GOVERNMENT
Sprouts of wrath Rural farmers feel the real effects of drought. The state says it’s their fault
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BY MONICA D. SPENCER
Anderson knows it’s easy to blame rapid growth for the changing landscape, where beige subdivisions replaced flourishing crops in the delicate desert landscape. “You can’t stop it,” he said. “You just have to go with it and live with it.” But for decades, farmers have worked around wavering drought conditions, which have only worsened in the last two decades. State farm The formalities of the Arizona legislature’s opening session felt worlds away from the earthiness of Maricopa’s surviving farms — just 35 miles away. State representatives, senators, guests and media gathered inside the dimly lit, wood-paneled House floor one crisp, dry afternoon last month. Invocations, anthems and guest speeches all led up to the governor’s State of the State address. Gov. Katie Hobbs dedicated much of her nearly 50-minute speech to her commitment to protecting Arizona’s groundwater, saying updating these laws is a way to “empower rural Arizonans” in their water use. A bit condescending for a group that, arguably, is the only one to feel the real effects of the state’s water shortage day-to-day. Hobbs said Arizona’s water-use laws are exploited to grow endless acres of alfalfa and promised to strike an agreement with neighboring states to conserve enough water for 9 million homes. At the expense of farmers, largely in Pinal County. Cameras clicked and flashed, and state Democrats stood in near endless ovation, while farmers measured their water through metered wells. My enemy, alfalfa Pinal County farmers have relied on alfalfa as a staple crop for decades — and for good reason. “It’s just so productive here,” Hartman said. “It grows nine to 10 months out of the year, and we have some of the highest yields.” The hot days and cool nights allow plants to grow and recover for up to 10 cuttings per year, while the arid climate helps trimmings cure in as few as three days, according to Clint Jones, farm manager for University of Arizona’s Maricopa Agricultural Center.
EVEN DURING CHILLY JANUARY AFTERNOONS, tumbleweeds roll across the Sonoran Desert, landing just shy of the metal gate marking Oliver Anderson’s farm. Each morning, the 94-year-old wakes up and helps his wife at home before working his farm at Murphy and Farrell Roads. There, weathered buildings and small crops stand firm against encroaching development. Anderson stoops down to scoop up a handful of copper-tinged dirt in a fallow field — thanks to fluctuating crop prices, a lingering drought and more proposed water restrictions from the state. Just a couple of miles away, Bryan Hartman knows those struggles all too well. The fourth-generation Maricopa farmer and president of the Maricopa-Stanfield Irrigation and Drainage District cites water access as the primary reason for barren fields on his and other local farms. “Most farms in our district now, we’re only farming maybe 40 to 50%,” Hartman said. “There’s just not enough water to go around.” It’s not a silent struggle — state leaders duly acknowledge Arizona’s water crisis as the parched Colorado River continues to languish. They’re burdened with parrying drought and climate change. The only problem? In their eyes, farmers like Anderson and Hartman aren’t the victims in this story — they’re to blame. Signs of the times When Anderson moved to this dusty little community 70 years ago, houses were mere dots in the desert and heavily irrigated crops grew as far as the eye could see. Fields of alfalfa, cotton, small grains and pecan trees blanketed areas now turned into fields of single-family homes. “We were pretty rural, that’s all there is to it,” he told InMaricopa . “At the time, everything in this area was farmland. We had no paved roads, no phone service.”
“Most farms in our district now, we’re only farming maybe 40 to 50%. There’s just not enough water to go around.” BRYAN HARTMAN
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InMaricopa.com | February 2024
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