Every once in a while, someone looks at a map, draws an imaginary line from Chicago to, say, Albuquerque, and thinks, "Wait a minute! If we can pipe oil across Alaska, we can pipe water from Lake Michigan."
When Richardson made that envious remark about Wisconsin's water, he tapped into the deepest fear of every Great Lakes politician: All those folks who fled to the Sun Belt will try to take the water with them. Richardson quickly clarified his remarks, saying he "believes firmly in keeping water in its basin of origin."
But he wasn't the first desert chieftain to look covetously at the Great Lakes. In 2001, President Bush tried to talk to Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chrétien about piping water to Texas. Chrétien wouldn't even discuss it. Three years later, trying to win Michigan, Bush declared, "We're never going to allow the diversion of Great Lakes water." Former House Majority Leader Dick Armey once told unamused Michiganders that the Southwest "could use some of that water of yours."
The Great Lakes define Michigan, not just geographically but emotionally. Michiganders see themselves as guardians of the Lakes, and have raised holy hell about issues as minor as exporting bottled water from local springs. For a state that's losing auto factories and college graduates, water is the last drawing card left. This year, when Georgia Republican John Linder introduced a bill to study the nation's water use, two Michigan congressmen condemned it as the overture of a plot to drain the Great Lakes.
"My constituents are not going to support diverting Great Lakes water, particularly to areas of the United States that have lured jobs and people from Michigan," snarled U.S. Rep. Candice Miller, R-Lake Huron.
In other words: You wanted to go live in that sandbox. Don't come crying back to us when you can't find anything to drink. Rep. Vernon Ehlers, R-Lake Michigan, was even more belligerent. He threatened to "call up the militia" to defend his region's water.
But taking water from the Great Lakes is not the same as taking coal from West Virginia, or oil from Alaska. The Great Lakes are not giant reservoirs to be drawn on whenever the nation needs a drink. They're an ecosystem. Lowering the Lakes would destroy fish spawning grounds and steal water from farmers. Thanks partly to the same climate change that has the South thirsting, the Lakes are as shallow as they've ever been. They haven't frozen over in recent winters, and no ice cover means more evaporation. In November, a freighter carrying limestone into Muskegon, Mich., had to turn back when its hull struck bottom.
"Water diversion is the third rail of Great Lakes politics," says Peter Annin, author of "The Great Lakes Water Wars." "It's the one issue that unites Democrats and Republicans. Bill Richardson's candidacy is over because of his comments. You throw Ohio, Illinois, Michigan, Pennsylvania, New York out of the mix, it's really hard to win an election."
Those states, along with Minnesota, Indiana and Wisconsin, are already working to seal off their water from the rest of North America. In 2005, they negotiated the Great Lakes-St. Lawrence River Basin Water Resources Compact, which bans all large-scale transfers of water outside the basin. The compact must be ratified by all eight legislatures before going to Congress. Its framers are pushing to get it there before 2012, when the Southwestern states are likely to gain more seats at the Midwest's expense. (In the last reapportionment, every Great Lakes state except Minnesota lost a congressman. New York and Pennsylvania, once the most populous states, lost two apiece. Most were shifted to water-poor states, including Georgia, Arizona, Texas and California.)
"In terms of subsidizing golf courses in Arizona and further sprawl in Atlanta, we're not willing to do that," says McDiarmid. "If you're having water resource problems, looking to Great Lakes water is not the solution."
Unless, of course, you're looking at it out the window of your new lakefront home. So to Sun Belters, I say: Come on back. This is not an idle appeal. The Great Lakes basin is home to 33 million people. But its water can support millions more. William Frey, a demographer who has studied the Sun Belt migration for the Brookings Institution, thinks the South's water shortages may "spur a U-turn" in that decades-long pattern. Moribund Michigan, Ohio and New York may finally have a chance to recover all those kids who buggered off to California with their master's degrees, as well as all those congress members and electoral votes. They'll need to modernize their economies to lure people back, but water can play a role in that.
"The Sun Belt migration was thought to be a way to make more land habitable, to make more use of the Southwest," Frey says. "Maybe it's time to revisit that. Maybe people will find out it's better to have water year-round and put up with a little cold weather."
After all, water is a major cultural amenity, says John Austin, director of the Great Lakes Economic Initiative. Most Great Lakes cities sit on magnificent waterfronts. Tear down the old factories blighting the view -- as Waukegan, Ill., is now trying to do -- and you can create downtowns full of expensive lofts and coffee shops with open-mike nights. "People like to live and work in places that are proximate to water," Austin says. "Traverse City, Mich., is so physically beautiful that people who can work anywhere -- people with graphic design businesses, media businesses -- have chosen to live there. That's a huge piece of the economic picture. "
There are loads of other cultural advantages to consider. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra vs. Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede and Dinner Show in Myrtle Beach. The Shaw Festival in Niagara-on-the Lake, Ontario, vs. the Hall of Presidents at Walt Disney World. Wrigley Field vs. Qualcomm Stadium. Sheboygan bratwurst vs. Jimmy Dean sausage. Up here, when we talk about a right-winger, we mean a hockey player. You'll save all kinds of money on sunglasses, sunscreen and carcinoma-removal procedures. And you can live in a real city, not a suburb with a million people. Downtown Chicago actually has buildings older than your parents. Beat that, Phoenix.
Sun Belters, you have a choice: get used to the droughts, or move to Detroit -- or Cleveland, or Syracuse, or Chicago, or Duluth -- and get used to the winters. They're not as tough as they used to be. As you may have noticed, the climate is changing.
About the writer
Edward McClelland is the author of "The Third Coast: Sailors, Strippers, Fishermen Folksingers, Long-Haired Ojibway Painters and God-Save-the-Queen Monarchists of the Great Lakes," to be published in February by Chicago Review Press. He lives in Chicago.
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