; corned beef hash from a can; Vienna sausages — my dad’s friend called them cows lips in order to get us to hand them over; generic grape, orange, or black-cherry soda-pop; and, my personal favorite, those Pillsbury biscuits in a can cooked in a skillet over the fire in a sizzling reservoir of Country Crock squeeze-bottle margarine.

I’ve spent years trying to heal the taste-bud trauma, partially by sprinkling my food with truffle oil whenever someone else is paying for it, and have come quite a ways in my recovery. But it all went to hell in a hand basket when I went camping with a friend, who originally hails from the Midwest, and let him assume dinner duties one night. To my horror and dismay, he prepared something called Chili-Mac, which consists of a can of Hormel canned beef chili dumped into a batch of Krafts instant macaroni and cheese. I guess I’m lucky he didn’t do his other specialty, which involves hot dogs and mac-and-cheese — entirely too reminiscent of those damned jelly-coated cows’ lips, er, Vienna sausages.

Anyway, I learned my lesson, and I vet all of his dinner choices beforehand, and bring backup food just in case he tries to pull a fast one. Meanwhile, I’ve developed a more regionally and taste-bud appropriate alternative to his Chili-Mac. I call it Mac-n-Chile. Here’s the recipe (serves one hungry person):

• One box of Annie’s macaroni and cheese. I prefer the aged cheddar stuff, but any flavor will do.

• One can of hot Hatch green chiles. Yes, you can bring fresh roasted chiles if you want, but that adds to the work and complexity and who wants all of that? The canned stuff is fine.

• A liberal sprinkling of Cobblestone farm’s garlic powder. Oh, you want to buy the cheap grocery store stuff that has no flavor and is filled with anti-caking agents like silicon dioxide? Suit yourself! But if you want the best, you gotta go with Cobblestone Farms.

• A touch of salt and olive oil or butter.

Follow the instructions on the box, but salt the pasta water (they don’t put enough salt in those cheese packets), and add some olive oil or butter when mixing in the dried cheese. Dump in the green chiles and a liberal sprinkling of garlic powder — more is better. Pour yourself a beverage of your choice, sit down on your camp chair, truck’s tailgate, or a slab of sandstone, and devour it.

Oh, and keep your eyes open for those hummingbirds. I hear they’re buzzing about the canyon country these days.

🌵 Public Lands 🌲

One good thing the Trump administration’s and the GOP’s attack on public lands has brought about is more attention to public lands and the sometimes arcane policies governing them. When I started the Land Desk back in 2021, it was one of the only Substack-like outlets focusing on public lands issues; now there are more than a dozen of them, put out by journalists, quasi-journalists, and advocacy groups — with a fair amount of overlap. Meanwhile, more conventional media outlets have also beefed up their public lands coverage since Trump took office.

I’m all for it — a well informed public makes for a stronger democracy — but it does have a major downside. There has been a noticeable increase in disinformation and misinformation and simply erroneous coverage of the issues and, especially, of the potential effects of the administration’s actions. The motives are surely mixed, ranging from honest misunderstandings to the writer trying to simplify complex issues for the average reader. Maybe they feel that the nuanced reality won’t rally the troops as effectively as hyperbolic alarmism. Maybe they know that outrage is more likely than mere concern to garner clicks, subscriptions, and donations.

While I understand the need to get people fired up about these issues and actions — most of which should indeed be stopped — I also worry that writing one’s congress member or commenting to the federal agencies based on erroneous information will be ineffective or even counterproductive. The truth in most of these cases is bad enough. Let’s just stick with it. Please?

Here are a few examples of what’s got my goat:

• The claim: Revoking Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument’s management plan will open up nearly 900,000 acres of the monument to oil and gas drilling, coal extraction, and uranium mining.
  The messier reality: MAGA Sen. Mike Lee’s and Rep. Celeste Maloy’s attempts to use the Congressional Review Act to revoke Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument’s management plan is abhorrent, stupid, and is done out of spite rather than for any pragmatic reasons. If they succeed, the monument’s management will revert back to the far weaker 2020 plan that allowed more grazing, more damaging “vegetation management,” and more off-road vehicle use. Plus the 2020 plan only covered the 1 million acres left in the national monument after Trump removed about 900,000 acres from its boundaries, meaning there would be a sort of management limbo on those 900,000 acres.
  However, rescinding the plan will not eliminate or shrink the national monument or its basic protections, nor will it allow drilling or mining or other development anywhere within the 1.9 million acre national monument. The boundaries will remain the same, which means that the terms set in the 2021 proclamation restoring them also remain in effect1, and that includes no new oil and gas or coal leases or mining claims within the national monument.
  Furthermore, the claims about grazing have been exaggerated as well. The 2020 plan allowed grazing in all but 125,800 acres of the national monument, but did not allow it right along the Escalante River or in Lower Calf Canyon, and it would have allowed suspended allotments to be reissued (if a rancher wanted them). The 2024 plan put 314,700 acres off-limits to grazing — including bigger buffers around the Escalante River — and would have permanently retired suspended allotments.

• The claim: Moving the U.S. Forest Service headquarters to Salt Lake City, “the beating heart of the anti-public-lands movement in America,” will lead to a mass selloff of public lands and is part of an “execution” of the agency.
  The messy reality: Look, I know that Utah politicians are kooky and that they don’t like the idea of federal land management. I wrote a whole damned book about it. But that doesn’t mean that once you cross the border into Utah you become a raving sagebrush rebel. There are pros and cons to moving a federal agency to the West, but it’s not like Phil Lyman, Mike Lee, Celeste Maloy, Ken Ivory, and the ghost of Cal Black are going to have more influence over the agency’s HQ in SLC than they would in D.C. Nor is the relocation, alone, going to lead to public land sales. Utah happens to be home to strong public lands advocacy and environmental groups, including SUWA, Grow the Flow, Utah Rivers Council, HEAL Utah, Uranium Watch, Torrey House Press, and others. Salt Lake City is more progressive politically than many cities in blue states. Over the last three decades it has elected liberal mayors and other city leaders, including climate, human rights, and air quality activists.
  Instead of fear-mongering over Utah, maybe we should be focused on the severe budget cuts plaguing the Forest Service, the loss of thousands of staffers and their deep well of institutional knowledge, its growing inability to manage lands under its purview regardless of where it’s headquartered, along with policies aimed at increasing logging and grazing on the nation’s forests. That’s the real danger.

• The mislead: Almost every story or blog post or call to action regarding the administration’s move to rescind the oil and gas leasing moratorium in the area around Chaco Culture National Historical Park is accompanied by a photo of Pueblo Bonito, Casa Rinconada, or another site inside the park itself.
  The messy reality: This is misleading because it gives the impression that those structures will now be open to drilling. That’s not the case. The park and the pueblos in it retain their protections no matter what happens with the moratorium. The leasing ban is for a ten mile radius outside the park boundaries, which is, indeed, a very significant cultural landscape, replete with Chacoan “roads,” outlier pueblos and great houses, shrines, and other sites — and absolutely should be protected from energy development. This is an innocent mistake: The sites in “downtown Chaco” are not only photogenic, but most outlets probably can’t find stock images of the sites that could be wrecked by drilling if the moratorium is lifted. Still, they could ask me …

So yes, write to your congress member, protest, write letters to the editor, and send your two cents to your public lands agencies. But please, base your protests and suggestions and recommendations on facts, not on outrage-inciting hyperbole or speculation.

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⛏️ Mining Monitor ⛏️

If nuclear reactors could run on hype, alone, then we’d have plenty of power for all of those hyperscale data centers in the pipeline. The optimistic, gold-rushesque press releases about new uranium mining claims, acquisitions, and exploration just keep coming, giving the impression that there is a nuclear renaissance underway in the West. Maybe there is, sort of, but it hasn’t made it to the uranium mining space yet.

The one substantial move forward was the Nuclear Regulatory Commission granting a construction license to Bill Gates-backed Terra Power, allowing it to begin building its Natrium advanced reactor in Kemmerer, Wyoming. It’s a big deal, but the company doesn’t expect to bring the plant online until 2030, at least, and will still need an operating license to do so.

It will take more than one reactor to bring the western Colorado and eastern Utah uranium mining industry back to anywhere near its Cold War-era glory days, though that’s not stopping mining firms from courting investors.

Some of the latest hype includes:

• American Atomics’ website banner is an image of Monument Valley, where Diné miners worked Cold War-era uranium mines with virtually no safety measures or protective equipment, despite industry and government knowledge of the occupational hazards. Many of those workers eventually fell sick and died from exposure to radon and other substances in the mine. Now the company hopes to “reshape how nations fuel their power grids and defend their energy sovereignty” by building a “fully American-controlled nuclear fuel cycle, from exploration and extraction to enrichment and supply.” They hope to seed the effort with the 217-claim Big Indian project in the Lisbon Valley in cooperation with a company run by Mark Steen, the son of Charles Steen. American Atomics also has a block of mining claims in the Uravan uranium belt in western Colorado.

• After abandoning its proposal to use high-pressure slurry ablation, or HPSA, to extract uranium from the October waste rock pile near Gateway, Colorado, Disa applied to do the same on the smaller Mary Ann pile in Montrose County. On April 22, the NRC replied to Disa with a request for more information. Disa filed an amendment to its application on May 14.

• Anfield Energy submitted a permit to restart its long-idle JD-8 mine located on a mesa south of the Paradox Valley in western Colorado. This is part of an effort to restart its entire Monogram Mesa Complex, which consists of five inactive facilities. The company claims it plans on being permitted and starting production in mid-2026. If it hits its target, however, it doesn’t appear to have a place to mill the ore. While it says it plans to restart the Shootaring Mill near Ticaboo, Utah, the state hasn’t issued a permit for it to do so. However, Anfield did apparently drill monitoring wells at the Shootaring Mill and at its Slick Rock project near the western Colorado hamlet of the same name.

• Anfield, as you may remember, is the company behind the Velvet-Wood uranium mine in the Lisbon Valley. The same one the Trump administration dramatically fast-tracked permitting for to help solve the so-called “energy emergency.” Well, Anfield did do some work at the mine, but they still don’t have state air quality, ventilation shaft, or groundwater remediation permits, meaning actual production is a long ways off. That must be some emergency, eh?

  

Maybe sitting next to the wall of plate glass windows was not the smartest move, I thought, as a sienna-colored cloud of sand lifted up from the lakeside and made its way in my direction. I had just tucked into my $16 grilled chicken sandwich at the Anasazi Restaurant at Bullfrog Marina on Lake Powell when the wind kicked up, sandblasting the windows and causing a sizable milk crate to slide back and forth along the railings of the patio outside. It was an eerie scene. Had this been an apocalyptic cli-fi film set in a calamitously aridified West, this would have been the moment when a pterodactyl-like creature smashed through the window and plopped down all bloody and sandy in my plate of fries, an omen of the horrors to come.

It was not, however, a film. The dystopian scene was real as was the aridification, though it did not include any prehistoric creatures — only a handful of staff and other diners who, much to my dismay, seemed utterly unperturbed by the sandstorm and the havoc it was wreaking on a set of outdoor furniture. And, outside, a few ravens who seemed delighted to frolic in the gusts’ updrafts.

When we think of climate change’s effects, we might imagine communities inundated by rising seas, unhoused folks exposed to ever more severe heat waves, or entire towns wiped out by megafires. I was here at Bullfrog to see how a warmer and drier climate is affecting the communities, infrastructure, and economies that rose up around and depend upon Lake Powell-based recreation.

Bullfrog is the largest and most extensive marina on Lake Powell’s northern end. It has a 48-room hotel, the aforementioned restaurant, a gas station and convenience store, an RV park, and other lodging, along with its own school, which this year had four students in grades K-6. The population of some 50 to 100 consists mostly of employees of the National Park Service and Aramark, the private concessionaire that runs the reservoir’s marinas and other facilities. Nearby Ticaboo, which lies outside Glen Canyon National Recreation Area but also relies on Lake Powell recreation, has another 50 to 100 residents. The nearest incorporated town is Hanksville, some 67 miles to the north.

Bullfrog lies at the end of the road on a bay at the mouth of Bullfrog Creek, where the water is shallower than on the main channel of the Colorado River, making the marina and its facilities more vulnerable to dropping water levels. While the main boat ramp is still being used, it will likely become unusable later this summer as the reservoir’s surface levels falls toward 3,500 feet. In coming weeks, the entire floating marina will be towed across the reservoir to deeper water adjacent to Halls Crossing Marina; Bullfrog’s fuel and boat rental docks have already been moved. The ferry between Bullfrog and Halls Crossing isn’t functional at low water levels, so is expected to be out of commission for the rest of this year, making for a 145-mile car trip between the facilities at Bullfrog and the boat ramps and marina at Halls Crossing.

I visited Bullfrog on a Sunday in mid-May. Because I needed to do some internet-related work early on Monday morning, I stayed in the hotel. I initially regretted not staying in the campground, since it was mostly empty and had a strong cell phone signal, but when the tent-shredding winds and skin blasting sands kicked up I was happy to be ensconced in more secure lodging, especially given the relatively reasonable price.

It was the high tourist season elsewhere in Canyon Country. The trailhead parking lots at Capitol Reef National Park were all full or overflowing that morning as I drove through, and Torrey had been busy during my stay there for a writing conference. As I slowly made my way down the Notom Road and Burr Trail, stopping frequently to gaze at the curves and crevices in the Waterpocket Fold and for a quick bike ride, I saw maybe a half-dozen other vehicles.

Bullfrog, meanwhile, was decidedly quiet. The hotel was nearly empty. Only a few sites in the RV park were occupied, and I later saw that most of the sites were out of order and closed. A couple of dozen cars, at the very most, were parked on the only operable boat ramp. The shelves on the little convenience store were sparsely stocked, and a box of Triscuits was going for $7.50 — though there was no cheese to accompany them — and gas was selling for $5.17. In May of 2000, the Bullfrog District received 33,000 visits, according to National Park Service statistics; in May 2025 only 10,886 visitors passed through the entrance gate. Current numbers aren’t yet available, but I imagine this year’s visitation will be far lower. And once the boat ramp ceases to function, I imagine the numbers will plummet further.

The National Park Service is planning to build a new, deeper-water boat launch at Stanton Creek, a couple of miles from central Bullfrog, where the marina can be moved permanently. The project is expected to cost some $73 million, and won’t be completed this year. It’s a type of climate adaptation, I suppose, though one can’t help wonder how long the fix will last if the reservoir’s levels keep dropping.

Meanwhile, Bullfrog’s future is in doubt. A series of especially snowy winters in the high country might be enough to bring Bullfrog back from the edge of obsolescence. Maybe they won’t even need the Stanton Creek site. On the other hand, just one more below-average snowpack year could doom Lake Powell altogether. If Colorado River flows don’t increase substantially in the next year or two, the Bureau of Reclamation will have little choice but to build tunnels to bypass Glen Canyon Dam and effectively drain the reservoir in order to keep water running into the Grand Canyon and on to Lake Mead.

The question then would be whether Bullfrog could (or would even want to) adapt to a different sort of tourism.

The place might try to cater to hikers and small-watercraft users looking to check out newly revealed parts of Glen Canyon that have been inundated for the last several decades. And it could lure travelers exploring the greater region’s backcountry, though it’s not clear that type of visitor is going to be interested in the type of accommodations and services Bullfrog currently offers. Maybe it will just become a destination for disaster-tourist voyeurs looking to see the effects of climate change in real-time. Or, perhaps Bullfrog will become another Hite Marina, which the shrinking reservoir has left high and dry, its boat ramp separated from the lake by some six miles, the store and campground permanently shuttered and gated off.

The last time I visited Bullfrog was in the late 1980s. My dad, my brother, and I camped at Halls Crossing, then woke up and rode the ferry across the lake. From there we made an epic loop around and over the Henry Mountains along the then-unimproved Burr Trail and another gnarly road in our 1967 Pontiac Catalina. It took at least eight hours and involved some extensive road-building to keep the boat-like vehicle from bottoming out. Anyway, I remember Bullfrog as being a bustling resort with a sort of spring break party vibe, relative to the more bare-bones Halls Crossing. Of course, those were the glory days for Lake Powell, when the reservoir was full, and at the end of a bone-jarring drive across the desert one could stop at the Hite Marina for refreshments.

That night I listened to the sand batter the sliding glass door of my hotel room. The next morning, the reservoir’s placid waters reflected dawn’s first light, and the distant sandstone dunes seemed to glow from within. And to the north, a fresh coating of snow covered the craggy slopes of the Henry Mountains, promising a little bit of relief from these dry and trying times.

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📸 Parting Shots 🎞️

🌨️🦦🚣🏽 Predict the Peak! 🌊

When the scorching late March heat wave came for what little was left of the meagre snowpack, I was almost certain that it would cause rivers to hit their peak spring runoff levels in early April. That would have been the earliest spring runoff on record and a grim omen for the rest of the summer. Most of the contestants in this year’s predict-the-peak contest apparently had the same idea.

Luckily, we were proven wrong, in most cases: A series of spring storms and successive cold spells in April and even May managed to slow the melt and push the peak to a more reasonable mid-May date. A later runoff means streamflows will subside later, stretching out the irrigating and reservoir-filling season just a little bit longer.

There were exceptions, including the San Miguel River, which hit its spring high flow on April 2. And the Dolores River, which peaked at an absurdly early date of March 26. These both drain the western side of the San Juan Mountains, which apparently bore the brunt of the crappy winter. Still, even those rivers had a sort of second run-off season.

Here are the numbers for our contest rivers, followed by the streamflow and snowpack graphs:

• The Animas River in Durango, Colorado: After topping out at 1,010 cubic feet per-second on March 27, the Animas came back and peaked on May 15 at 1,460 cfs.

• The San Miguel River at Uravan, Colorado: The river hit 400 cfs on April 2, plummeted to just 63 cfs in late April, and then recovered for a second runoff and reaching 241 cfs on May 15.

• The Yampa River near Maybell, Colorado: This river’s watershed got a bigger boost from the April storms than those further to the south, giving it a peak runoff of 3,480 cfs on May 16. This is the only river I’m hesitant to call, because the Upper Yampa watershed still has 2.8 inches of snow water equivalent, according to SNOTEL figures. If a temperature spike were to melt all of that at once, it could result in a larger peak.

• San Juan River at Carracas, Colorado: The San Juan hit 1,090 cfs on April 2, which sure looked like the peak. But on May 15 it reached 1,140 cfs.

Nearly all of the contestants in the PtP contest chose April and even March dates for the peak, making the date part of the contest almost irrelevant. So I’m focusing on who was the closest on peak flows. And the winners are …

• Animas (2 winners) 1. B Frank, with a guess of 1,468 cfs (wow! Only 8 cfs off) 2. Sharon Englehart, who guessed 1,500 cfs on June 1. While B Frank was closer in flow, Sharon was closer to the correct date.

• San Miguel: Florence Paillard with a guess of 450 cfs

• Yampa: B Frank again with 4,127 cfs

• San Juan: J Harvey barely edges out B Frank with a guess of 850 cfs

So congratulations to B Frank, J Harvey, Florence Paillard, and Sharon Englehart! Please send your mailing address to landdesk@substack.com and I’ll send you your prizes.

🐟 Colorado River Chronicles 💧

Peak runoff on the Colorado River’s tributaries naturally flows down to the mainstem, as well, so long as there’s not a dam or other diversion preventing it from doing so. Unfortunately, however, the mid-May streamflow surges were barely discernible in the Colorado and San Juan rivers by the time they reached Lake Powell.

But Lake Powell did get a bit of a boost this month, only it wasn’t exactly “natural.” Lake Powell’s inflows jumped from as low as 3,500 cfs in late April to nearly 15,000 cfs on May 16. Yet more than 9,000 cfs of this can be attributed to extra releases from Flaming Gorge Reservoir on the Green River. That’s a lot of water coming down the river, and it did boost Lake Powell’s surface level by a whopping … half an inch or so.

Yikes.

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🌵 Public Lands 🌲

On Monday, the GOP-dominated U.S. Senate confirmed Steven Pearce to lead the Bureau of Land Management and oversee some 245 million acres of public lands. Pearce, a right-wing ideologue, former congressman from New Mexico, and a one-time executive of an oilfield services company has long been hostile to the very idea of public lands.

Advocacy groups and Democratic lawmakers have responded to the move with outrage, shock, and dismay, and they have flooded my e-mailbox with claims that this confirmation represents an action that could “redefine public lands as we know them,” as one statement said, and will lead to the wholesale sell off of those same lands.

To be sure, Pearce is a terrible choice for the position, and by confirming him the GOP reinforced the fact that they are willing to sacrifice Americans’ lands and waters to stay on Trump’s good side. But had they rejected Pearce, the administration would simply pick someone who is equally atrocious, although maybe a little bit less open about it. Or maybe they wouldn’t nominate anyone at all, and instead illegally assign a perpetually acting director, as was the case during Trump’s first term with William Perry Pendley.

And even if the administration did nominate a career bureaucrat or someone more reasonable than Pearce, the fact remains: They would either carry out the Trump/Doug Burgum mission, which is to bring the agency back to the days of the Bureau of Livestock and Mining, or they’d be canned. Interior Secretary Doug Burgum was widely considered to be a strong and reasonable choice for that position — even garnering the endorsement of REI’s board of directors — and he has turned out to be one of the most extraction-friendly Interior secretaries in history. Indeed, the administration has already been doing a fairly thorough job of executing their plan without a confirmed BLM director, so why would Pearce make any bit of difference?

Trump’s election is what started redefining public lands. Pearce’s confirmation is just another step in the continued assault on the nation’s lands, air, water, and the communities that depend on them.

Over the past 16 months, the administration has leased out hundreds of thousands of acres of land to oil and gas companies, handed out drilling permits like lollipops at a bank, fast-tracked uranium mine permits, cut the public out of environmental reviews, opened up millions of acres to energy development, and transferred public lands — all without an official BLM director. And in the weeks leading up to Pearce’s confirmation, at least nine BLM state and associate state directors accepted the administration’s deferred resignation and buyout program. In other words, they jumped ship voluntarily, perhaps because they could see that it was sinking.

So far, the administration hasn’t shrunk any national monuments or tried any large-scale land selloffs, with the exception of conveying 1.4 million acres of land in the Dalton Utility Corridor to the state of Alaska. This was a unique situation in that it was done under the 1959 Alaska Statehood Act, which authorized the transfer of 105 million acres of public land to the state for economic development purposes (which, in Alaska, usually translates to oil and gas drilling). As we saw during his first term, Trump doesn’t need Pearce — or any BLM director at all — to diminish national monuments or transfer lands.

In other words, Pearce’s confirmation is just more of the same.

I can say that this is beautiful country — aside from the gnats (my legs are covered with festering welts that start itching at precisely 3:38 a.m.). Capitol Reef National Park seems crowded to me, meaning the parking lots are all full, but I don’t know if it’s unusually busy. The rest of Utah was relatively and pleasantly unpeopled, perhaps because of gas prices, the heat, or, yes, those damned gnats. By the way, if anyone knows why this year’s swarms are so vicious, do let me know. I haven’t been this bit up since I was a kid.

And now, a few photos for your viewing pleasure.

The Hoback Report
by Bob Frodeman

The weather has been odd this year on the southern side of the Yellowstone Plateau. And summer is setting up to be a little scary – low water, fire danger, and masses of tourists.

Hoback, Wyoming, is an unincorporated area of a few hund…

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Every six months or so I like to do a recon of the Lisbon Valley in southeastern Utah, a long-time sacrifice zone for uranium and copper mining, oil and gas drilling, natural gas pr…

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If someone were to be dropped from another planet into the North Fork Valley in western Colorado today, they would be forgiven for assuming there is not a water crisis. A thick carpet of g…

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The white horse lies on the hard-packed reddish earth. The black horse stands over her protectively, as if shielding her from the harsh sun or the stiff breeze, redolent of sagebrush. Maybe she is injured, maybe just resting. From my perch some 250 vertical feet above them I can’t tell, even with the help of my camera’s telephot…

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When Donald Trump was elected president for the second time, we all knew what was coming to the nation’s public lands: The administration would favor extractive uses by eviscerating environmental protections, rolling back regulations, and leasing out as much land as possible while handing out drilling per…

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Since it’s springtime and all I figured I’d give you the chance to help the Land Desk bloom with your suggestions of what I should be covering (or not covering), your news tips, and your ideas for where the Land Desk should go next. Put your thoughts in the suggestion box,…

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Sometimes it feels like there are two parallel Southwestern United States out there.

One is naturally arid, is getting hotter and hotter by the year and is gripped by the most severe drought of the last millennium or more. Its water lifeline, …

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With each passing April day without…

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⛏️ Mining Monitor ⛏️

The Trump administration has formally cancelled the proposed withdrawal of more than 160,000 acres in the Upper Pecos River Watershed from new…

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Earlier this year, the Trump administration cancelled the …

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