by Bruce Pokarney
Driving south on U.S. Highway 97, at Modoc Point, not far past Chiloquin, you get a first glimpse of Upper Klamath Lake. The remarkably high water level belies the fact that Klamath County is suffering from one of its worst droughts in fifty years, if not longer. Then you remember there's an explanation for all that water in the lake. The Upper Klamath is out of bounds to area agriculture downstream. The very lifeline to 1,400 productive farms and ranches covering some 180,000 acres has been shut off because of a decision by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation in early April to save the water for endangered fish. It's a decision that has turned ripples of impact into waves of crises. In the words of one local old timer, the ag community so dependent on the Klamath Project, is up a dry creek without a paddle.
Each farmer and rancher has a story to tell. Each story is a bit different. But all have a common theme of hardship. The following is a representation of a summer's tragic tale through the words and observations of nine Klamath Basin families a cross-section of a community dealing in crisis.
White-bearded and extremely affable, Alan Cosand greets you with a warm handshake and a wide smile. It's hard to see his suffering at first glance. But to hear his words as he offers a tour of his "agricultural neighborhood" outside of Merrill, you begin to appreciate what is happening to the small family farmer in the Basin.
"For my wife and I, our farm is part of our bank account," says Cosand as he surveys the rapidly browning pasture land on his 80 acre operation. "The farm gave us a good environment to raise our children. It also was to supplement my retirement funds. A third of our retirement is now gone because the farm isn't bringing anything in."
Cosand's first cutting of hay normally brings in 65 tons of prime alfalfa. This year, he got only 10 tons. He has sold off his cattle 25 cows with young calves at their side because he no longer has the water to sustain them. This was a genetic line of livestock he had taken care of for nearly 30 years.
"Of course, my granddaughters had all the cows named. It's kind of tough when the animals were all members of the family."
Cosand's daughter-in-law had been a stay-at-home mom for her three daughters. With no water to produce a meaningful crop of alfalfa, she has had to go back to work at Klamath Community College.
"She has been a full-time momma and a part-time farmer," says Alan Cosand. "Now she's a full-time worker, a part-time momma, and a part-time farmer. Because of the water situation, her family just doesn't have the income to meet financial obligations."
Cosand stands in front of a dry drainage ditch that normally provides some of the much needed irrigation for him and his neighbors. It's the first time in his lifetime that it is bone dry. There are still some green fields in the distance, but they come at the cost of a well.
"I don't even have enough money for the permit, let alone enough to drill a well," he says.
Cosand takes you past a working well that has always served a single family. It is now supplying water for five farms. Neighbors need to help neighbors so that agriculture can survive at least one more year.
He also takes you past a hay shed that normally is stacked full two cubes high. Now it is just one-third full stacked one cube high.
"If it would do any good, we could all get together and have a cryfest," he says.
Under normal circumstances this time of year, the 270-acre Beasly farm is busy with irrigation sprinklers providing a lush pasture for sheep as well as the familiar green alfalfa hay so prevalent in the Klamath Basin. This year is not normal. The drainage ditch that cuts through the property is nothing but a large, dry rut. Just like his old friend and neighbor Alan Cosand, Bill Beasly is a modest-sized operator who doesn't have the financial resources to weather a storm that brings no rain.
"This year, with no water, I have nothing," he says. "With what moisture we had in the spring, I cut 60 tons of hay when I usually would cut close to 300 tons."
When the subject turns from crop to livestock, Beasly and his wife Shirley hint of more emotion.
"I'm thinking about calling the guy in Albany to see if I can sell them," says Bill, whose grandfather homesteaded the property in 1912 well before the Project. "I'm getting out of the sheep business unless I get the water back."
The Beasly's bought sheep nearly 30 years ago. Every sheep on the property now was born and raised right there.
"I've been on this place 40 years, and another year like this and I'm going to lose it," says Beasly the fifth generation of his family to work that piece of land. "I've got drain ditches down there that I've never seen dry before in all my 59 years."
A well just isn't an option to the Beasly's even if it could be approved and drilled in a matter of days which, of course, is not possible.
"I don't have the $100,000 to put into a well if the water is even there. You don't know where the water is at. It's a gamble."
You can't go gambling if you don't have the money to gamble in the first place.
Just down the road from the Beasly's, outside of Merrill, is Bob Moore's place. A similar story to his neighbors, he has sold off the cattle and only recovered 150 tons of hay in a first cutting that usually brings 800 tons.
"I've worked for the last 20 years to build up a clientele that I can sell to every year," says Moore. "I'm probably going to lose that this year and I'll have to start all over again. You can't blame the customers. They have to go someplace else to get a guaranteed supply of hay."
Moore has the luxury if that's what you want to call it of pumping some water out of the Lost River, which runs next to his property. But it costs $127 a day to run the pump with diesel, which will negate any profits he may see this year.
Bob Moore is also the fire chief of the local rural district. He knows the dry area is one spark away from yet another disaster in the Basin.
"It's going to happen these mountains are dry and we don't have the water in the canals this year to help put out the fires," says Moore.
Another product of the water shutoff is becoming very apparent in the browning, unplanted or dying fields weeds. It's not just the fields that are of concern. Weeds are growing in the canals.
"It will be a big problem next year if they turn the water on in the canals," says Moore. "Just the logistics of trying to clear the weeds out so the water can come down through the canals is a big concern. Not only that, a lot of weed seed will come with the water that will be pumped into the fields. It could take years to get rid of those weeds."
In an abnormal year, Bob Moore is doing something he always does growing some grain. He won't be harvesting it and it won't amount to much. But it will provide some food for geese in the area, and that's all right with Bob. Neighbors call him a true environmentalist. He may be losing money and customers, but he will still provide food for wildlife.
Steve Kandra is one of the bigger operators in the Basin with roughly 500 acres on the Oregon side and another 500 on the California side of the border. Half of the acreage is usually in hay, the other half split between cereal crops and row crops like potatoes or onions. This year, Kandra stands in a sparse field of unrecognizable wheat less than a foot tall and already heading. It's nothing more than a cover crop this year something to keep the soil from blowing away in this wind-swept country.
What water he has this summer on the California side is through what he calls horse trading with a neighbor, who has a productive well. On the Oregon side, there is no water, period.
"Right now we would be haying day and night, irrigating like crazy," says Kandra. "Now it's just Steve and his wife. I've got 28 wheel lines and I'll be running only six of them. I've got systems set up where I am recovering all the drainage water we are getting out of the system and reusing it. We are doing whatever we can to get by."
Survival is the key word for 2001. It's already too late for this summer. Kandra has restructured his debt and has eaten away at his operation's equity. He's not spending much money this year.
"We don't buy fertilizers. We don't buy pesticides. We don't buy fuel. The good news is I have the capabilities of doing that this year. In other words, I have some accumulated equity. But I'm using it up. This water situation has to be fixed this year. You just never know what's going to happen tomorrow."
Virtually all farms in the Klamath Basin are what Kandra calls family farms, not corporate farming. He says there will be a tremendous number of bankruptcies because of lack of water. He says the entire socioeconomic structure of the community is going to change.
With the ability to withstand such a difficult and trying year, is Kandra one of the lucky ones?
"I'm beginning to think the lucky ones are those who were displaced last year," says Kandra. "Those are the people that have gone on with their lives. I'm just foolish and stubborn enough to think we are going to resolve these issues."
Kandra's elderly mother depends on what the farm can provide.
"She needs care. This farm takes care of her. This farm goes away, she becomes a ward of the state. I can tell that story a hundred times. You go out across this valley and find a bunch of widows of war veterans. The farm is what sustains and takes care of them. The value of their farm has basically gone to zero. Who is going to take care of these people?"
With so much to overcome, Kandra has the ultimate solution.
"You cannot pour enough dollars of aid and welfare into this valley. You give us water and all those problems go away."
"If society wants to save the wildlife, then all of society should pay for it not just the resource based industries," says Ross Fleming in the living room of his parents, Dale and Jan. Ross is taking a short break from another busy day of coping with the April decision by the Bureau of Reclamation. Like most farm families, the Flemings are gracious and hospitable to visitors. But today, they don't even try to hide their frustration.
"We don't need sympathy or empathy, we need water," says Jan.
The Flemings saw the possibility last fall of the water being shut off. They had the resources to dig three wells to sustain their potato, hay, and grain crops. There is more thirsty land on their farm than water to take care of it.
"People tell me we are sure lucky to have a well," says Ross. "I've got to act lucky and feel lucky. But we paid for that luck and it ain't going to pay back. It cost us $100,000 and we ain't going to get it back even if we had full crops."
The drought permit for the wells assures the Flemings of using them only this year, although they have applied for a permanent status.
The Flemings also were proactive in planting a cover crop early this spring. A federal program pays farmers in the Basin to do just that in order to reduce erosion. However, the Flemings don't qualify since they planted before the program was established. By doing the right thing early, they are out of luck.
There is also an option for farmers to be retrained into other professions.
"Dale is 69 years old," says wife Jan. "Now what are they going to retrain Dale to do? When they told us in April there would be no water, they took away our retirement. Because at that point, our land was devalued from $2000 an acre to $28 an acre."
Meanwhile, Ross Fleming is ready to go back outside. He puts on his baseball cap the one that has an outline of a fish in a circle with a diagonal line slashing through it. Underneath are the words "Farmers First". Even the uninformed can see that the ag community believes it should be at the front of the line for water.
A community leader in the town of Merrill, Tracey Liskey is seeing everything dry up before his eyes not just the crops.
"The urban public doesn't have any idea the effect this decision has on our businesses down here," says Liskey. "Basin Fertilizer is doing 20% of normal. Our tractor dealerships are getting hammered. Employees have seen the light and moved out of town. If we keep our employees, we keep the community. They are still going to shop, they are still going to keep the stores busy."
Liskey is not only referring to the born-and-raised-in Merrill population, but the migrant workers who left almost immediately when they heard the April decision. They knew there would be little, if any, work available.
"The announcement came out on a Friday. In Merrill, there were 16 empty houses by Monday."
Liskey is concerned about the loss of critical mass in the Basin. Whatever farming is left in the area may be too little to justify a number of ag-related businesses. In a catch-22 situation, a loss of supporting businesses would, in turn, result in fewer farms.
"The ripples just run through this country," says Liskey. "These are just the first and second ripples. They haven't even started to hit the big pond."
Liskey is another of the more fortunate and diversified producers in the Basin. But he is not insulated from what is happening. His normal 1200 acres of grain are now down to just 120 acres. He has sold off much of his cattle herd. The usual optimism of the community has been zapped.
What do farmers do if they can't farm anymore in the Basin?
"That's a good question. Myself, I have other ways to go. But for a lot of people, what do they do? For those in their 60s and 70s, the farm is their retirement. Land values have just dropped by two-thirds or more. For a lot of older widows in the area, the rental income from the farm land is how they live. They don't have it now."
Liskey says building more water storage capability would be a logical long-term solution. But he's been hearing officials talk about that idea for more than a decade with no action. The drought conditions have brought the entire issue back into focus.
"Mother nature is something we deal with all the time," says Liskey. "It's government policy that just kills us."
For five years, potato prices have been low. Overproduction is a major reason. Now, finally, prices are rebounding to respectable levels. This should be the year the Klamath Basin and all its potato production makes a healthy profit. But without enough water, there won't be enough potatoes.
"We could have made some money this year," says Dan Chin of Wong Potatoes. "Without any potatoes in the ground, it's going to be tough."
Last year, the Basin had 15,000 acres of fresh potatoes. This year, at most, there will be only 3,000. It was just a decade ago there were 28,000 acres of potato production. The number of potato sheds has shrunk from 28 to 10. If the water situation doesn't change next year, that number may be down to three or four.
"You take an average of 40 people in each shed out of the work force, it's significant," says Chin.
But what hurts most are all the longtime customers of Wong Potatoes that may go elsewhere, many of whom have been with the company since Chin's grandfather started the business in 1948. Loyalty can only go so far. The customers need potatoes.
"Where are the customers going to go?", asks Chin. "Are they going to come back next year when we maybe have potatoes? Do we lose market share? Is there someone else out there who will capture and keep those markets?"
Those are questions that haunt Chin and other potato producers in the area. Chin has already been looking to source quality potatoes from other Northwest growing regions like Hermiston and Moses Lake. He figures if he can fill the orders of his customers even if some of the spuds are not from Klamath that might buy him one more year. But then what?
"We've maintained customers in earlier drought years, but we never had a complete water cutoff like this year," says Chin. "It's a big hurt. You live in this country and you think it's a free country, but the way we are being treated, it's doesn't feel like it."
Chin and others always thought they would get some allocation of water from Upper Klamath Lake. Maybe the percentage wouldn't be high, but it would be enough for some production. Now he hopes he has enough business to keep his 40-plus employees on the payroll. With a second daughter ready for college, he wonders how that might be possible. It's a story that echoes throughout the Basin.
The community has changed in a couple of ways, according to Chin. On the positive side, the ag community has banded together to fight for its existence. On the negative side the growing chasm between the haves and have-nots, those with access to well water and those without. An emergency state allocation of $2 million for new wells has good intentions, but can only provide potential relief to a few.
"The battle of where we put those wells may be tearing us a little bit apart because it will help only a small percentage of people," says Chin. "Still, how can we as farmers turn down anyone who is trying to help us?"
One of Dan Chin's longtime employees, Judy Rutledge, faces a triple whammy because of the Endangered Species Act. Her husband was a long time Weyerhauser worker who was layed off for good last October ultimately because of timber harvest cutbacks brought on by the Northern Spotted Owl. Judy's fate working in the office at Wong Potatoes now is in jeopardy because of endangered fish. The Rutledges also own and operate a small 12-acre farm that was a dream of theirs when they bought it 21 years ago.
"My husband is being retrained at age 56 to work in social services, perhaps as a parole officer," says Judy. "I've worked for Wong Potatoes for 12 years. I may keep my job or it may become a part-time job. But now that I'm the primary wage earner for our household, we can't make it on a part-time job."
The farm is not large enough to support the family. But it's too large to sell at this point with no water available to feed what has been a productive pasture. Things are drying up and the livestock are thirsty. Judy's friends in town are feeling the impact too.
"An office supply dealership in town is feeling it because people aren't buying," she says. "We aren't buying here at the potato shed and our vendors are feeling it too. People are buying only absolutely necessary things. We have fencing on the farm that needs replaced. We can't do that. Our barn needs repair. We can't do that. So that's going to affect other people who sell us those materials."
Judy Rutledge wells up in tears when asked about her mood and emotions.
"Anger, frustration, sadness but hopelessness? No. I've never been without hope. Without hope, we die. And we can't do that. So you just keep trying, do what you can, and make the best of it."
Rod Blackman thinks he has found at least a partial explanation to the decisions being made about water and agriculture in the Basin.
"People are getting further removed from the farm," says the president of the Klamath Potato Growers Association. "Two or three generations ago, almost everyone was from a farm. With that disconnect comes a lack of understanding of how things work out here."
Potatoes have been raised on Blackman property for the past 80 years, until now. Although most of what they grow has been on rental ground, you could always count on spuds in the ground near the home. But no water means no potatoes. No rain in the high desert means a dependence on water from Upper Klamath Lake. With the spigot turned off to irrigators, the Blackmans are seriously looking at drilling a well.
"We've been told this is not a real good area to sink one," says wife Ginny. "So here we sit not knowing whether we should sink $100,000 into a well. If we get it drilled and get our drought permit, it will be too late to do much good this year. If we do go ahead, I pray to God we hit a jackpot well so we can be able to take care of our own place and a couple of the neighbors."
Rod and Ginny know that perception is not always reality. A motorist traveling down Highway 39 will see irrigating sprinklers at work. They will see fields of green. That's because of well water. See the brown dusty fields? Those rely on the lake.
Because they don't have a drop of water on their 900 acres, they have had to rent land as far as 40 miles away a safe haven from the Klamath Project but still costly because of transportation issues. But the Blackmans need to raise the potatoes to fulfill contracts that otherwise would be lost probably forever. Breaking even sounds awfully good to them this year.
Ginny Blackman was born and raised on a family farm in Kansas. Rod's grandfather came to Oregon in 1920 to escape the dust bowl of Oklahoma. The promise of the Klamath Project water now and in the future was a powerful pull. Now things are different.
"I can remember as a little girl and when I first married Rod 22 years ago," says Ginny. "Farming was fun. Now it isn't fun. A lot of people aren't going to make it. I know a lot of families living on credit cards right now and they don't know how they are going to pay the bill. We're not at that stage yet, I hope we don't get there. But this isn't fun anymore."
Ginny keeps busy, but in a different manner. She can't ever remember attending so many meetings. They are all important. Her involvement with the Oregon Farm Bureau has prompted her to become interested in spreading the word of what is going on in the Basin. Perhaps a trip to Washington D.C. to convince lawmakers that the ESA needs to be amended.
"If I can get there and tell them how bad this has hit us, that some of us are going to be gone next year " she says. "The story needs to be told. I really believe people would be sympathetic if they knew the story of what is happening to us."
Klamath County Extension Agent Ron Hathaway says the browning of the Basin is like a load of hay tipping over. The first half of the load tips over slowly. The second half goes fast. Klamath farmers and ranchers are clearly in the second half.
"We are a community in crisis," he says. "The impact becomes more evident every day."
The story is being told from the front page of the New York Times to part of a Time Magazine cover story. These modest people of the land never wanted to be in the spotlight. But they believe their tale needs to be heard loud and clear. For if it can happen in Klamath this year, it could very well happen in other agricultural communities in the years to come.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
NOTE: In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. section 107, any copyrighted
material herein is distributed without profit or payment to those who have
expressed a prior interest in receiving this information for
non-profit
research and educational purposes only. For more information go to:
http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/17/107.shtml
Source: http://oda.state.or.us/Information/AQ/AQSummer2001/index.html