Flooding the Farm

July 09, 2008

In the previous installment of our tale of fleeing the city for the farm, we ended at the beginning, musing about our journey into the language—and lifestyle—of farming and determining how and where to get started. It’s now monsoon season here in New Mexico, which makes it an appropriate time to delve deeper into understanding our water issues —where we get it, how we get it, and what’s required to ensure that it is available to grow a sustainable farm in a semi-arid area.

Nearly every day my wife Valerie and I find ourselves looking to the gathering storm clouds over the Manzano Mountains to the east of our property in Bosque Farms. We are eager for rains to supplement our other water sources and quench the thirsty land. A brochure by the New Mexico Acequia Association declares El Agua es la Vida: Water is life, especially on a farm.

We have three water sources on our property: irrigation from the Rio Grande River via a traditional Spanish acequia system; an underground well sourced by an aquifer; and finally, rain. Each source could fill volumes with its complexity, but irrigation and rainwater are by far the most involved. For this chapter in our adventure, irrigation will guide the story.

(See the gallery of the irrigation process here).

Our irrigation water travels 260 miles south from the origin of the Rio Grande at the base of Canby Mountain in the San Juan Mountain Range in Colorado. Bosque Farms is part of an irrigation network of ditches (called arroyos) governed by The Middle Rio Grande Conservancy District (MRGCD). Our 2-acre property (1 ¼ irrigable) is part of 70,000 acres for which the MRGCD transports diverted Rio Grande water to nourish agriculture and livestock, as well as keep the local Ditch Witch employed. The Ditch Witch is an effigy based on the tragic legend of a ghost who mourns the children she drowned before killing herself, known in New Mexico as La Llorena, or the crying woman. Her campaign: “Ditches are deadly.” Don’t play around near the arroyos, kids.

The MRGCD has been around for over 75 years building and maintaining the irrigation system, but this is infancy compared to its founding concept, the Spanish acequia system that has been integral to New Mexico agriculture for more than 400 years. Acequias are basically community-operated, engineered canals that carry snow runoff and river water to agricultural areas downstream. They can foster community through tradition and communication, but because they serve properties upstream and downstream, acequias can also trigger resentment and arguments over entitlement issues.

When we arrived, the irrigation canal in our back property was like a mysterious jungle. We arrived in late summer, when foliage -- a euphemism for monstrous eye-high weeds -- is abundant. (If I had known about the Ditch Witch when we first arrived, I may never have set foot near the canal.) How does a state with so little water grow such enormous weeds?! Adding to the mystery of the irrigation canal, none of our immediate neighbors used the irrigation system for their properties. We learned that our property hadn’t been irrigated for at least 12 years, maybe longer.

The first step toward irrigation was to clear our canal turnout of weeds and debris. Lacking a suit of armor, I used a hatchet, hoe, and hellfire to start cleaning the approximately 155 feet of canal we call our own. I took out the weeds, averted giant flying bugs, and dug out at least a couple cases of broken beer bottles. This was also my first “snakes gone wild” encounter: while clearing the turnout, I unintentionally disturbed a four-foot long hibernating bull snake.

After clearing the weeds, the next step was to figure out how to use the acequia to flood our field. We supposedly had water rights with our property, although we never fully understood what that meant. What did we need to do to exercise these rights? The common response from locals: “You need to ask the agency for the proper paperwork and change the ownership."

“What agency?” we would ask.

“The water agency,” was the usual response, followed by an impatient, confused stare.

We soon discovered that in New Mexico you need to phrase your question with the actual answer to get a useful reply. It’s much like asking for directions in rural Ireland. The common response is to “take a left at the pub,” only to find out, after hours of driving in circles and waving several times at the man who originally gave the directions, that he was referring to the only pub he frequents among the twenty pubs around town.

We ended up making progress on our water rights serendipitously while attending an organic farming conference in Albuquerque. We met a fellow Bosque Farms farmer and asked him about water rights and flooding. While he had never pursued his water rights, he was able to tell us that they are collective for the Village of Bosque Farms and regulated by MRGCD. What still remains a mystery is that some folks in our town, including some of our neighbors, have sold their water rights. But how is it possible to sell community water rights (where is that pub)? Apparently, you can file for individual water rights within the community system. At the time of this writing, we still aren’t certain this is true or how to do it, but like many aspects of establishing our farm, learning these things is part of the journey.

We finally chased down the appropriate contact at MRGCD and sent in the paperwork for the change of ownership. In following up, the agent at the MRGCD told us, “We received the information and changed the property into your name, so you’re all set!” But to do what, we asked. “To contact the ditch rider for the watering schedule.” Ditch rider? Any relation to the Ditch Witch?

Days later, while pretending to know what I was doing in the canal area, our luck continued as one of our neighbors, Rowena, pulled up next to me and talked me off the plank. She explained how to open the gate on the canal, build the water pressure so it would overflow into our turnout, and even gave me the name and number of our ditch rider—the MRGCD authority who opens the main canal gate upstream—to get the watering schedule. Her unsolicited guidance was an expression of the tradition and community that defines the acequia system. Rowena and her husband, who is currently serving military duty in the Middle East, are technically our irrigation partners: we share a turnout that spans 3-4 properties, and our section happens to be the opening to the main ditch.

I called the ditch rider and arranged a quick meeting. He gave me a brief overview of the flooding system and advised me on how to build up water pressure. For this system, farmers either have a metal guillotine-like gate with a wheel that pulls the gate up or down to control the flow of water, or they drop in homemade wood planks to do the same. Since we had no metal gate, I decided to use three 2”x12” planks, but the ditch rider talked me into using about seven 2”x”4” boards to withstand the tremendous pressure the water imparts on the wood.

Then he told me the irrigation schedule and drove away. It was Wednesday and we were scheduled to have water for the weekend. With a clean turnout and nothing else, I needed to prepare wood planks, learn about water flow, and complete one other minor task—digging a trench around our 1 ¼ acres of irrigable land so I wouldn’t flood our home or our neighbors’ properties.

I didn’t have a tractor, so I set out with a shovel, pickaxe, and stubborn determination. I spent much of the next few days digging into hard-pan clay and dirt. When completed, I dragged myself to the telephone and called Rowena to notify her that we were going to start flooding.

I have to say that watching the diverted Rio Grande water trickle onto our field and begin flooding was a powerful emotional experience. This water provides the ability to grow life, yet equally has the power to destroy it, as in the story of La Llorena or any number of the floods that devastated the land in years past. The power of water inspires awe, whether from its capacity to take life, or to bestow it.

The excitement and fear anticipating this experience was akin to our original experience of moving to Bosque Farms from San Francisco. We gathered at the flood gate in the back and readied for the ceremony. Only, we were not alone. Several other neighbors spied my frantic activity in preparing the property for flooding and joined in our excitement. We were overwhelmed with the culture and tradition of the acequia—here we were, starting a new, or rather reviving an old, tradition in our own backyard.

With the excitement and emotion came practical issues too: how long should we let the water flow? Would the water reach the entire property? More still, would the hand-dug moat hold!?! Then, like 499 toilets simultaneously flushing in a 500-unit apartment building, the water level fell dramatically and we learned that while the MRGCD has a schedule for releasing the water, our neighborhood has no schedule for when individual properties dam up the water for their own turnouts. So, if people upstream decide to flood their 10-acre property, water levels downstream are too low to flood for hours.

At this time, a curmudgeonly neighbor barreled up on his four-wheeler, complaining about the paltry water levels at his property about ¼ mile downstream. He boasted imaginary water rights over all of us standing there because he was growing “product”—livestock and alfalfa—while we were merely watering our “weedpatches.” Yet another undertow in the battle over water is a fight over what’s more important: lawns, farms, or livestock. As the curmudgeon puttered away, our neighbors quickly filled us in that he is the former village fire chief, and owns 23 acres around town. This somewhat explained his sense of entitlement, but still, he is downstream….

Approximately six hours later we began to flood again (unfortunately, Curmudgeon had to wait yet another few hours for us to finish flooding). Our neighborly crowd had gone home for the evening, but again we were awash in excitement. An hour later with both our field and Rowena’s field covered in replenishing water, Valerie and I celebrated with a well-deserved beer at the Chama River Brewing Company in Albuquerque. Beer never tasted so good as when it came after such a meaningful accomplishment.

We’ve flooded our back field now every other week for 2-3 months. The routine has taken hold although the experience remains emotional. What was once a singular feeling of awe is now often accompanied by sulking and anger. The sulking starts when I open the gates and nary but a trickle flows into the canal. The anger takes over when I see the same trickle five hours later. I have tried flooding at night and in the early hours and still have the water flow problem—there always seems to be someone flooding upstream. But the water remains a gift, one that may not keep giving should the MRGCD restrict irrigation, a very real possibility with many water districts around the country and the world facing imminent water shortages.

After a few irrigation floods, new weeds replaced bare dirt on our property, providing much-needed nutrients to our cover crop and aerating the hard clay soil with their roots. But that is a story for another article. Dirt remains a question, while water is the answer for now and the future of our sustainability. Stay tuned to learn how we plan to use the sparse rainfall of our alpine desert area to supplement our irrigation system.

Photo by Valerie Ashe