That Austin streamwater ain’t comin’ from nature

Posted by on

An intriguing paper from some folks at UT Austin, looking at the isotopic composition of water in Austin-area streams. Turns out that the natural source water in the area has very different strontium ratios from the imported municipal water brought in from their Colorado River:

In the more urbanized watersheds, Sr-isotope mass balance indicates that ~ 90% of base flow is composed of water from anthropogenic sources.

Where’s it coming from?

1) leakage from the sewage system, 2) leakage from the water supply system, or 3) irrigation (e.g. lawns and gardens).

Thanks to Kevin Anchukaitis for pointing me to the paper.

Time for a Lower Basin New Year’s resolution?

Posted by on
Flood control, navigation, irrigation, water storage, power

Flood control, navigation, irrigation, water storage, power: Hoover Dam, December 2011

Hey Lower Colorado River Basin. Can we talk?

I know, I know. It’s New Water Year’s Eve and it’s like a hundred something degrees and sunny and you wanna go water skiing on Lake Mead, all fat and happy with its 1,115.18 feet of surface elevation, glistening in that warm Nevada sunshine. Or you wanna grow some lettuce or something. I get that you have stuff to do. But really, we need to talk.

I just wanna point out that Lake Mead has less water in it today than it did when the last water year ended. I know, I know, it’s only a tiny bit less. But the thing is, we Upper Basin folks gave you a bunch of extra water again this year. How could Lake Mead be down?

I understand that rules are rules and a deal’s a deal. We agreed that when we have more water up here in Lake Powell than you do in Lake Mead, we’d send some of the extra your way. The law says we really only have to give you 8.23 million acre feet of water each year, but OK. Since Powell was looking a little flush, we sent you 9.463 million. That’s what the operating agreement says and, as I said, a deal’s a deal.

It’s just that, between drought and all the extra water we sent you, Powell’s down 3.6 million acre feet this year. That’s 1.2 million extra acre feet of water we sent your way this year, for chrissakes, while Lake Powell dropped 30 feet!

I hate to go all “big brother with his math” on you, but here’s the reality: Since 2000, we’ve sent you 6.3 million acre feet above and beyond the amount you can legally expect to get every year in the long term – the 8.23 million acre foot minimum release from Lake Powell each year under the Law of the River. During that time, when we’ve been giving you all that extra water, Lake Mead has dropped 80 feet.

What the fuck did you do with all that water? Did you just waste it on hookers and blow?

Another dry year

Posted by on

Sept. 30 is the end of the “water year”*, and it’s been another dry one at the Heineman-Fleck house. With data back to the 1999-2000 year now, this is the fourth consecutive dry year relative to my personal long term mean here in Albuquerque’s near northeast heights:

Water year rainfall at the Heineman-Fleck house

Water year rainfall at the Heineman-Fleck house

* Water managers here usually (though not for all purposes) measure their “water year” from Oct. 1 to Sept. 30 in order to capture a single full winter rain/snow season and the following spring summer water usage season in one annual number.

beneficial use: quaint, yet enduringly sturdy

Posted by on

From this week’s Albuquerque Journal, a piece looking at the history and future of the notion of “beneficial use” in western water law:

The doctrine’s history is bound up in the ideas of the generation of European immigrants who swept across the region in the 1800s, establishing what became United States law.

“The climate is dry,” a Colorado judge wrote in 1882, explaining the concept, “and the soil, when moistened only by the usual rainfall, is arid and unproductive; except in a few favored sections, artificial irrigation for agriculture is an absolute necessity. Water in the various streams thus acquires a value unknown in moister climates.”

The quote is from the Colorado Supreme Court’s decision in the case of Coffin et al v. The Left Hand Ditch Company.

 

Forecast fibbing

Posted by on

When do you not want your forecaster telling you everything she knows?

Tom Pagano, who used to do our Rio Grande forecasts for the NRCS and now is a sort of global wandering river forecaster without portfolio, explains from the vantage point of a passenger sitting at Gatwick:

Imagine a parallel universe without bias on the departure board, where half the planes leave early and half leave late. Passengers would check the board and perhaps some would decide they have enough time to get another coffee. It would be clearly upsetting to come back “on time” and discover the plane already left. People also get very mad when buses or trains run ahead of schedule.

If you’re interested in the forecasting problem, especially what happens at the interface between forecaster and information user, Tom’s blog is a consistently fascinating read. (You can learn more about what Tom does, and how he does it, in my book.)

 

US-Mexico water talks stalling – what I learned from a new water blog

Posted by on

Chris Austin, the long time brains behind the invaluable Aquafornia (done in partnership with the Water Education Foundation), has a launched a new blog aimed at diving deeper into the weeds. I’ve already learned stuff from it that I didn’t know, such as this:

Negotiations with Mexico: Regarding bi-national negotiations with Mexico on Colorado River issues, the question was do the states want to put forth the effort to keep working on this, especially given that the sides are quite far apart? Yes, the states decided that they wanted to keep trying to work out issues. Since then, further negotiations have occurred with Mexico and it appears the two sides are still quite far apart. Mexico has asked for a break in negotiations; they understand the U.S. position and need now some time to consider options. It appears that if any successful negotiations occur, it won’t be the comprehensive solution Metropolitan was hoping for, but instead something scaled down.

Added to my RSS reader? Check.

Sandhill cranes as seasonal forecasters – is this just bullshit?

Posted by on

Tom Stienstra at SFGate recently wrote that California can expect an  early, wet winter. How do we know this?

There’s a saying, “Birds never lie.”

If so, the best weather forecaster in the West, the migratory sandhill crane, is predicting an early winter with plenty of rain and snow.

Over the years, the timing of the migration of sandhill cranes south to the San Joaquin Valley has predicted winter weather, both wet and dry. Early migrations have meant big winters. Late migrations, the opposite.

I did extensive research (by which mean a few minutes on Google and Google Scholar and an email to the author, whose out-of-office reply says he’s off for two weeks camping and fishing and stuff). The ever-reliable Alex Breitler reported in August that early crane arrival means the cranes are doing well. The only thing I could find consistent with Stienstra’s argument about the cranes’ forecasting acumen was a bunch of other bloggers enthusiastically quoting Stienstra. I also wrote to the smartest climate/phenology person I know, who had never heard such a thing, and was puzzled at the assertion.

Anybody know if there’s anything to this, or is it just bullshit?

Shale gas, groundwater and real estate values

Posted by on

Here’s a counter-intuitive result from Lucija Muehlenbachs and colleagues about the effect of shale gas drilling on neighborhood property values:

While shale gas development can result in rapid local economic development, negative externalities associated with the process may adversely affect the prices of nearby homes…. We find that proximity to wells increases housing values, though risks to groundwater fully offset those gains. By itself, groundwater risk reduces property values by up to 24 percent.

 

“Mind the gap”

Posted by on
mind the gap

mind the gap

The bird in Regent’s Park seemed goose-like enough. But too small, and with the dark and light bits in the wrong places. I grabbed my pocket guide. “Unlike much larger Canada Goose, black extends over breast and body is grey (not brown).” Ah yes, the  Barnacle goose. Check.

In London’s Underground, a cheery female voice reminds you as the train arrives at many stations to “Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.” The “gap” in question is the space created between a straight train car and a station platform built on a curve. Or, in some cases, a height differential created by the use of differing train car standards. (Of course the WikiFolks offer a lovingly detailed discussion.) It’s a small gap. I doubt I would have noticed if not for the announcement. But there it is.

And so it was, to sum, a vacation of finding pleasure (and fascination) in the small gaps between home (the US) and a new place (the UK). The shared cultural history and (relatively) common language mean things match up closely, but not exactly. Exploring the differences was a treat.

Rothko, the Tate Modern and my dad

Posted by on
Rothoko at SF MoMA, cc licensed by Notnarayan

Rothoko at SF MoMA, cc licensed by Notnarayan

Sometime during the mid-1970s, when I was a young teenager, Dad took us to see a Mark Rothko retrospective at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. I must be cautious here in recalling the extent to which I was moved by a beginning-to-end look at the Russian-American painter’s work. “What you end up remembering,” Julian Barnes wrote, “isn’t always the same as what you have witnessed.”

I’ve written before about being the son of an artist, the particular gift of viewing art as a verb – a thing not that has been done, but rather a thing that people do. But I came slowly to this notion, to thinking deeply about the connections between the things on the walls of museums and the act of painting that was so much a part of family life growing up. And so there was a time during my teenage years when I made the shift from what I remember as annoyance at being dragged through museum after museum of what I came to call “art by dead people” and the real living art in that Rothko retrospective. Never mind that Rothko was dead by that point. In its modernity, there was life, not a thing but a thing made by a person. You could see in the arc of time captured by the show, Rothko working out an idea. (Do I remember this? Did Dad tell me, show me this?) In the retelling of my life with art, that Rothko show stands out with a handful of other collisions between art and my youthful self.

Thus it was that I found myself last week in a dimly lit room upstairs at the Tate Modern, filled with paintings from Rothko’s famed Four Seasons commission, tears streaming down my face. Dad’s still alive, but in the twilight of his dementia cannot share things like this any more.

A few months ago, as I was wheeling Dad out of the hospital, he asked my sister, Lisa, who the nice man was who was pushing his wheelchair. Lisa, who has an easy grace about these things, cheerfully told him it was John, his son. He seemed delighted to know he had a son.