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August 1995
The Trouble With Dams
Some 100,000 dams regulate America's rivers and creeks,
often at the expense of ecosystems--and of taxpayers, who are subsidizing
handouts to a large number of farmers, floodplain occupants,
hydro-electricity users, and river-transportation interests
by Robert S. Devine
SEVERAL years ago I spent a spring day looking around Lower Granite Dam, a
concrete behemoth that stifles the Snake River as it winds through hilly
farm country in southeastern Washington. A burly workhorse, Lower Granite
bears little resemblance to graceful Hoover Dam and the other poster boys
of the realm of dams.
The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers finished Lower Granite in 1975, making it
one of the last monumental water projects completed in the United States.
By 1980, after a fifty-year flurry of construction, the golden age of dam
building was coming to an end, and with it most of society's interest in
dams. But the impact of those dams didn't end in 1980: every day we live
with their effects, both beneficial and destructive.
When I looked upriver from Lower Granite, I saw a broad expanse of water
extending up the canyon and out of sight. That water is the Snake River,
of course, but it's also Lower Granite Lake. The Corps gave it that name
after Lower Granite turned the thirty-three-mile stretch of river between
itself and Lewiston, Idaho, into a reservoir. The new name conveys reality
better than the old one; the nearly still water resembles a lake more
closely than it does a river.
When I looked downriver, I saw another wide, sluggish body of water. This
Snake River reservoir also has another name: Lake Bryan. Lake Bryan
stretches thirty-seven river miles west to the back of Little Goose Dam.
Beyond Little Goose two more dams make two more lakes out of the final
seventy miles of the Snake, down to its meeting with the mighty Columbia
River. At this confluence the Columbia, too, bears a second name: Lake
Wallula. Of the 600 miles of the Columbia between the dam nearest the
ocean and the Canadian border, only forty-seven miles have not been
transformed by dams from healthy river ecosystems to impoverished
reservoirs.
The extensive damming of the lower Snake and the Columbia is not
exceptional. According to Arthur Walz, the chief of the Corps's
Geotechnical and Materials Branch, slightly more than 100,000 dams
regulate American rivers and creeks. Some 5,500 are more than fifty feet
high. Nationwide, reservoirs have inundated an area equivalent to New
Hampshire and Vermont combined. Of the major rivers in the Lower Forty
eight states ("major" meaning those more than 600 miles in length), only
the Yellowstone still flows freely. "It's hard to find a river without a
dam or one that hasn't been channelized," says Arthur Benke, a freshwater
ecologist at the University of Alabama who has conducted widely cited
research on the status of the nation's rivers. America is close to being
the most dammed nation on earth, second only to China.
Being the world leader in dams was a point of pride during the go-go years
of dam building. Dams epitomized progress, Yankee ingenuity, and
humankind's impending triumph over nature. According to a children's book
from the 1960s, we need dams to make rivers "behave." A 1965 Bureau of
Reclamation booklet summed up the prevailing philosophy: "Man serves God.
But Nature serves Man." The very success of the dam-building crusade
accounts in part for its decline; by 1980 nearly all the nation's good
sites--and many dubious sites--had been dammed. But two other factors
accounted for most of the decline: public resistance to the enormous cost
and pork-barrel smell of many dams, and a developing public understanding
of the profound environmental degradation that building dams can cause.
Unfortunately, the fiscal mischief and environmental harm don't end when
the construction of a dam ends; they just become harder to see.
HELPING RIVER BARGES
WHILE being shown the Lower Granite lock by John McKern, a biologist with
the Corps, I witnessed a minor but telling example of our tax dollars at
work. A lone fourteen-foot pleasure craft motored into the eighty-six
foot-by-675-foot lock and tied up. The colossal gates closed, and the lock
operator pumped in 43 million gallons of water to raise that little boat
up to Lower Granite Lake--water that could have helped dying salmon
survive, or could have generated enough electricity (about $700 worth) to
supply an average house in the Northwest for one year. McKern said the
lock operator tries to group boats together to reduce such prodigality,
but usually that's not possible. Looking down on the boat, McKern shook
his head and said, "It's crazy, isn't it?"
Locks on the Columbia-Snake system were built not for pleasure boats, of
course, but for commercial vessels, primarily grain barges. Though giving
a pleasure boat a $700 boost seems extravagant, rendering the Columbia and
the Snake navigable for barges costs taxpayers a great deal more: tens of
millions of dollars a year in direct and indirect subsidies. Barge
operators pay none of the dams' operation-and-maintenance costs, and until
1981 made no contribution toward construction costs. Now users are
supposed to foot half the bill for any new construction, but loopholes
effectively lower bargers' share of the cost. Nationwide the Corps
budgeted $786 million in fiscal year 1995 for inland waterways. Taxpayers
will provide about $700 million of that, most of which benefits firms with
deep pockets, such as those of Cargill, ConAgra, and Continental Grain.
Some 80 percent of the barges that ply our inland waterways are owned by
twenty bulk-commodity and shipping heavyweights, whose combined revenues
exceeded $160 billion last year.
Barging companies and their customers assert that the national interest is
served by the subsidy, because it stimulates competition; in the absence
of barges, surely the railroads, the other major transporters of bulk
commodities, would heedlessly gouge their customers. David Forkenbrock,
the director of the Public Policy Center at the University of Iowa, and an
authority on inland transportation, doesn't buy this argument. He says,
"To subsidize one mode of transportation so that another mode won't charge
too much to the user is pretty perverse in terms of economic theory."
Besides, Forkenbrock says, even if barges vanished and railroads did raise
their rates, the amount of the price increase wouldn't begin to approach
the amount of the subsidy.
Forkenbrock sees the subsidy as a matter of simple avarice, abetted by
Congress. He points to a 1992 proposal to reduce the subsidy: "That went
over like a lead balloon in Congress, because states that benefit from
cheap transportation objected strenuously, and water projects always have
been pork-barrel efforts." Forkenbrock observes that the subsidy may soon
rise. Some barging concerns are pressing Congress to fund the construction
of bigger locks, which altogether would cost taxpayers billions. Lobbying
by a coalition of river interests in the Ohio River system alone has
secured more than $1.5 billion from Congress since 1986, nearly all of it
earmarked for enlarging locks. Bargers say they need larger locks to ease
the heavy traffic that is projected to occur during peak periods.
Forkenbrock argues that barge traffic will be heavy only because it's
subsidized. "If you charged a fair user fee to bargers, their competitive
advantage would wither," he says.
THE DOWNSIDE OF FLOOD CONTROL
SOME of the least-noticed subsidies occur in the name of flood control.
According to data collected by the Federal Interagency Floodplain
Management Task Force in 1992, flood-control expenditures from 1960 to
1987 drained some $35-$40 billion from the U.S. Treasury. Much of that
money was spent on storage dams, which waylay some of the down
rushing water during floods, and on levees, which are meant to shield
particular sites from rising floodwaters. The Army Corps of Engineers
built most of the multi-state projects in the early years of the flood
control program, which got rolling in 1917. More-recent projects typically
serve much narrower interests, such as a few farmers, a small town, or
developers who crave floodplain land. "In the nineteen fifties, sixties,
and seventies projects got more and more local," says David Conrad, a water
resources specialist for the National Wildlife Federation. "Now virtually
no new flood-control projects have interstate elements." Congress's
appetite for flood-control spending might be curbed if members had to vote
openly on their pet projects instead of being able to tuck them deep
inside hefty omnibus bills.
Another subsidy kicks in after floods occur. Taxpayers foot most of the
bill for flood damage, in the form of disaster relief and subsidized
federal insurance. But the very availability of government relief and
insurance has caused costs to spiral. Before the government began bailing
out flood victims, and before dams and levees promised protection, most
people steered clear of floodplains. "No one built permanent structures on
floodplains, because the risk was too great," says Scott Faber, the
director of floodplain programs for American Rivers, a conservation group.
"Flood insurance and flood relief have interfered with the normal
functioning of the market." Operating in actuarial reality, private
insurers refused to issue flood insurance. "That should have told us
something," Faber says. Farms, factories, and subdivisions, backed by the
government, have poured onto floodplains--and floods have thus caused
increasingly great losses. Annual flood damage to property has almost
tripled in constant dollars since 1951, and currently averages $3 billion
a year. As a congressional report states, "Floods are an act of God. Flood
damages result from acts of men." In 1968 and 1973 Congress passed
legislation that set up the National Flood Insurance Program. It hoped to
legislate greater responsibility on the part of floodplain
occupants--building houses that are less vulnerable to flood damage, for
example, or avoiding floodplain development altogether--but the law's
provisions were widely ignored. Congress amended the program in 1994,
adding some teeth to the enforcement provisions, but the program still
falls short of ensuring that those who benefit from federal programs have
made a serious effort to avoid flood damage.
Disaster relief and insurance subsidies wouldn't be an issue if flood
control projects controlled floods--but often they don't, as the
Mississippi River floods of 1993 so forcefully demonstrated. Before rivers
were controlled by engineers, floodwaters spread out over floodplains,
soaked in, and slowly drained back into the river. Now levees cut rivers
off from their floodplains, sending floodwater down the straitjacketed
main channel. The water flows unnaturally high and fast until it
encounters a lower or weaker levee or an unprotected spot where it can
burst from its confines. In many cases levees simply shift the site of
flood damage. Jonathan Ela, a Mississippi River specialist for the Sierra
Club, writes, "The touching pictures of volunteers placing sandbags on
levees on either side of the Mississippi River in 1993 were essentially
images of communities at war with each other."
In addition to the usual post-flood demands for higher levees and more
dams, the 1993 floods prompted a widespread interest in solutions that
don't involve structures--solutions that also cost much less. Some
breached levees may not be rebuilt, and some of the remaining levees may
be moved farther back, in order to restore part of the floodplain. For the
first time, substantial federal disaster funds are being used for the
voluntary relocation of residences and businesses--more than 8,000 have
been moved so far--rather than solely for rebuilding on the same flood
prone sites. "We've got this stock of older housing in the floodplain that
gets repeatedly damaged," Faber says. "Texas, for example, got nailed
again last fall. Texas gets nailed all the time. They have thousands and
thousands of homes that have collected relief three or more times."
According to the General Accounting Office, nearly half of the billions of
dollars paid out under the National Flood Insurance Program has gone to
repeat flood victims who make up a mere two percent of the
policyholders.
SUBSIDIZING IRRIGATION WATER
IRRIGATORS receive perhaps the largest and most varied subsidies of all,
though just how much money these amount to is a notoriously arcane matter,
and the figure is often contorted to serve political goals. Some of the
most reliable information comes from Richard Wahl, who was for many years
a natural-resource economist with the Department of the Interior and who
left the government in 1992 to become a research associate at the
University of Colorado. Wahl and his colleague Benjamin Simon estimate
that from 1902 to 1986 Bureau of Reclamation irrigation projects cost
taxpayers close to $20 billion in 1986 dollars. (The BR builds and
operates most of America's public irrigation dams.) Wahl and Simon believe
that the federal irrigation subsidy for 1989 was about $2.2 billion.
Most of this subsidy stems from the repayment deal enjoyed by irrigators.
Their payments for BR water are supposed to reimburse the government for
the irrigators' share of the initial capital expenses and for operation
and-maintenance costs. But repayments have been drastically reduced, by
accounting stratagems and by congressional largesse--expressed most
vividly by the fact that irrigators are exempt from paying interest. Wahl
and Simon calculate that on average, BR irrigators end up paying only 12-
15 percent of the construction costs allocated to irrigation.
Consider the example of Westlands Water District, in California--one of
the nation's largest. Westlands irrigators pay $8-$31 for an acre foot of
water (the amount that would cover an acre with one foot of water) from
the BR's Central Valley Project, a $3.4 billion network of dams and
canals. If the irrigators' repayment included interest at modest rates,
that acre foot would cost them $61-$80. Even this so-called full-cost
figure comes nowhere near market prices in the thirsty West. Many cities
pay $200 an acre foot. Avocado farmers near San Diego pay $300-$400. Santa
Barbara has built a desalinization plant that will provide converted
seawater, should it be needed, at $2,000 an acre foot. And bear in mind
that most other growers pay even less for BR water than do Westlands
irrigators.
Many in the irrigation community feel that they're just getting their fair
share of the federal pie. Furthermore, they say, if their arrangement did
constitute a subsidy (and many irrigators contend that it doesn't), the
subsidy would be justified because irrigated agriculture has stimulated a
great deal of economic activity and tax revenue. Irrigators also like to
remind us of their essential product: "Water on the Farm Is Food on Your
Table" reads the metered postage strip on mail sent from Westlands.
Apparently our food supply would be imperiled should the irrigation
subsidy be reduced. Don Upton, a Westlands spokesman, says that "a full
cost rate is not affordable" and would drive many farmers out of
business.
David Yardas, a water-resources analyst in the California office of the
Environmental Defense Fund, disagrees. He asserts that only a few marginal
operations would shut down, most of them on poor land that the BR never
expected to be brought under cultivation in the first place. "There are
many places in California," Yardas says, "where customers of the Central
Valley Project are right across the road from farmers using the state
project. The state guy may be paying forty dollars an acre foot, while the
CVP guy is paying fourteen or eleven or eight dollars." Yet, Yardas says,
the state farmers haven't gone out of business. Typically the subsidy
represents a higher profit margin, not the margin of survival.
Irrigation subsidies often contribute to the wasting of water, a major
concern given that farmers account for 80--85 percent of the West's water
consumption. For instance, earthen canals leak profusely, yet many
irrigation districts haven't lined them; the subsidized water that seeps
away is so cheap that losing water is less expensive than paying for
lining. A great deal of water vanishes from fields. Instead of using
advanced sprinkler systems, drip irrigation, or other frugal means of
watering crops, many farmers still rely on inefficient sprinklers or even
flood irrigation, surrendering a huge volume of water to evaporation and
seepage. According to two government studies of irrigation conducted in
the 1970s, such wasteful practices squander more than 20 million acre feet
a year in the West--almost twice the average annual flow of the Colorado
River. Furthermore, the availability of cheap water encourages farmers to
lavish it on inappropriately thirsty crops. For example, Westlands is
carved from a desert that gets only six or seven inches of rain a year,
yet the district's biggest crop by far is cotton, a plant that guzzles
more than thirty inches of water a year.
Cotton figures in the controversy over the "double dip": the use of
subsidized water to grow subsidized surplus crops. In addition to
receiving Bureau of Reclamation water in some regions, cotton is almost
always declared in surplus by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, making
cotton growers eligible for certain USDA payments. Since the putative
intent of the surplus-crop program is to scale back the production of
crops that are overabundant, it seems perverse to stimulate production by
allowing growers of surplus crops to use subsidized water. According to
the USDA, farmers use about $85 million worth of subsidized water each
year to grow surplus crops for which they also receive about $500 million
from the USDA.
Senator Russell Feingold, of Wisconsin, has railed against "paying people
not to produce and then, with a different hand, paying them to produce."
Feingold is the latest of many who have challenged the double dip. In
February he introduced a bill that would either require users to pay full
cost or eliminate the USDA portion of the subsidy. Feingold says that he
has never heard a reasonable justification for the double dip from its
supporters. When asked about it, "they don't respond, they just vote you
down," he says. "They don't really want to talk about it." That's putting
it mildly. During a phone interview with Congressman Bill Thomas, of
California, whose Central Valley district includes major cotton producers,
I broached the subject of the double dip. Angrily he cut off my question,
asserting--incorrectly--that cotton is not commonly a surplus crop. He
curtly added--again incorrectly--that farmers are required by law to pay
full cost for federal water. He ignored my follow-up questions and then
abruptly ended the conversation.
Though the abrasiveness of Thomas's defense was extreme, it has long been
common for congressmen to protect influential constituents' dam
related subsidies fiercely. But the budget-cutting fervor of the new
Congress may change attitudes toward these subsidies. Members who have
crowded aboard the budget-cutting bandwagon will look hypocritical if they
"continue to pork it up," as Feingold puts it. Besides, some members of
Congress, including a few on key budget committees, seem sincere in their
desire to shrink the federal government and reduce the deficit. "Many
items that had been sacrosanct . . . are now getting a new look," Feingold
says. Still, Feingold and most other critics of dam-related subsidies
remain skeptical. David Yardas sums up the prevailing perception:
"Increasing attention is being paid to subsidies, but I don't know that
that translates into a willingness to do very much about them."
When tax dollars first started paying for dams, they frequently fit one
dictionary definition of "subsidy": "a grant of money from a government to
a private enterprise considered as beneficial to the public." For example,
the Bureau of Reclamation began building irrigation dams in the early
1900s to encourage small farmers to settle the West, a widely approved
national goal. But now that California's population roughly equals that of
New York and New England combined, and most of the benefits go to
prosperous farmers, including many big agribusiness operations, irrigation
subsidies are difficult to construe as being in the national interest.
Most dam-related subsidies, too, have outlived their original
rationales.
DAMAGE TO THE ENVIRONMENT
ON the south side of the Lower Granite complex a Rube Goldberg apparatus
of metal chutes and ladders angles from the top of the dam down to a dock
a few hundred yards downriver. When I visited the dock that spring day
several years ago, workers were loading a shipshape red-and-gray Corps
barge. They had positioned a large pipe so that water from the apparatus
poured into the hold of the vessel. The gushing water was filled with
thousands upon thousands of silvery finger-length fish: young salmon,
called smolts. In the spring smolts from innumerable spawning streams
spill into the Snake and drift downriver, starting their anadromous life
cycle by heading for the Pacific. At Lower Granite the Corps annually
funnels, sorts, and pipes 6-9 million of these fish into barges. The
barges haul the smolts hundreds of miles, past the seven additional dams
that lie between the salmon and the sea, and dump them into the lower
Columbia. The Corps calls this procedure "fish transportation."
Whether transportation is the best way to help the salmon is arguable;
many scientists think that barging kills more smolts than it saves. But no
one questions the need to help the migrating fish. The dams have so
transformed the river that, as one Idaho Fish and Game supervisor puts it,
"sending them down the river would just be sending them to their death."
Such transformations lie at the heart of the ongoing environmental harm
done by dams. Rivers are rivers because they flow, and the nature of their
flows defines much of their character. When dams alter flows, they alter
the essence of rivers.
Consider the erstwhile river behind Lower Granite. Although I was there in
the springtime, when I looked at the water it was moving too slowly to
merit the word "flow"--and Lower Granite Lake isn't even one of the
region's enormous storage reservoirs, which bring currents to a virtual
halt. In the past, spring snowmelt sent powerful currents down the Snake
during April and May. Nowadays hydropower operators on the Columbia and
Snake systems store the runoff behind the dams and release it during the
winter, when demand--and the price--for electricity rises. Over the ages,
however, many populations of salmon had adapted to the spring surge. The
smolts used the strong flows to migrate, drifting downstream with the
current. During the journey smolts' bodies undergo physiological changes
that require them to reach salt water quickly. Before dams backed up the
Snake, smolts coming down from Idaho got to the sea in six to twenty days;
now it takes from sixty to ninety days, and few of the young salmon reach
salt water in time. The emasculated current is the single largest reason
that the number of wild adult salmon migrating up the Snake each year has
crashed from predevelopment runs of 100,000
200,000 to what was projected to be 150-175 this year.
One untested but promising alternative to barging, termed a drawdown,
calls for dam operators to reduce the volume of water in several
reservoirs before the main salmon migration. Full reservoirs sprawl far to
the sides of the main channel. Currents dissipate in these virtual lakes
the way a stream of water from a hose melts into a full swimming pool. If
dam operators lower the reservoir levels, the water will contract to a
more riverlike depth and breadth. If dams are drawn down just before the
spring melt, the flows sweeping down from Idaho will presumably send
smolts through the narrowed reservoirs relatively quickly. Another
alternative to barging would be for dam operators to release much more
water during the spring migration; the greater the volume of water that
flows into a reservoir, the faster the current will move. This would leave
less water for lucrative winter power production and lead to a rise in
utility rates, but because they are generously subsidized, they would
still be well below the national average. Even a modest rate increase
could be offset by creative marketing. Northwest hydropower-plant
operators could run water through their turbines in spring and early
summer to help the salmon, and sell the electricity to southern California
and the Southwest, where power fetches a good price during the
air-conditioning season. In the winter, when demand for power in those
areas slackens, the operators in southern California and the Southwest
could sell electricity to the colder Northwest during its period of
greatest need.
In the Southeast the Ocoee River, which is managed by the Tennessee Valley
Authority, offers an example of another flow problem. On certain days a
stretch of the Ocoee roars along, a frothing wild thing beloved by
white-water rafters. But on other days and at night TVA dam operators
lower the gates and divert the river from that stretch to a flume that
leads to a powerhouse, emptying the riverbed. A few other rivers across
the nation are dried up by hydropower operations and irrigation
withdrawals, and many more suffer from reduced flows. The effects on
aquatic life are predictably severe.
Keeping enough water in rivers is especially difficult in the arid West.
Western water law in particular stifles reforms that would restore at
least moderate in-stream flows. Formulated in the nineteenth century by
miners, ranchers, and irrigators, the West's water laws reflect two hoary
principles: "First in time, first in right" and "Beneficial use." The
first principle means that whoever first claimed a certain amount of water
always gets his share ahead of junior claimants--except that claims from
Native Americans, who got there long before the pioneers, are rarely
sustained.
The second principle narrowly construes "Beneficial use" to mean
consumption by agriculture, industry, or cities. In western-water-law
doublespeak water thus used is "conserved," and water that flows down the
river to the sea is "wasted." During the past couple of decades the water
laws of most western states have reflected a growing understanding that
water left in the stream for the welfare of the ecosystem is also
beneficial. But the relatively recent legal recognition of the river
ecosystem makes it a very junior claimant under the "First in time, first
in right" doctrine, so rivers seldom are allowed to retain much water.
Given that irrigators use 80-85 percent of the water available in the
West, western water law clearly needs to be revised to provide more water
to the environment and to the region's booming cities. As Congressman
George Miller, of California, has said, "It is not the dead hand from the
grave that should dictate water policy today."
Bob Faber, the new staff director for the House Water and Power Resources
Subcommittee, says that in some cases dams can solve the problem of low
flows. This idea was echoed by the person to whom Faber reports:
Congressman John Doolittle, of California, the new chair of the
subcommittee and an influential dam booster from a district with
considerable irrigation interests. Faber points out that certain uses of
dams (irrigation comes to mind) require the release of ample, consistent
amounts of water during times when some river flows are naturally low. He
says this release improves the environmental health of those rivers:
"Having adequate and predictable water supplies to provide in-stream flows
is made possible only by dams. In the pre-dam era a lot of tributaries at
times had low flows or went dry, but if they have dams above them, they
now can maintain water flows at rates that weren't possible before."
Faber misses the essential ecological point, however. Only low flows
caused by dams or other human manipulation should be augmented. Natural
low flows should be left low. Our industrial-society minds may associate
constancy with productivity, but river animals and plants evolved to wild
rhythms that include low flows, high flows, and everything in between.
Native river organisms can survive such oscillations, and many can't
survive without them. If rivers are to recover, regulated flows must mimic
natural flows.
Artificially regulated flows produce many specific problems. Without high
flows, silt doesn't get flushed from streambed gravel, and the many
species of fish and insects that need clean, well-oxygenated gravel for
their eggs and larvae are harmed. Relatively constant flows often lead to
relatively constant water temperatures, which affect the many species that
rely on natural fluctuations in temperature. For example, the adults of a
vital species of stone fly in the Flathead River in Montana don't emerge
from their larval stage unless cued by mean daily water temperatures of 65
Fahrenheit. Late-summer discharges from Hungry Horse Dam keep the water
cooler than is natural, so whole generations of this insect never reach
adulthood.
Dams can alter water temperatures in other deleterious ways. In most
places irrigation water is stored until summer. This creates unnaturally
shallow flows below dams at other times of the year, which in turn causes
the water to become abnormally warm. As the water warms, it loses oxygen,
and river organisms begin dying. By the same token, flows are unnaturally
deep and therefore abnormally cold during the summer.
Another common problem occurs when dams release water that is
significantly colder or warmer than the river water. For example, releases
from Glen Canyon Dam render the Colorado River too cold--some 20 degrees
colder than is natural--for most native organisms for more than 250 miles
downstream. "The river is essentially dead," says Jack Stanford, a
professor of ecology and the director of the University of Montana's
Flathead Lake Biological Station. Except for one twelve-mile stretch, the
river below the dam has lost its ability to support algae, which in turn
has led to the collapse of the river's food web. "You can put a drift net
in the river for fifteen minutes and catch one or two insects," Stanford
says. In a pristine Colorado one would expect to net hundreds, thousands,
or even tens of thousands. The cumulative impact of disrupted temperatures
can be dramatic. A study of the Saskatchewan River found that insects from
thirty families inhabited a pristine stretch, but insects from only one
family survived in a section below a dam. Temperature problems can be
mitigated by retrofitting dams with selective water-withdrawal systems.
These give dam operators the option of releasing water from whichever
stratum of the reservoir best matches the temperature of the water
downriver. Hungry Horse Dam, for example, is undergoing this expensive
process and by next year should be providing stone flies with the
temperatures they need.
Dams not only disrupt the flow of water; they also virtually cut off the
flow of sediment. When the current dissipates in the reservoir, its load
of suspended particles sinks to the bottom, trapped for the life of the
dam. Very little slips by a large dam. Studies show that Glen Canyon Dam
captures 99.5 percent of the sediment tumbling down the Colorado. The
trapped sediment includes organic matter, which is vital to downriver food
webs. Sandbars where plants have grown in and alongside a river-
important wildlife habitat--constantly erode; without sediment with which
to rebuild, they soon vanish. The same holds for riverbanks.
The loss of replacement sediment also leads to the lowering of the
riverbed, which harms the riparian zone--the land along a river that
derives its character from the river. As the channel deepens and the
elevation of the river drops, the water table beneath the riparian areas
drops correspondingly. This dries up those lush, elongated oases that are
such important havens for wildlife--and for human beings.
Cottonwoods, for example, need high groundwater levels. The demise of
these riverside staples robs the stream of shade, which can lead to
lethally high water temperatures; causes excessive erosion, because the
stabilizing influence of the trees' roots is gone; and deprives the fungi
and bacteria at the foundation of the aquatic food web of the nutrients
provided by cottonwood leaves, a crucial food source.
Even lands far from dams are affected by a radical decline in transported
sediment. Without replacement sediment from the Mississippi River, much of
the Louisiana coast has sunk below sea level, allowing a disastrous
intrusion of salt water. The Army Corps of Engineers estimates that during
the next fifty years parts of the Gulf shoreline will advance as much as
another thirty miles inland and an additional million acres of coastal
wetlands will sink from sight. In addition to the many other benefits they
bring, these wetlands are integral to almost half of the nation's shrimp
harvest.
Though researchers have discovered numerous examples of environmental
disruption caused by dams, they realize that they have barely scratched
the surface. The cliche is apt, because little of what goes on below the
surface of rivers has penetrated the landlocked biases of Homo sapiens.
The studies that have been done indicate that dams have been disastrous
for river ecosystems. Larry Master, the chief zoologist of The Nature
Conservancy, says, "Dams have been the dominant factor in the decline of
aquatic fauna in this country." He goes on to characterize the current
health of America's aquatic fauna as "appalling." Master's judgment
carries particular weight, because he has led the most comprehensive study
to date on the status of the nation's freshwater animals.
So far Master and his colleagues have studied four broad groups of river
fauna and have found that all are in trouble: about 20 percent of
dragonfly species, 36 percent of fishes, 64 percent of crayfish, and 67
percent of freshwater mussels are either extinct, imperiled, or
vulnerable. Embattled though they are, terrestrial fauna are faring
comparatively well: 14 percent of birds and 16 percent of mammals are
extinct, imperiled, or vulnerable by Master's standards. David Allan, an
aquatic ecologist at the University of Michigan, observes that many
species not yet officially endangered are in decline--some to the point at
which the functioning of their river ecosystems is substantially altered.
There is also evidence that the rate of decline is accelerating. Research
by the American Fisheries Society suggests that the rate of extinction for
North American fish species has doubled during the past century. From 1979
to 1989 the AFS added 139 species and subspecies of fish to its list of
rare and vanishing fishes of North America and removed only
twenty-six--sixteen owing to technical adjustments, ten because they had
gone extinct, and none because they had recovered.
THE DEMOLITION OPTION
IS there such a thing as a good dam? That's a legitimate question, given
the myriad environmental and fiscal problems that dams cause. I asked
Larry Stephens, the executive director of the United States Committee on
Large Dams, an industry group, to name some good dams, which I broadly
defined as dams whose benefits clearly outweigh their monetary and
environmental costs. Quickly he cited Hoover Dam and Grand Coulee, and
then he paused. Finally he said that of course there were others but they
just didn't come to mind. Undoubtedly other good dams do exist, but it is
revealing that of the 5,500 large dams in America, only two stood out
immediately. Equally telling is the fact that Hoover and Grand Coulee were
completed in 1936 and 1941 respectively, which supports the widespread
belief that the best sites were used long ago. The U.S. Geological Survey
has quantified one aspect of the decline in the quality of sites: the
amount of reservoir capacity created by each cubic foot of dam plummeted
from 10.4 acre feet for dams built prior to 1930 to 2.1 acre feet for
those built in the 1930s and to 0.29 acre feet for those built in the
1960s.
In retrospect, it seems that a number of dams should never have been
built. But they were, and they aren't going away anytime soon--at least
not many of them. Some egregiously harmful dams that lack influential
constituencies may be demolished. Numerous government agencies, Native
American tribes, and conservation groups hope to remove two dams from the
Elwha River, in Washington, one inside Olympic National Park. But
demolition isn't an option in most cases. For one thing, communities and
industries are too closely tied to most dams. For another, removing just
the two Elwha dams--one is 210 feet high and the other is 100 feet--will
cost about $70 million. Omitting the expense of removal from financial
calculations constitutes yet another big subsidy. All those aging dams are
a fiscal time bomb of many megatons.
Where the demolition of dams won't do the job, we'll have to settle for
wise management. Most current practices and policies still hark back to
the go-go era and even beyond--to pioneer days. But tremors of reform have
been felt in recent years, and the time seems ripe for a major shake-up.
Ironically, if water policy gets dragged kicking and screaming into the
age of limits, we'll probably find that we have more than enough water to
go around. For one thing, we squander so much that following through on
just the easiest conservation measures would save vast amounts of water.
One study estimated that in the West a seven percent reduction in the
share used by agriculture (halving irrigation waste would accomplish that
goal) would allow a 100 percent rise in all other uses. For another thing,
the more than 100,000 dams already out there provide an awful lot of
available water.
Should we ever build another dam? Sure. Sometimes, in some places, some
kinds of dams will make sense. But when you hear calls for more dams
because of global warming, the depletion of oil reserves, a trend toward a
drier climate, or the latest flood, think twice: once about your tax
dollars and once about your environment.
Robert S. Devine is a freelance writer whose articles have appeared in
Sierra, Audubon, and Wilderness. He is writing a book
about dams.
Copyright 1995 by The Atlantic Monthly. All rights reserved.
The Atlantic Monthly; August 1995; The Trouble With Dams; Volume 276, No.
2; pages 64-74.
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