"Typically, this would be high water and it hasn't really come up at all," Brackett Pollard said in mid-June. Being a farmer or rancher in the West comes with a list of superlatives this year. He listed them off: driest, hottest, lowest, worst.
"Last year was considerably dry, maybe the driest we'd seen. And now we're looking even drier," Brackett said.
"Our springs are starting to dry up, up on the mountain and everywhere," Wayne added.
The river's entirety, from its headwaters in Rocky Mountain National Park to the U.S.-Mexico border, experienced its driest 12-month period on record from May 2020 to April 2021. Record-low levels of soil moisture diminished this past spring's runoff, locking in water supply shortfalls until at least next winter when all hopes will be for a heavy blanket of snow.
Nearly all of the Upper Colorado River basin is experiencing severe drought or worse. Fishing and recreation closures on some tributaries, like the Dolores, Animas and Yampa Rivers, have started rolling out early as water supplies dwindle.
This dry spell comes with the usual lack of rain and snow, and the relentless sun, Brackett Pollard said. But this summer, a hot wind has also arrived, functioning like a giant hair dryer pointed right at his pastures.
"It's just like sucking the moisture out even more so," Brackett said.
The availability of water limits food for cattle. The Pollards grow hay to supplement their livestock and rely on grazing permits on public land. This summer, with viable ground more limited because of drought, they decided to put cattle on irrigated land that would normally be used to grow hay for later in the season. That's a loss in income they'll have to absorb.
"Now that we're in our second consecutive year of severe drought, we don't have much of a buffer anymore," Brackett said.
The choice for many ranchers is stark: Find more expensive feed or sell the herd.
"I would rather fight it downmarket any day as I would a drought," Wayne said. "I don't like fighting drought. There's nothing you can do about it."
Livestock sale barns across the West are busy, as ranchers look to offload hungry cattle they're unable to feed without incurring even steeper costs. The Pollards plan to sell about half of their cows by this fall and suspect they won't be the only ones doing so.
"You're looking at a serious loss of equity in rural America, in the rural West," Brackett said.
"I think it takes a mental toll," he added. "There have certainly been times where you just can't believe how hot and how dry it is. And then on top of that, it hasn't rained in a month. And then you start to pile the wind on and you feel like you can't get a break."
Lake Powell to hit historic low
About 250 miles downstream from the Pollards' property, the Colorado River becomes a massive reservoir, Lake Powell.
The reservoir fills Glen Canyon, a maze of red rock on the Colorado Plateau. A lack of snowpack and rising temperatures in the Rocky Mountains upstream and relentless demands from agriculture and cities downstream are pushing the reservoir toward its lowest point since it was created in the 1960s.
Sheri Facinelli and her husband, Randy Redford, vacation at the recreation hot spot each year. A stark white bathtub ring marking the reservoir's previous level looms high above the boats that rip across its surface.
The record low level means Glen Canyon Dam is already generating less hydroelectric power. And it forces boaters to be more aware of their surroundings. Geologic features long kept underwater are emerging as the water level declines.
"Places where you've boated for 20 years and gone flying over, all of a sudden there's big islands and rocks," Facinelli said as she veered the boat into a narrow, winding side canyon.
"Plus as the canyons get narrower, then you've got to worry about traffic more. It's more nerve-wracking," she said.
An estimated 4.4 million people visited Lake Powell in 2019, spending more than $420 million in nearby communities. But this year, several high-traffic paved boat ramps no longer reach the water. Current forecasts project that Lake Powell will drop another 45 feet before next summer.
"You've got the same number of visitors using fewer launch ramps," Facinelli said. "So you're going to have longer lines, shorter tempers."
Facinelli and her husband married on a Lake Powell houseboat in 2001, in a "black bathing suit ceremony." The two celebrate their anniversary at the reservoir each September and have seen it rise and fall during the past two decades of variable snowpack.
The two are planning to continue the tradition this September, with another trip to their houseboat. It's unclear right now if the lake will be high enough then to launch their speedboat from the paved ramp at the remote Halls Crossing Marina.
"This lake is all about water for the downstream states. For power generation and water for agriculture," Facinelli said. "Those of us who love this lake for recreation, in the big scheme of things, we're a byproduct or an afterthought."
To conserve and grow, cities target lawns
Farther downstream, in a Las Vegas gated community, the Colorado River's water spurted out of a sprinkler and onto manicured grass. It's the water spilling off the lawn and into the street that catches the eye of Devyn Choltko, water waste investigator.
She pulls up in a car emblazoned with "Water Patrol" in block letters on its side, and yellow flashing lights affixed to the roof.
"There's too much water leaving the property at the moment," Choltko said. "So we're going to get out of the car, throw our lights on and document the spray and flow violation is what we call it."
Choltko works for the Las Vegas Valley Water District. She pulled out her phone to take a video of the offending sprinklers. She zoomed in on the water leaving the property and emptying into a storm drain, narrating what she's seeing. With the video logged as evidence, this gated community will earn an $80 fine for its wasteful watering, Choltko said. Each subsequent fine will double.
Some grass in the area can't get any water at all. This year the Nevada legislature voted to declare so-called "nonfunctional turf" in the Las Vegas area illegal. If a lawn is purely ornamental, like in a traffic circle, on a median, at the entrance of a business park, or lining the landscaping of a gated community, it has to go. Residential lawns, public parks and sports fields are exempt.
"If people aren't walking on it and recreating on it, that's a water use that this community can no longer afford," said Colby Pellegrino, deputy general manager of the Southern Nevada Water Authority.
Pellegrino's agency projects that nearly 4,000 acres of turf in the Las Vegas valley will be ripped out over the next five years.
"We live in a desert," Pellegrino said. "We live in the driest metropolitan area in the United States, less than 4 inches of rain a year. It's probably stuff that never should have been put in to begin with."
Las Vegas already restricts lawns in new developments and pays existing homeowners to replace it in their yards. Unlike the water used for showers, toilets and dishwashers, which is treated and returned to the river, outdoor irrigation is a loss in the eyes of water officials.
"We are in a desert and grass is one of those high-water users," Choltko said.
The Las Vegas area has kept growing during the drought, adding 315,000 people to Clark County, Nev., in the last decade alone. As the river keeps shrinking, demands in southwestern cities and farms have to shrink, too, otherwise the whole system gets drained.
The coming shortage declaration, tied to the level of the nation's largest reservoir, Lake Mead, means another round of steep cuts to water supplies, falling the hardest on Arizona farmers who rely on the Central Arizona Project. If Mead keeps dropping, further reductions are coming to more users in Arizona, Nevada, California and Mexico.
Big questions on the horizon
Near the river's end, Jordan Joaquin, president of the Fort Yuma-Quechan Indian Tribe, stood on its banks, looking out on what used to be the start of the river's expansive delta, now a narrow channel.
"This used to be the riverbed," he said of the sandy outcropping. "Where we're standing today, if this was to be water, this would be all covered with shrubbery, willows and cottonwood."
Not far upstream, water is drawn off to serve customers in Los Angeles and Phoenix and to irrigate crops in California and Arizona. The tribe's agricultural holdings also receive irrigation water from the Colorado River. The region is well-known for its winter greens, keeping salad plates full during the country's coldest months.
"That's why I always tease everybody from back East. I'm like, 'When you're eating a salad in December, thank us, because that's where it's coming from,' " said tribal council member Charles Escalanti.
The tribe's share of the Colorado is one small piece of a centurylong list of legal agreements and court cases. A legal scaffolding was built on the 1922 Colorado River Compact, which initially divided up the river's water. But Joaquin says that over the nearly 100 years people have attempted to harness the river, tribes have been largely excluded from decision-making.
"When tribes were consulted, if that's what they call it, it's at the very end. Decisions were already made," Joaquin said.
The entire watershed is gearing up for a new round of policy negotiations. Guidelines for river management first agreed to in 2007 are due for an update, which has opened the door for those historically marginalized to call for their place in river management.
Just within the past several years, watershed politics have shifted, Escalanti said. Some federal and state leaders have become more open to different perspectives, while tribal stakeholders have felt empowered to claim their seat.
"We want them to listen to us. We want them to see that we're there. We want them to notice that, 'Hey, the Natives are showing up now. They have real issues and they have real concerns and they have strength and they have power,' " Escalanti said.
New federal leaders are likely to be more receptive to tribal concerns on the river as well. Interior Secretary Deb Haaland has said tribal consultation will be a priority across her agency.
The Colorado River basin is home to 29 federally-recognized tribes, of which 10 hold a significant amount of water rights. In crafting the 2019 Drought Contingency Plan, two tribes in Arizona became integral to clinching a deal in that state. Coming up with priorities for a coalition of tribes, with varying economies, water needs and cultural values will be a challenge, Escalanti said. Compare it to a large family, he said.
"If I asked you, 'What does everybody want?' It's not going to be so simple to come up with one answer," Escalanti said.
Because of this year's historic lows in the river's largest reservoirs, perennial questions are being made more urgent. Can the watershed adapt to climate change? How will everyone learn to get by with less? And, Joaquin says, how can river management be made more inclusive?
"Water is very important to us. Water is sacred to us," he said. "So the most meaningful thing is to be part of the negotiation at the table, not the back table, not the side table, but at the table of discussion."
Because the answers to those questions will shape life in the West for everyone who depends on the Colorado River for decades to come.