You Can Steal My Wife, But You Can't Steal My Water

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You can steal m but not my water. Should the state pour its scarce water into river courses that are good for fish and paddlers or slake the thirst of its growing cities? TERRY TUCKER PADDLED HIS KAYAK ON A WARM AUGUST evening into aman-made rapid called the Clear Creek rodeo hole, where the water poured overartfully placed boulders into a boil- ing swirl. He executed a 36o- degree spin before the current flipped his boat and carried him with it downstream. Righting himself with an Eskimo roll, the 467year -old real estate appraiser came up dripping and smiling. "This is one of the nicest river courses I've ever seen," he said. The mile -long paddling playground is the pride of Golden, Colo. It's also the most legally contested stretch of water in the nation's most river- obsessed state. In Colorado, politics aren't lib- eral- conservative so. much as wet -dry. The river's flow deter- mines who makes a living and who doesn't, which towns and industries thrive and which do not. "There's an old saying,'You can steal my wife, but not my water,' " says Jack Little, who teaches water law at the University of Denver. "That's how seri- ously people take it." On one side of the divide are the old -line "water buffalo," the agricultural irrigators and sprawling cities that have long con- trolled the rivers flow. On the other are recreation- dependent towns like Golden in the western half of the state, which hope that the- rush -of water- through a kayak nu r 'boost th €ir_1ocat economies. Last spring, Golden took on the buffalo by claiming the right to secure water for the Clear Creek kayak course. The Colorado Supreme Court ruled in the town's favor and changed the rules of the water game in the state. For the first time, towns BY BRUCE BARCOTT ILLUSTRATION BY GUY BILLOUT using water for recreation are on equal legal footing with the thirsty farms, ranches, and suburbs that have traditionally directed the state's water flow. Golden's case didn't settle things so much as spark anew set of battles. As other towns scamper to claim their water rights, the fast - growing suburbs around Denver, Aurora, and Colorado Springs are scrambling to stop them. "If Colorado continues to grow, you can't stop it by trying to turn off the water," Colorado governor Bill Owens told a gathering last summer. But lurking behind the governor's bravado is a fear shared. by other state lead- ers—that the prosperity and influx of people that have made Col- orado the nations third- fastest - growing state (behind Arizona and Nevada) could be shut off, and soon, when the water nuns out. COLORADO APPEARS TO BE WATER -RICH. ITS GRAND MOUN- tain ranges, which include 54 peaks higher than i4,000 feet, hold vast drifts of high snowpack. When the snow melts in the spring, the runoff becomes a natural treasure. Seven major rivers, includ- ing the Colorado and the Arkansas, trace their headwaters to the state. But much of the snowmelt runs out of state, and Col - oradoans can't stop it. Under the terms of iu interstate compacts and tr€atiPS Colorado -must 1p-t up- to_two- thirds-Aafits_wateirun into downstream states like Kansas and Utah as well as to Mex- ico. Even kayakers know the terms of the deal. "We give so much water away to other states that it doesn't leave a lot left for us," Terry Tucker said as he pulled his boat ashore in Golden 2.