We here in northern New England are blessed, or so we smugly tell ourselves when natural disasters strike elsewhere.
After all, we are spared those earthquakes that threatened the future of fault-ridden California. At least we say that until a temblor in Warner rattles plates in Concord, and we learn that damaging quakes are in New Hampshire’s past and doubtless in its future as well, particularly since we don’t build to withstand them.
And the most calamitous hurricanes spinning up the East Coast have spent their energies before reaching these far northern climes – unless you remember hearing about the Great Hurricane of 1938, which after decimating large swaths of southern New England found its way here, where it did more than $7 million (in today’s dollars) in damage and killed 13 people.
More recently 2011’s Hurricane Irene narrowly missed most of the Granite State but devastated neighboring Vermont, killing six people, buckling train tracks, destroying hundreds of miles of roads and countless bridges, and completely cutting off 13 communities from the outside world.
But we are spared the horrific wildfires that destroy large tracts of California and other benighted places, right? Well, except maybe for the Great Fire of 1947, which roared across more than 210,000 acres in southwestern Maine and a corner of New Hampshire, wiping out whole little towns.
At least, we say, we’re not in the path of killer tornadoes that haunt the nightmares of the good people of Oklahoma, Missouri and surrounding states. But wait – what was it that ripped through 11 New Hampshire towns in 2008, demolishing homes and killing a woman shielding her grandchild from its fury?
So for years we’ve been watching the coverage of devastating droughts in California, Texas, even Florida, and savoring our wonderful world of water, with a vast network of rivers, streams, lakes and ponds, as well as bountiful underground aquifers, all replenished regularly by great snowfalls in the winter and abundant rains the rest of the year.
Well, except when the snows don’t come and the rains don’t come. And then – drought!
Big time drought.
And that’s what we have now, here in Merrimack County and throughout much of southwestern New Hampshire. Not just a drought, but a severe drought, so decreed by the New Hampshire Drought Management Team, an outfit I would expect to know its stuff. And according to a report just a week ago on the official U.S. Drought Monitor’s website, we are edging into extreme drought territory.
A quick check of the stats on the Monitor’s Thursday weather page tells the story. The annual precipitation since Jan. 1 would normally have been 27.07 inches. This year? It’s been a paltry 18.20 inches – and most of that in the early part of the year. And there is no rain in the immediate forecast.
Our drought is having profound effects. It is terrifying farmers, who – particularly those without massive irrigation systems – are watching their seasonal bounty wither in the fields. Home gardeners are in despair as their carefully nurtured perennials and shrubs shrivel. Even our fabled fall foliage is likely imperiled. And the drought is a disaster for wildlife, as well as a cause of nightmares for firefighters who are called out to fight conflagrations in remote locales.
Within the last week, a woodland fire – likely caused by an illegal campfire – broke out on a mountain in Acworth, in southwestern New Hampshire, and it quickly burned deep into the parched soil. The location was accessible only by foot or ATV, and water had to be laboriously hauled in. It took three days and the efforts over that time of some 80 firefighters from 22 towns in both New Hampshire in Vermont before officials were satisfied that the fire had been extinguished.
Imagine that scenario repeating itself throughout our parched state.
It is scary. Or at least it ought to be scary.
Some are trying to respond. Small water companies around the state have imposed restrictions on water use, but they are difficult if not impossible to enforce. Concord hasn’t had to do so – yet – because it has two unusually good sources of municipal water, 368-acre Penacook Lake and the Contoocook River, but city residents are still cautioned to use water with care.
Whether people – on city water or on wells – are doing so, of course, isn’t always evident on a casual drive around the area. Most lawns are understandably brown, but every so often a brilliant green one basks in the sun. On some, on a 90-degree day, there is actually a sprinkler going, spraying water into the air to be evaporated by the blazing sun – even as, perhaps just blocks or even houses away the well of a neighbor runs dry.
(And, yes, that is happening, for all you blissfully ignorant homeowners who may be newcomers to the joys of wells. They can – and occasionally do – run dry. You may be watering your lawn at your neighbor’s expense. Or vice versa. Be advised.)
Water is an odd thing, taken for granted even as strategic planners warn that we are looking at a future in which climate change is making extreme weather events – including heat waves and droughts – more common. A future, they warn, in which water – potable water, vital to human life – is an increasingly rare commodity, one which may sooner or later become the cause of war between nations.
Maybe we should shed our Alfred E. Neuman-esque attitude toward water – what, me worry? – and begin thinking about and asking aspiring political leaders about developing a sustainable, coherent state and even regional policy for preserving one of life’s essential elements. And let’s review a little history of water use in this country and this state.
Just 100 years ago, the average American used just 5 gallons of water a day – water which usually had to be laboriously hauled into houses, then just as laboriously hauled back out, according to an illuminating piece by Cynthia Crossen in the Wall Street Journal a few years ago. Bathing was a luxury – a novelty, even. In fact, in 1845 Boston banned the practice unless done under doctors’ orders. Water, if available at all, was costly and likely dirty and dangerous.
The 20th century brought a revolution, as clean water became widely available through public water systems and deep wells with electric pumps. But even in 1950, 36 percent of American homes still didn’t have full bathrooms.
Today we glory in multiple bathrooms, washing machines and dishwashers, swimming pools and spas. More and more homes have full landscape irrigation systems. What that means is that today’s average American uses not 5 but anywhere from 50 to 100 gallons of water each day.
Want a New Hampshire context? In 1900 we had a population of 410,000 using 2.05 million gallons of water a day. Today, our population of more than 1.3 million – and growing – goes through at least 63 million gallons each and every day. And the more we build and pave, the greater the likelihood that water that once trickled back into the ground runs off through sewers into rivers and hence to sea – not into replenishing the aquifer that we all, ultimately, depend on.
Maybe that will give some of us pause. Maybe it’s time – as we sit around cursing our relentlessly sunny skies – to begin to think more carefully about something we have, for so long, taken for granted. Our precious water.
(“Monitor” columnist Katy Burns lives in Bow.)