This Is Life in America’s Water-Inequality Capital. It Might Be About to Change

The Navajo Nation has first rights to the water around it, yet pays the most and gets the least. Things might be changing.

This project was supported by funding from the Center for Contemporary Documentation

In the Navajo Nation—a sweeping landscape of red-rock canyons and desert that takes in the Four Corners—water is not taken for granted. Here, more than 1 in 3 Diné, as Navajo people call themselves, must haul water to their homes, often across long distances. The Diné use the least amount of water per person of anyone in the U.S., and pay the most.

Eighty miles away, residents of Utah’s Washington County rely on essentially the same water supply, yet pay less for that water than almost anyone else in the U.S. and, until recently, consumed the most. The contrast reflects not only inequities of power and access. It also carries a warning that reaches beyond two arid communities. A megadrought has desiccated the American West, which is drier than it has been in 1,200 years. On June 22, the planet experienced its hottest day in recorded history, breaking a record set one day earlier. Dust clouds churn on the horizon. Much of the world may be headed this way.

The problem, as old as the land itself, was predicted. The hydrology of the Colorado River Basin is highly variable, a fact that was not fully appreciated (or was flatly ignored) by those who drafted the foundational policy that governs water use in much of the West—the 1922 Colorado River Compact. Despite warnings from experts, the compact based the amount of water to be divided among its signatories on a brief period that proved to be one of the wettest in history. This flaw was compounded by tremendous population growth, Indigenous dispossession, competing values, procrastination, and deadlocked disputes over how water is used.

Now the federal government is drafting a new plan, one that anticipates a drier future. Two countries, seven states, 30 Tribes, cities from Denver to San Diego, and local water managers are hashing out the Post-2026 Operational Guidelines, which when finalized next year promise to set the world’s most litigated river system on a sustainable path. It would also include significant tribal input, meant to address structural inequities in a water supply divided along racial lines. Indigenous communities, whose relationship with the federal government has been largely defined by broken promises, remain deeply skeptical.

On paper, the Navajo Nation is drenched in water. Under the “first in line, first in right” principle that defines water use in the West, the Diné have first dibs on the same declining supply that serves Washington County, which has roughly as many people on one-tenth the land: the Colorado River, its tributaries, and two underlying aquifers. Yet little of it reaches them. In 2023, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled, in Arizona v. Navajo Nation, that the federal government has no obligation to provide water to the Navajo Nation. But by the time of the ruling, a crucial exercise of “first rights” was already in peril.

The Navajo-Gallup Water Supply Project aims to deliver treated water from the San Juan River to 240,000 people via 300 miles of pipes. Conceived in the 1960s and begun in 2009, the $2.1 billion project must be completed by Dec. 31 or the Navajo Nation loses its right to that water. It’s far from done. Its fate resides in U.S. House Bill 3977, which would extend the deadline to 2029 and appropriate $689.45 million to finish the job.

Washington County has a $2 billion water project of its own—one of the most ambitious and contentious in U.S. history. The Lake Powell Pipeline would involve 13 pumping stations pushing water up 2,000 ft. across 140 miles. The Washington County Water Conservancy District (locally known as the District) calls the project critical to a population that demographers predict may double by midcentury.

Here is a place drenched not on paper, but in fact. Thousands of swimming pools glitter like diamonds in a desert bounded by green rectangles of Kentucky bluegrass. A local economy embracing tourism promotes the comforts of an oasis: shady tree canopies, ornamental fountains, manicured landscaping, and a few miles outside St. George, a new $1 billion golf resort—the county’s 17th. News outlets in the 2010s put daily water consumption at over 300 gallons per person. Today, the District claims 153 gallons. Either figure towers over the 5 gallons used daily by the Diné, who must drive miles over rough roads to collect it.

“Water is life,” Monument Valley resident Tom Holiday says, waiting for the 300-gallon tank in the back of his truck to fill. “People in the cities take it for granted and water their plants and grass. Here it’s precious. We think of water as a deity.”

In places where water is scarce, living as if it were plentiful is no longer in fashion. The Lake Powell Pipeline is derided as a literal pipe dream by the conservation groups, Tribes, and states that have delayed its approval. Under general manager Zach Renstrom, the District pivoted to water conservation, committing to a 20-year plan that will require vast sums of federal and state dollars, plus local fees, to maximize existing supplies; create a $1 billion Regional Reuse System; and add 60 more miles to 275 miles of pipeline and 18 more wells, some up to a mile deep, to the 30 already in use. “We are wringing every last drop out of this lemon,” says Brock Belnap, the District’s associate general manager. It’s impressive what a community can achieve when it’s empowered by both policy and money.

Washington County isn’t the cause of the Navajo -Nation’s thirst. The water gap is an enduring legacy of manifest destiny; the infrastructure, and legislation, that came with it still largely define how water is used. In the American West, irrigated agriculture uses a whopping 86% of fresh water consumed—the largest share by far going to animal-forage crops like alfalfa. Privately, a St. George resident told me, “Why should I compromise the things that bring me enjoyment when alfalfa is still being grown? I hate to say that out loud, but that’s the reality.” On the other hand, since 2002, water–strapped Southern Nevada, including Las Vegas, cut its use by 26% while adding 750,000 people—proof that measures like the Post-2026 Operational Guidelines really matter.

Moving between the two communities for a year, I found residents of Washington County largely unaware of the Diné plight, and earnest in their dismay. For their part, the Diné expressed neither surprise at how much water people in Washington County consumed, nor anger at the benefits that water brought. They just ask for the same opportunity. 

Leaning against his wooden corral, framed by the iconic pinnacles of Monument Valley, rancher Billie Charlie put it succinctly: “We must prioritize humans, not corporations. Prioritize balance.” 

Eli Neztsosie

On a brutally hot day, Eli Neztsosie fills his family’s cattle troughs, and gets a drink for himself, from his homemade water truck. The hardships of daily life have led many Diné to move off reservation and into cities with modern conveniences and more opportunity. “The way I see my remote way of living is not a luxury—it’s a necessity,” Neztsosie says.

Linda Jackson, Monument Valley

“My kids would say, ‘Mom, did we ever have running water?’” Linda Jackson says. “And I would say, ‘Kids, we did all the running.’” The average American uses 16 gal. to bathe each day. For Jackson, a whole shower takes 2½ gal., so in the bathroom built separate from her house, she just washes her hair.

Effie Yazzie

According to the nonprofit DigDeep, the Diné are 67 times as likely to lack running water as the average American, and spend 71 times as much for what they do get. Yazzie can opt to fill the 300-gallon truck-bed tank either in Goulding, 45 rough minutes away, where lines often stretch three hours, or fill from natural springs in the area, and risk contamination from livestock and uranium. The readiest access comes during the summer monsoon months, when water sometimes collects in shady canyon recesses.

Nolan Stevens, Cameron, Ariz.

“One of the reasons I left is because there’s no economy here, no jobs. As a result, my kids grew up off the rez and they lost some of their identity. Down here, you see a lot of people who’ve given up, given up hope. They leave. So, I figured I should do something, and agriculture might be the way–to grow food for my community.”

Use It, or Lose It

“We need to learn how to thrive with half the water, two generations down the line,” says sixth-generation farmer Randall Holt. Holt Farms LLC, one of the area’s largest employers, relies almost entirely on groundwater in an arid valley that has seen some of the nation’s worst aquifer depletion. In collaboration with the State of Utah, the Holts are trialing a voluntary approach to water use that challenges the “use it or lose it” principle that defines Western water rights—trading consumption for flexibility in a cooperative effort to bring the system back into balance. In the Colorado River Basin, perhaps the most contentious debate centers on the question of whether agriculture should be allowed to use so much water.

Black Desert Resort

With 17 golf courses within a half hour’s drive of St. George, the contrast of green with the cracked red desert is a stunning sight. The District estimates that one in 12 gallons of its water goes to keeping all of this grass alive, which contributes to the county’s ranking as one of the thirstiest place in America. The love of grass and greenery in Mormon Country is both cultural and emotional. The prophecy of Isaiah 35:1, “the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose,” has long guided the Latter Day Saints in their efforts beginning in 1847 to replumb many of Utah’s rivers to serve their communities.

—With additional reporting by Avery MacLear