On a balmy April morning, I observe a spectral tree looming over me. Its bare canopy appears to gaze upwards in disbelief, much like I do, at the towering sandstone cliffs that soar 500 feet high around us.
In this river-bottom location, there stands a group of cottonwoods, each reaching 70 feet in height, long deceased yet caught in a limbo between the realms of the living and the dead. Their trunks, black and coated with white sediment, portray an ancient desert forest that defies time—serving as a phantom echo of our lost natural heritage.
The tree’s trunk base is engulfed by oozing, fine-grained silt that harmonizes with the walls’ color palette. This cathedral-like cliff formation remains concealed within a tributary of the Escalante River, which meanders southward into Glen Canyon. For a significant portion of my life until recently, the grove at its feet lay submerged beneath the waters of what was once a northern extension of Lake Powell, the United States’ second-largest reservoir.
As of November, Lake Powell’s water level stood at 37 percent capacity—an unsettlingly low figure, yet a notable improvement from its record low of 22 percent in the spring of 2023.
What strikes me most is that I am treading a path akin to the one my father, John McBride, traversed over 50 years ago. I am certain of my location because I have meticulously examined the vintage Super 8 footage he captured with his Beaulieu camera in 1968. These silent clips depict my father and his companions joyfully exploring this very side canyon, which remains nearly unchanged in elevation to this day. This expedition took place a few months before the area was submerged and three years before my birth.
Their objective was to witness what the renowned nature photographer Eliot Porter referred to as “the place no one knew” before it vanished completely. While Indigenous communities had inhabited this region for centuries and were intimately familiar with its intricate labyrinths, few non-Indigenous individuals—comparatively recent arrivals—had ventured into these territories. Consequently, during the era of dam construction in America, when the Bureau of Reclamation set its sights on almost every western river, Glen Canyon was inundated behind the towering 710-foot Glen Canyon Dam without much consideration for the river’s ecosystem, hydrological patterns, habitats, or archaeological treasures.
Encountering the same trees that captivated my father evokes a bittersweet mix of emotions. Bands of cement-colored silt and sediment, known as the “bathtub ring,” adorn the surrounding walls. Strewn across the canyon floor are remnants of recreational activities—beer cans, golf balls, lawn chairs, and even a submerged Jet Ski—contributing to a time-capsule ambiance.
Accompanying me on this expedition is Len Necefer, a friend, documentary filmmaker, and member of the Navajo Nation. As he approaches, he casually remarks, “Wild. The canyon is reclaiming itself. Nature has the final say.”
“I suppose so,” I respond. “Especially when confronted with the vastness of geological time.”
Reflecting on what my father witnessed over half a century ago, I am struck by the contrast between his fading memories of that adventure and the vivid insights provided by his grainy archival footage. The films depict these very trees in their prime, surrounded by verdant meadows. Indigenous dwellings perch on cliffs, while vibrant springs cascade into emerald alcoves, creating picturesque waterfalls. In the footage, my father and his friends exude vitality—running, laughing, leaping. My father appears bronzed and robust, exuding an air of carefree contentment.
It seems that the Colorado River and my father share a parallel narrative: a bygone era of untamed wilderness. Today, both entities have been subdued by the passage of time.
My connection with this river spans my entire existence. Growing up near its headwaters, I learned to swim in alpine lakes and tributaries nourished by the snowmelt of the Rocky Mountains. I have cherished moments with my father by its banks. During my childhood, our family owned a cabin in Silt, nestled alongside the river between Glenwood Springs and Rifle. I reveled in fishing from the Colorado’s shores and paddling on its amber-tinted currents, marveling at the latent power concealed beneath its tranquil surface.
In subsequent years, I honed my swimming abilities in its deceptively swift waters. After toiling under the scorching sun of western Colorado with my brother, manually loading hay, we would plunge into the river to cleanse ourselves of dust. No matter how vigorously we swam, we would be swiftly carried hundreds of yards downstream.
It was my father who ignited my extensive endeavor to document the Colorado River—from its origin in the central Rockies to its delta near the Gulf of California. Following a decade of globetrotting as an adventure photojournalist, I yearned for a narrative closer to home. In 2007, I returned to the high-country ranch where my family had settled in the early 1980s, near Basalt, Colorado.
By then, my father, a seasoned pilot, had mastered the art of taking off and landing on our hayfield airstrip. He invited me on a flight ostensibly to scout for cattle concealed in the rugged backcountry brush. However, once airborne, his voice crackled through my headset.
“Why not embark on a project here?” he proposed out of the blue. “From the air, you can witness the alarming aridity that’s spreading… everywhere. Focus on a water-centric project.”
As he maneuvered the aircraft, I glanced at him, conveying my skepticism through my eyes. Yet, his insight was astute. It was time to train my lens on our immediate surroundings. Initially, I suspect my father suggested the project to foster more father-son bonding, but he had also observed, like many others, the shifting snow patterns above our land—less accumulation and faster melting. The resulting runoff grew increasingly erratic, oscillating between droughts and sudden floods, indicating a drier trend in the watershed.
In the spring of 2008, I commenced tracing our irrigation supply as it meandered back to the creek and eventually merged with the Colorado. To capture aerial perspectives, I enlisted the expertise of the best aerial platform within my means: my father and his single-engine Cessna 180. We struck a deal—I covered the fuel and maintenance costs while he contributed his time and bush-piloting skills. Taking off from our undulating grass strip at 7,900 feet, we soared over the Colorado River watershed, predominantly focusing on the upper basin to capture compelling images that underscored the impacts of drought, desiccation, and transformation.
In the headwaters, we ascended to altitudes surpassing three miles above sea level, surveying snow-clad 14,000-foot peaks where rivulets originate. During a flight in late 2012, a mere dusting of snow veiled the hills, rendering even iconic summits like the Maroon Bells near Aspen bereft of their usual snow mantle.
On tranquil mornings, we cruised at low altitudes, shadowing the river’s course. Amidst battling wind gusts and evading turbulent cumulus clouds, we gained a profound understanding of how a solitary, robust lifeline—the Colorado River—sustains diverse ecosystems and communities.
Metropolitan centers in the western United States, such as Phoenix, Denver, and Las Vegas, rely significantly on the Colorado River for 40 to 90 percent of their potable water supply. In total, the river serves 40 million inhabitants across the Southwest. On paper, 22 out of the 30 federally recognized tribes in the Colorado River basin possess water rights exceeding 25 percent of the river’s flow, yet a substantial portion of these allocations remains untapped. The primary consumer depleting the river’s resources is agriculture, with over four million acres of irrigated farmland in the Colorado River watershed yielding up to 90 percent of the nation’s winter vegetable and green produce. The river’s economic impact is staggering; in 2012, its activities contributed $1.4 trillion to the Colorado Basin region—a sum equivalent to roughly one-twelfth of the GDP, a figure that likely remains consistent across six states and seven California counties.
From an aerial vantage point, the intricate network of tributaries feeding into the main river stem is discernible. Equally conspicuous are the proliferation of dams, diversions, and expanding residential complexes altering the landscape and not only diminishing reservoir capacities but also reducing the river’s volume.
Presently entrenched in the third decade of drought, climate experts contend that this predicament can no longer be regarded as transient. Indeed, the western region is experiencing its driest spell in 1,200 years, as indicated by tree-ring analyses.
With each venture that propels me upstream or downstream, I strive to underscore the intrinsic right of the Colorado River and its diverse inhabitants—be they finned, feathered, or clawed—to access water on par with our distant faucets.
Following numerous expeditions, particularly those shared with my father, I have come to realize a poignant truth: when we demand excessive quantities from a finite resource, it inevitably dwindles.
During an odyssey in December 2008, alongside writer Jonathan Waterman, we traversed nearly the entire length of the river’s once-vibrant estuary—almost entirely on foot. We trudged through the desiccated, fissured delta from the U.S.-Mexico border to the sea, a grueling 90-mile journey that tested my physical limits.
The experience not only strained my body but also weighed heavily on my spirit. Witnessing the scars we inflicted on this river—within my own lifespan—was a sobering revelation. The river’s terminus culminated in a frothy, debris-laden quagmire strewn with plastic bottles, a sight that left me reeling.
However, a few years subsequent to that arduous trek with Waterman, a glimmer of hope emerged not far from that very site. Through the diligent efforts of a select group of conservationists, a pulse flow of approximately 105,000 acre-feet of water—nearly 1 percent of the river’s annual volume—was released into the delta in 2014 to rejuvenate habitats and emulate historical flood patterns. A handful of fellow river enthusiasts and I paddled alongside this eight-week surge to the Gulf of California, witnessing the river revive pockets of the delta. Little did we anticipate that we would be among the final individuals to navigate the Colorado’s course all the way to the sea. (Rowan Jacobsen penned a seminal piece for Outside titled “The River Was Everywhere and Nowhere,” chronicling this expedition.)
In 2021 and 2022, subsequent pulse flows resuscitated segments of the delta and, aided by irrigation canals, reintegrated them with the sea. Today, several restoration zones stand as poignant reminders of the delta’s former glory and its potential for rejuvenation.
Following my delta escapades, the river beckoned once more. Over a span of 14 months, alongside my comrade Kevin Fedarko—a writer who shares my fervor for the Colorado—I embarked on an exhaustive journey through the Grand Canyon: a 750-mile trek from end to end, tracing the river’s course on foot between the riverbed and the rim. We wore out eight pairs of shoes and grappled with navigation challenges, thirst, hunger, illnesses, injuries, and exhaustion while marveling at the geological wonders of this outdoor classroom sculpted by the river.
Throughout this expedition, the paramount importance of water became acutely apparent. Each day, as we covered an average of 15 miles, we scoured the terrain for springs, rainwater pools, and seeps to procure at least a gallon of water per person for survival. Subsequently, I am perpetually astounded by the Environmental Protection Agency’s revelation that the average American household consumes 300 gallons of water daily.
Certain western cities, such as Denver and Las Vegas, have bolstered conservation efforts by implementing initiatives like eliminating front lawns, recycling gray water, and fostering heightened awareness. Between 2002 and 2021, southern Nevada managed to reduce its consumption of Colorado River water by 26 percent despite a burgeoning population. Denver Water asserts that individual residential consumers utilize as little as 50 gallons per person per day on average.
Among my myriad river adventures, few rival the bond forged during those shared flights with my father, which enabled us to connect as friends rather than merely as father and son. Presently, my father’s recollections of those aerial sojourns are fading; the relentless march of time has begun to erode his memories.
Reflecting on the Colorado River and our collaborative endeavors to document its course, one stark realization emerges: our society possesses a distressingly short collective memory—not solely concerning politics and conflicts but also in relation to natural resources such as water. We often take both water and our tenure on this planet for granted.
The previous year marked the hottest on record, yet a slightly above-average snowpack in the Rocky Mountains during the winter of 2022–23 seemingly erased these concerns. Delving deeper into recent river history and my father’s lifelong relationship with it, striking parallels emerge. Over his 86 years, we have dammed, diverted, drained, overengineered, overallocated, and overwhelmed the Colorado River, effectively hobbling one of the planet’s most magnificent waterways. As my father transitions into the twilight of his life, the Colorado River appears to mirror his trajectory.
I have borne witness to numerous valiant efforts aimed at conserving the river’s flow. Often conducted discreetly, these remarkable closed-door negotiations between disparate water users—ranchers and outdoor enthusiasts, municipalities and power plants—facilitate the coordination of water usage to sustain adequate levels in the Colorado River system for species like trout or the imperiled humpback chub, which few will ever encounter. Such endeavors instill a sense of hope—a hard-earned optimism stemming from tangible actions rather than fleeting social media campaigns.
Simultaneously, the tragedy of the commons plays out conspicuously: new developments commence without comprehensive long-term water management strategies. Water-saving measures in one area are counteracted by water-intensive expansions in neighboring regions.
While many users strive to adhere to or remain within their legal water entitlements on the river, the upper basin states have spearheaded these conservation efforts. However, downstream entities persist in asserting their century-old allocations, predicated on the erroneous assumption that the river boasted roughly 20 percent more water than it actually does.
In certain regions of Arizona and California’s Imperial Valley, I have witnessed farms yielding ten to twelve harvests of alfalfa hay for export to distant locales like Saudi Arabia or China. Such water-intensive agricultural practices defy basic principles of water management.
As the adage goes, water flows toward wealth. Presently, the Colorado River’s resources are channeled overseas in the form of alfalfa.
In the spring of 2023, following nearly a year of contentious negotiations, California, Arizona, and Nevada proposed a groundbreaking agreement. Under this pact, the federal government would allocate approximately $1.2 billion to irrigation districts, municipalities, and Native American tribes to curtail water consumption until 2026, temporarily reducing usage by an estimated 13 percent in the lower basin. While this marks a significant stride, Taylor Hawes, director of the Nature Conservancy’s Colorado River program, expressed reservations. “It’s a Band-Aid on top of a Band-Aid on top of a Band-Aid,” she remarked. “We must shift our focus and energies toward formulating enduring strategies for the health and sustainability of this river.”
I harbor doubts as to whether my father will witness the Colorado River in its former splendor—teeming with life and water. Likewise, I question whether I will have this privilege. However, if nature continues to assert its dominance, we will witness the resurgence of ghostly forests as the river and the civilization we have constructed grapple to strike a balance in the immediate future. The pressing query remains—at what cost?