Down River

Albuquerque's water supply is about to change

by Christie Chisholm, Weekly Alibi, September 18, 2008

Turn on a faucet. Any faucet. If the faucet you've chosen is in Albuquerque, the water that surges out of your hose, into your kitchen sink, onto your head or down your toilet is older than Christianity. Older than the Roman Empire. At least as old as the end of the last Ice Age. This 10,000-year-old water is pumped from beneath your feet and forced to the earth's surface from a fractured network of vessels that make up the city's aquifer.

Come December, what pours out of that faucet will come from a river instead.

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Diary of a Locavore

Is it possible to eat nothing but local food in a New Mexico winter?

by Christie Chisholm, Weekly Alibi, March 6, 2008

Eggs, milk, peanuts. It didn’t look good.

I had spent the last hour scavenging the isles of La Montañita Co-op, and that’s what I was left with: eggs, milk, peanuts. I was hungry just looking at them. I offered my meager basket to the cashier, pausing to turn around and grab a hauntingly aromatic chocolate chip cookie from the deli counter behind me. If all I had to eat for the next seven days were eggs, whole milk and peanuts, I was going to enjoy my last meal, and I was going to have dessert.

I watched the clock on my cell phone strike midnight, rubbing my fingers together to erase the chocolate from their tips. This was it. For the next week, I would eat only food grown in New Mexico. In the middle of February, I knew it would be difficult. But when I opened my fridge door and saw two cartons and a bag of nuts staring back at me, I wondered if it was even possible. Preparing myself for starvation, I trundled off to bed. Tomorrow I was going “shopping.”

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What is “Grass Farming”?

An interview with one of the nation’s pre-eminent experts on the subject

by Christie Chisholm, Weekly Alibi, March 6, 2008

Joel Salatin loves his work. He loves getting up at the crack of dawn and taking his chickens for a walk. He loves the succulence of tender, grass-raised beef. He loves observing his pigs, which snort with glee while sifting through piles of manure. And he loves the philosophy of his business, which is that a truly sustainable farm should also support a local food system. He loves it so much, in fact, that he refuses to ship any of his products. Aside from a few deliveries made to local restaurants, if people want ’em, they can come get ’em. And that’s basically how Joel Salatin became famous.

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Undercover

Are we watching our radioactive waste?

by Christie Chisholm, Weekly Alibi, September 20, 2007

Robert Gilkeson has a lot in common with the 73 cubic yards of transuranic waste festering in Sandia National Labs’ Mixed Waste Landfill. Both are homeless. Both are situated in dangerous locations. And both are waiting for the day when a bunch of scientists will make a decision that will allow them to move on.

Gilkeson’s predicament, of course, is a matter of choice, whereas the landfill isn’t quite so lucky. The 2.6-acre unlined pit became the dumping grounds for nuclear weapons research materials during the Cold War and, with nothing more than a 15- to 25-foot seal of dirt pressed over it in 1988, since has become a hotbed of local controversy. Some scientists and activists argue the site should be excavated to avoid potential hazards the radioactive and toxic waste could provoke, such as contents of the site slipping into the air or groundwater. Other scientists and state officials believe the site is too dangerous and fickle to clean out and have pushed for the landfill to be left alone and monitored.

Two years ago, the latter side won out when the New Mexico Environment Department (NMED) ruled that the site should be capped with an additional three feet of dirt and carefully watched, saying previous monitoring showed contaminants weren’t moving at a rate that would allow them to escape into the surrounding environment. Yet the realization this summer that some monitoring wells at the landfill weren’t working properly, causing NMED to order their replacement, has left some wondering whether last year’s decision was based on reliable evidence.

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Parched?

Albuquerque’s Drinking Water Project goes into effect next year. Do you know what’s in your glass?

by Christie Chisholm, Weekly Alibi, May 31, 2007

“Doesn’t it taste great? If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was Aquafina!”

A perky woman with shoulder-length brown hair and an expectant smile stares across the table at a young woman, who sniffs the water bottle in her hand after a cautious sip. She nods.

“This is surface water that’s been treated to remove contaminants.” The smile grows. “Now the aquifer will be like a savings account instead of a checking account!”

The young woman turns the bottle in her hand. On its label it reads: “In 2008, the Drinking Water Project will begin diverting San Juan-Chama river water to a new, state-of-the-art treatment plant … Once purified, the San Juan-Chama water will be distributed to our customers for drinking water …”

The “customers” the bottle—a marketing device from the Albuquerque Bernalillo County Water Utility Authority—refers to are the residents within Albuquerque city limits. The way the water will be “distributed” is through our faucets.

The bottle is a preview of the city’s soon-to-be tap water. It’s also a representative of one of the most significant changes modern-day Albuquerque has ever undergone: switching from groundwater to river water. The shift sounds easy enough, but the issue is anything but simple. And with an appeal to the project filed earlier this month, Albuquerque’s water future seems uncertain.

The young woman sets down her bottle and reaches for a comment card. At the same time, an elderly woman stands up to leave, ready to continue her Friday-morning mall shopping.

“Did you like it?” The smile grows larger still.

The older woman raises her eyebrows and shrugs, “Tastes the same to me.”

“Well, that’s what we’re hoping for.”

 

Draining Lake Superior

In 1984, the City of Albuquerque placed an ad in the New Yorker and other national magazines as part of a campaign to attract residents and bolster economic growth. The ad was a picture of downtown Albuquerque, backdropped by the Sandias. In the foreground sloshed a large lake with a lone yellow-and-red sailboard.

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