For generations, the Hopi people have carried prophecies foretelling a profound disruption to the Earth and its intricate web of life, coinciding with the arrival of non-Indigenous nations. This ancient wisdom, echoed in the evocative 1982 film Koyaanisqatsi – a Hopi term signifying "life out of balance" – starkly contrasts the escalating pace of industrialization with the timeless, enduring spirit of their ancestral lands. Today, these warnings manifest with alarming clarity across the American West, where record-breaking heat domes, severely diminished snowpack, and persistent drought conditions serve as undeniable omens of the ecological disequilibrium long anticipated by Hopi elders and ancestors. The very fabric of the land, once vibrant and self-sustaining, now groans under the weight of human impact, signaling a critical juncture for both environmental policy and global consciousness.

Central to this unfolding crisis is the plight of Pisisvayu, the Colorado River, a vital artery now tragically constricted by pah’uutsi, the imposing Glen Canyon Dam. This monumental structure, intended to impound vast quantities of water, has transformed a once-free-flowing river into the stagnant expanse of Lake Powell. Here, sacred sites lie submerged beneath baking, increasingly saline waters, while the precious resource is siphoned off for extensive development projects in burgeoning urban centers like St. George, Utah. The river’s historical, life-giving journey to paatuwaqatsi, the Sea of Cortez, is prematurely terminated, a stark symbol of a natural system severed. Glen Canyon Dam is but one of three such colossal barriers in Arizona, erected with the ambition of harnessing Pisisvayu‘s flow. Yet, the Hopi retain a profound memory of a bygone era, a time when water was revered not as a commodity to be controlled, but as a cherished family member, treated with respect and deep understanding. The Hopi people, through their ancient covenant with the Creator, bear the sacred responsibility of stewarding both the land and its indispensable waters, a duty that stands in stark contrast to prevailing modern practices.

For millennia, the Hopi sustained themselves by meticulously hauling water to their mesa-top villages, undertaking arduous journeys up steep hills to bring this life-force into their homes and for their sacred ceremonies. This enduring tradition, predating colonization, highlights their deep-seated reverence for water. As master dry farmers, they have, for countless generations, cultivated food relying exclusively on the rhythms of rain cycles and the accumulation of snowpack. The experience of individuals like a long-time Hopi rancher, who has spent over six decades growing food for his family on the small reservation square in northern Arizona – a parcel carved out of Hopitutskwa, their expansive traditional lands, by the federal government – exemplifies this profound connection. Beyond dry farming, decades of ranching and heating homes with wood have instilled an intimate understanding of living directly off the land. The conscious choice to round up cattle on horseback rather than using environmentally disruptive all-terrain vehicles underscores a commitment to mitigating severe damage to delicate vegetation and soil. Even when physical injuries, sustained during military service, prevent riding, the commitment to stewardship compels individuals to tend to the land on foot, a testament to the Creator-bestowed responsibility that transcends personal hardship.

Across countless generations, the Hopi people have been unwilling witnesses to a dramatic transformation of their environment, observing profound changes in animal populations, human communities, the very landscape, and their traditional food systems. They have watched with increasing alarm as water, a sacred and finite resource, has been diverted from their lands to fuel what they perceive as luxuries – the sprawling golf courses and shimmering swimming pools of distant urban centers, fed by massive infrastructure projects like the Central Arizona Project. These amenities, entirely absent on the Hopi mesas, provoke a fundamental question: Are these diversions driven by genuine need, or by insatiable want? This query encapsulates the core conflict between sustainable, traditional practices and the demands of modern development.

A pervasive ignorance and an entrenched refusal to heed the wisdom of experienced land stewards permeate legislative and management decisions at every level of government. The ability to retain water on the land is fundamentally undermined as federal agencies – including the U.S. Forest Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and the higher legislative and executive bodies governing them – consistently prioritize external interests over the long-term health of Indigenous lands and communities. These agencies, operating under paradigms that treat public lands and waters as commodities to be exploited by the highest bidder, perpetuate a colonial legacy. The proposed transfer of Oak Flat, a site of profound sacred significance for the Apache people in central Arizona, to Rio Tinto under the deceptive guise of a "prosperous land exchange," represents a chilling continuation of this colonial frontier. Rio Tinto, an international mining giant, is not an American company, yet its operations would demand immense quantities of water for its highly intensive mining processes. This raises critical questions: Where will this colossal volume of water originate? And, crucially, who will bear the responsibility for cleaning up the inevitable pollutants that will inevitably flow downstream, threatening the water sources and ecosystems of major population centers like Phoenix and Tucson? The precedent set by such decisions extends far beyond immediate environmental impact, signaling a disregard for Indigenous sovereignty and environmental justice on a global scale.

Throughout Hopitutskwa, particularly in regions like New Mexico, these same agencies and decision-makers, often heavily influenced by powerful special interests such as the oil and gas industry, are facilitating rampant hydraulic fracturing, or fracking. This extractive practice not only exacerbates the climate crisis by releasing greenhouse gases but also consumes and contaminates immense volumes of water, further depleting already scarce resources. This destructive pattern is not confined to Indigenous lands; it is a global phenomenon, stripping water from the land in pursuit of energy. The question resurfaces with increasing urgency: Is this a fundamental need, or an unbridled want? For the Hopi, the connection between earthly actions and spiritual journeys is profound. Upon passing, their bodies’ moisture is believed to rejoin the Earth, allowing them to become Oomawsinom – the Cloud People, vital bringers of rain. The relentless emissions, pollutants, and profound disrespect for water are seen as obstructing the completion of this sacred spiritual journey, severing the deep interconnectedness between humanity and the natural world.

In Arizona, a troubling proliferation of anti-wolf and anti-wildlife legislation has emerged at both state and federal levels, largely instigated by the cattle industry and designed to enrich shareholders who often have no direct stake in the ecological health of the region. One egregious example, House Bill 2160, sought to empower special interest groups to manage wolf populations should they fall under state jurisdiction. Alarmingly, this legislation deliberately excluded tribal voices, despite Indigenous communities having successfully coexisted with wolves and other "predators" for millennia without succumbing to such manufactured panic. This legislative push is perceived as a calculated distraction, a constructed hysteria designed to divert attention from holding state and federal agencies accountable for the dire fate of numerous wild creatures. Scientific data overwhelmingly demonstrates that wolves are keystone species, playing an indispensable role in maintaining ecosystem health, including the critical function of keeping water on the land by regulating herbivore populations and allowing riparian vegetation to flourish. The Creator, in forming humans and animals, established a delicate balance within the ecosystem, populating it with waterfowl, reptiles, amphibians, and raptors – all seen as messengers vital to bringing water back to the land, not merely people tasked with management.

The U.S. Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management, both bound by a "multiple use mandate," treat aboriginal lands as an economic balance sheet, relying on outdated metrics of success such as cattle head counts and timber logging quotas. While these agencies are legally mandated to consult with tribes, this often devolves into perfunctory 30-minute phone calls with tribal government officials, entirely lacking the face-to-face engagement and deep relational work essential for true collaboration with cultural practitioners. Crucially, consultation does not equate to consent. The stark reality remains: one cannot drink oil or money. These so-called public lands are rapidly desiccating due to unsustainable practices: overgrazing, aggressive thinning, and the recreational demands of all-terrain vehicle (ATV) use. Furthermore, the limited environmental protections in place are being systematically dismantled, notably under administrations heavily influenced by the fossil fuel industry. Precious time is squandered defending basic environmental safeguards, time that should instead be proactively dedicated to compelling these agencies to genuinely serve the people, the land, and the animals. A fundamental shift is required, redefining success to prioritize keeping water on the land through abundant biodiversity, enhanced habitat connectivity, and genuine co-existence with all forms of life.

The systemic mismanagement of land in the relentless pursuit of profit lies at the very foundation of this escalating global disaster, threatening the continuation of life itself. It is the underlying reason why ancestral sites were submerged in the creation of Lake Powell, a testament to the settler belief that a wild river could be bent to human will, its waters contained indefinitely within an unnatural concrete basin. Yet, as the waters of Lake Powell recede dramatically due to accelerating climate change, revealing long-lost ancestral sites, the Hopi’s ancient wisdom is validated: there is no sustainable way to artificially hold water on the land in such a manner. True water retention on the land occurs organically, within the bodies of animals, in the intricate root systems and branches of trees, and in the moisture-rich soil of old-growth forests. Water is conserved when deer and elk populations are naturally regulated by their wolf relatives, allowing vital vegetation to flourish and stabilize riparian zones. Water is preserved when it is not ruthlessly drilled, blasted, or fracked from the Earth’s core for industrial consumption. Ultimately, water is held within our own human bodies, an intrinsic part of the interconnected whole, every single drop precious. Paahuquatsi – water is life. Kwakw’kwy: Thank you.