SHIPROCK, N.M. — Roy Etcitty walked from his dead crops to the nearby banks of the San Juan River, where he stood in the mud and cried.
After more than a week without irrigating his field with the San Juan or using its waters to keep his horses hydrated, Etcitty, his long black hair waving in the evening breeze, pondered the river’s meaning and was overcome.
“It’s everything for us,” he said. “It’s a part of our life, they say. It’s our livelihood.”
In the Navajo Nation, where the San Juan runs 215 miles before emptying into Lake Powell in Utah, the 3 million-gallon Gold King Mine spill has put officials on alert for what they fear will be economic disaster. This mainly agricultural-based culture, where bartering is still widespread and a cow can be used as a car down payment, crops are drying up under an unrelenting sun.
Fearing the effects of contamination from the wastewater that was spilled from the mine, tribal officials have warned their people against using the San Juan’s waters for irrigation or to feed their livestock. It wasn’t clear Monday when the advisement would be lifted.
Farmers, however, say even after bone-dry irrigation ditches are running again, worries will persist — possibly for decades. The cost of the EPA-caused spill on Aug. 5 remains unclear, the tribe says, but they are seeing impacts across the 27,600-square-mile reservation.
“There’s a huge loss of revenue for our people,” said Russell Begaye, president of the Navajo Nation.
For a tribe of roughly 300,000 that officials say has an unemployment rate of about 50 percent and an average income of $12,000, the calamity is pushing people toward the brink.
“There’s no jobs,” Simpson Bekis said Saturday as he sold Colorado peaches at a flea market. “They are few and far between. The younger generation is not interested in farming.”
The EPA is providing the tribe with 100,000 gallons of water for agricultural uses each day that is quickly being drained by a line of farmers in need. Federal responders have delivered hay to chapter houses, and dozens of bales were snatched up in about 12 hours from one location in the townsite of Cudei between Friday evening and Saturday morning.
Tribal officials have complained federal aid did not come fast enough and say they’re concerned whether the EPA is really going to pick up the mounting tab to care for Navajo fields and livestock. Farmers using the emergency water say they need more help.
“I’m going to lose about 6.5 acres of crops,” said Robert Lapahie, who works for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, as he oversaw a water distribution site in Shiprock.
Lapahie and his two coworkers were climbing over massive water tanks, sweat pouring from their foreheads, as they organized an armada of semi-trailers making deliveries and farmers coming in search of water.
“We’ve been busy all day,” he said as the procession unfolded before him.
Farmers in the Shiprock area who rely on the San Juan to irrigate their crops already were battling through perennial drought when the contamination crisis streamed into their communities.
Rosie Frank, a Navajo community leader who usually hauls water more than a mile from the San Juan for her sheep, said she isn’t sure how she is going to pay for a spike in her water bill. She said she isn’t eligible for the EPA-provided water because of how far she lives from the San Juan.
Shirley Dodge, peddling squash and corn from the back of her car Saturday at the Bengaye Flea Market, said that although the food they grow serves as supplemental income, losing any of that money would hurt.
“In the back of my mind it’s to feed my people,” she said. “Fresh, organic.”
Many fear that even when the San Juan is reopened to agricultural uses, consumers won’t want to buy meat and produce from farms that irrigate with its waters.
“They’re going to think about us (as) poison people,” Carol Etcitty-Roger, president of the Gadii’ahi/To’koi tribal chapter, said during a break from overseeing the distribution of emergency materials.
The Navajo Nation’s vice president, Jonathan Nez, said he wasn’t sure if he would even eat meat raised along the San Juan.
“What’s going to happen when people find out that the cattle they’re being sold is from this region?” he asked. “It could really devastate ranchers here. ”
In the meantime, Navajo farmers along the San Juan are just hoping they can water their fields again some time soon and salvage what is left of the season.
Timothy Coleman, whose expansive farmland along the river has been in his family for years, said he is trying to figure out how he will cope. Standing above a dry irrigation ditch on his property, he put his hands in his pockets, looked out at the thirsty alfalfa before him and shrugged.
“I guess I’ll do something else,” he said.
Jesse Paul: 303-954-1733, jpaul@denverpost.com or twitter.com/JesseAPaul
