A Colorado newspaperman fights for his valley's water

  • Steve Starr
  • Pueblo Chieftain Publisher Bob Rawlings stands next to Fountain Creek, near its confluence with the Arkansas River in Colorado's Lower Arkansas Valley.

    Steve Starr
  • Bob Rawlings in front of the "Rogues Gallery."

    Steve Starr
  • Rawlings has thrown himself into a fight to keep outsiders from taking any more water from the Arkansas River, shown above as it flows through Pueblo.

    Steve Starr
  • The Lower Arkansas Valley's fortunes have risen and fallen since the Dust Bowl. Dust storm in Baca County in the Lower Arkansas Valley, c. 1936.

    D.R. Kernodle, Farm Securities Administration/Library of Congress
  • The Pueblo Star-Journal celebrated Congress' approval of the Fryingpan-Arkansas Project, which would bring water to the valley from western Colorado, on June 15, 1962

    Pueblo Star-Journal, courtesy the Pueblo Chieftain
  • One month later, president John F. Kennedy flew to Pueblo to dedicate the project.

    The U.S. National Archives and Records Administration
  • A dry ditch in Crowley County, where only 4 percent of the historic cropland is still farmed.

    Steve Starr
  • Jay Winner, general manager of the Lower Arkansas Valley Water Conservancy District. Rawlings pushed for the creation of the district, but then became critical of its efforts to help farmers negotiate strategic deals with thirsty cities.

    Steve Starr
  • The newsroom at the Pueblo Chieftain, which has been buffeted by the recession and by readers' and advertisers' turn to the Web.

    Steve Starr

Updated 3/20/12

Out east of Pueblo, Colo., where juniper, sage and bitterbrush melt into the wide-open shortgrass prairie, towns with names like Manzanola, Ordway, Rocky Ford, Swink and La Junta dot the Lower Arkansas River Valley. These were the kinds of agricultural settlements celebrated by William Ellison Smythe, an early-20th-century champion of filling the West with irrigated farms. In his book, The Conquest of Arid America, Smythe exhorted yeoman farmers escaping the urban squalor of the East to "grapple with the desert, translate its gray barrenness into green fields and gardens, banish its silence with the laughter of children."

For Smythe, there was no more exalted calling than that of the toiling farmer, and his praise often soared to delirious heights: "This is the breed of men who make the Republic possible, who keep the lamp of faith burning through the night of corrupt commercialism, and who bear the Ark of the Covenant to the Promised Land." Water, of course, was the key to that vision. Since Smythe's time, though, the West has grown tremendously and its cities have boomed. Today, the Lower Arkansas Valley is a far cry from the irrigation crusader's dreams of an earthly paradise. The water from one-third of the valley's irrigated farmland -- about 150,000 acres -- is now controlled by outsiders, who have already siphoned much of it to Denver's suburbs, 130 miles away. Once-green fields lie permanently fallowed, laced with dried-up irrigation ditches and marked by the great carcasses of cottonwoods slowly falling to pieces.

But the spirit of William E. Smythe endures, at least in the editorial pages of the local newspaper, The Pueblo Chieftain. Started in 1868 by a former Confederate army surgeon, the Chieftain is the oldest continuously published daily in Colorado. Its editor and publisher is a man named Bob Rawlings, and for years he has been using his $8 million, German-built Man Roland Uniset printing press to thunder against what he sees as water grabs by predatory outsiders.

Rawlings, who turned 87 last August, has a faintly Merlin-esque mien -- complete with goatee and a wizard's eyebrows. He is mercurial, by turns gracious, prickly and sentimental. It is not unusual for him to choke up, particularly when he talks about his family's history and the star-crossed plight of the valley's farms.

The two subjects are deeply intertwined. Rawlings' grandfather, father and uncle -- and the local newspapers they controlled -- were instrumental in the campaign to build one of the main water systems that feeds Arkansas Valley farms. For years, Rawlings watched with growing dismay as distant cities took the valley's water. Then, roughly a decade ago, a Denver suburb that already owned most of one major canal system came calling for the rest. To Rawlings, the maneuver seemed a potential death blow to the local people and culture. Suddenly, his legacy became manifest.

"Before that, it was just another news story," says Steve Henson, the Chieftain's managing editor. "And ever since then, it's been a war."

The Chieftain is printed out of a squat building on western 6th Street in Pueblo near the railyard, where downtown's brick buildings give way to the lazy meander of the Arkansas River. Rawlings runs the newspaper from a suite with several well-stuffed chairs and a lighted globe. The most high-tech thing inside is an IBM Selectric II typewriter.

For a man with such a fierce print voice, Rawlings is surprisingly amiable. He is nearly deaf -- a result of his time aboard a submarine chaser during World War II -- so he follows conversations with unusual attentiveness. In person, he rarely utters phrases more blasphemous than "I'll be doggone."

One wall of his office is home to what he calls "the Rogues     Gallery": a collection of photographs of himself glad-handing practically every politician who's passed through Pueblo. But a far less ostentatious memento hints at Rawlings' true passion. On the coffee table lies a small, gold-painted skillet engraved with the words:


It's an emblem of the role that the newspaper and its publisher's family have played in securing and defending water for the valley, an enterprise that stretches almost as far back as Rawlings' own life.

Rawlings was born on Aug. 3, 1924. At the time, his grandfather, Frank Hoag Sr., owned the Chieftain's afternoon competitor, the Star-Journal, propounding his views in forceful front-page editorials with lots of all-capital letters. Rawlings' relationship with Hoag was always fractious. But Rawlings inherited a distinctive trait from him.

"My grandfather was a goer," Rawlings says. "He was a fighter."

In 1933, Hoag bought the Chieftain. It was a pivotal time for the valley, one that would push the paper to play a major role in local water politics and shape Rawlings' views about the importance of the resource.

M/M Warren Anderson
M/M Warren Anderson Subscriber
Mar 19, 2012 07:56 PM
"Crowley County, west of Pueblo..." For god's sake HCN, does nobody know what north, south, east and west are any more? When one reads these terms in print today they are just random or even more often, the opposite of what the author should have written. Is this part of the dumbing-down of America? When I look at this: http://maps.google.com/maps[…]p;sqi=2&ved=0CEwQ8gEwAg it sure looks to me like Crowley county is EAST of Pueblo. This is not the first time I've bused the HCN on this. Do you not have proof readers / fact checkers?
Sarah Gilman
Sarah Gilman Subscriber
Mar 20, 2012 09:57 AM
Hi Warren--
Thanks for pointing out our geographical confusion. We aren't, as you charge, inept. Like all publications, however, even with diligent fact checking and proof-reading we don't always catch every error -- sometimes, to our endless embarassment, even obvious ones sneak through. We have a small staff and a high output magazine.

Associate Editor Sarah Gilman
Greg Poschman
Greg Poschman
Mar 21, 2012 12:04 PM
The HCN story of Bob Rawlings is a classic tale of one influential man's moral conflict and hubris, yet the story is incomplete. Like Rawlings the author disregards the damaging consequences of the original water diversion.

Rawlings will be remembered for maintaining a distinct tribal myopia for decades, and perhaps for overlooking the maxim that there is no honor among thieves. That Aurora is the bully stealing Pueblo's water makes me want to laugh at the absurdity of his moral predicament, and cry for the decimated rivers to the west.

Pueblo and the other diverters take water from the Western slope, depleting the Frying Pan, which along with the Roaring Fork, The Eagle, The Blue and The Fraser rivers are threatened, in danger of dying or already dead. They haven't given much more than lip service and a trickle of cash for the restoration and protection of riverine ecosystems, aquifers, forests or economies on the continental divide. We should not weep for Rawlings and his fellow hypocrites.

Colorado's historic and iconic water resources are dwindling and fouled. In simple financial terms a 10 billion dollar tourism industry is endangered by wasteful municipalities, unsustainable development and the pathetic nostalgia for William Smythe, Frank Hoag and other would-be conquerors of the west. One only has to look at the murky, "snot grass"-choked lake that was crystal-clear Lake Granby, once known as "The Jewel of Colorado," and at President Eisenhower's beloved Fraser River, now not more than an algae-clogged ditch. What was the 'Roaring Fork' river will scarcely trickle this summer and the Frying Pan has been reduced to a faux fishery for tired trout...yet we still hear the drums for increased diversion.

Show me a true Colorado hero who speaks for the rivers, forests and wildlife which, like us, depend on healthy riparian zones to thrive.
Coloradans will need to get smart about preserving the natural water resources that attracted our forefathers to Colorado, before we become another Owens valley. It won't be accomplished by Rawlings and the water grabbers, but by Colorado citizens statewide who can appreciate all we have, and all we have to lose. Maybe that hero will ride in from the west, from a land with even greater water scarcity than our own, where the citizens practice conservation out of an immediate necessity.

Greg Poschman
Sally Buttshaw
Sally Buttshaw Subscriber
Mar 27, 2012 11:37 PM
western water issues are never going to go away, but the water is going to eventually. the best part of this article is in the first paragraph - Rocky Ford - the best cantelope I have ever tasted !