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By Root 966 0

like settling water disputes with courts rather than missiles, and exporting food from the places that have water to the places that don’t: If any of these model forecasts are correct, we’re going to need it. Humans currently withdraw about 3.8 trillion cubic meters of water annually, and are projected to require more than six trillion in the next fifty years. To serve India’s expected 2050 population of 1.6 billion, even with improved water efficiency, will require a near-tripling of its water supply. Farmers, energy utilities, and municipalities are all in competition for water. Put it all together and the numbers don’t add up. Something will have to give.

The survival of California’s thirsty dry cities—like Los Angeles and San Diego—seems all but guaranteed. Their populations and economies are growing briskly. Despite annual sales of over USD $30 billion, California agriculture still contributes less than 3% to the state’s economy—and cities use far less water than irrigated farms. Even with climate changes and a projected 2050 population of about 20 million, there will still be ample water for Angelenos and San Diegans to drink and shower and cook. Ample water for California farmers, however, is far less assured.

Forced to choose, cities will trump agriculture. Farmers will either lose or sell their historic water rights. Croplands will return to desert. The first signs of an urban takeover have already begun: After years of lawsuits, farmers of California’s Imperial Valley were forced to sell two hundred thousand acre-feet of their yearly Colorado River water allocation to San Diego in 2003. That fallowed twenty thousand acres of farmland. By early 2009 the Metropolitan Water District—supplier of twenty-six cities throughout Southern California—was trying to buy seven hundred thousand acre-feet more.272

Cities versus farmers: the real Water Wars.

PART TWO

THE PULL

CHAPTER 5

Two Weddings and a Computer Model

My adoptive groomsman, whom I’d just met the night before, cracked open the church door and peeked anxiously out at the parking lot. It was a sorry mess of black asphalt, lingering slush, and streaming water. Some early guests were sitting in their cars, peering through their headlights for a dry way into the church. It was early afternoon but very dark. I’d expected dim—we were, after all, just three hundred miles shy of the Arctic Circle in the middle of winter—but not this. The expected reflective blanket of fluffy white snow was gone. My dress socks were wet and cold. We’d strategically timed our wedding day for the prettiest, whitest, most winter-wonderland month of the year. But instead, in the middle of February, some five hours north of Helsinki, a thousand miles northeast of London, and almost twenty degrees of latitude north of Toronto—there was only a steady downpour of rain.

More precisely it was our first wedding day, taking place across the Atlantic for my new European family and friends. Our second wedding day—for American families and friends—was a month later in the sunny desert resort of Palm Springs, California. Mid-March is peak tourist season in Palm Springs, with infallible blue skies and flawless temperatures hovering in the 70s. We had booked all outdoor venues for the day’s events. Our tremulous queries about tents and patio heaters—just in case of a weird-weather repeat—were politely but firmly dismissed. The weather here is always perfect in March, we were told. That’s why people pay twice as much to come then.

You know what happened next. A line of fat squalls sprayed cold rain onto our guests’ unprotected heads. By the time the lasagna came out, the temperature had plunged fifteen degrees. We did manage to scrounge up four patio heaters somehow, around which the jacketless masses could huddle. We were shocked and upset—again—by freaky weather. But just like our sub-Arctic celebration, the crowd’s good spirits soon prevailed. Both ceremonies went on as planned. Cakes were cut, dances were danced, and good times were had by all.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised. While