Chris Casad wakes before dawn on his Central Oregon property, purchased nine years ago with the dream of expanding his potato farm. Now, at 38, his farm struggles under the weight of aging equipment, mounting debt, and the persistent specter of water scarcity, forcing him to fallow fields and take on work feeding cattle on neighboring lands. He and his wife, Cate, are navigating a financial minefield, their young family facing the strain of a farm that demands constant, costly repairs and offers dwindling returns.

The crisis for farms like the Casads’ began with a severe drought that gripped the region, ushering in three consecutive summers of ecological distress. Starving grasshoppers decimated remaining crops, reservoirs turned toxic with algal blooms, nearly a thousand Oregon wells ran dry, and the vital springs feeding the Deschutes River dwindled to their lowest recorded levels. Yet, the ultimate blow to Casad’s livelihood was not solely nature’s wrath, but an entrenched, century-old Oregon law governing water rights. This legislation, designed to prioritize certain water users, inadvertently exacerbates the plight of others.

Farmers in Jefferson County, where Casad resides, found their community’s allocation of irrigation water from the Deschutes River significantly reduced under this law. The consequences were devastating, leading to the abandonment of a third of the county’s irrigated land. Casad recounts a somber reality, "There were a number of suicides, let alone people who closed up shop, older farmers just not wanting to waste their life’s worth of work and their savings on just trying to keep it going."

Meanwhile, just miles upstream, the same legal framework allows landowners within the Central Oregon Irrigation District (COID) to consume vast quantities of water on some of the state’s most valuable real estate and least productive farmland. COID, a quasi-municipal entity akin to a public utility and homeowners association combined, controls the lion’s share of the Deschutes River’s water. Analysis of water usage by ProPublica and Oregon Public Broadcasting reveals that six irrigation districts collectively divert over 90% of the river’s flow between May and September, with COID being by far the most dominant. Its substantial water rights, secured in the early 1900s when the district was an early applicant, grant it priority during times of drought, a cornerstone of Western water law where senior rights are jealously guarded.

The Central Oregon Irrigation District diverts more water annually from the Deschutes in Bend than all other irrigation districts combined, a stark statistic highlighting its immense influence. This legal seniority allows COID to continue drawing substantial volumes of water, provided landowners within its district can demonstrate its "beneficial use." However, the state’s interpretation of what constitutes "beneficial use" and what constitutes "waste" has proven remarkably flexible. Investigations revealed that during the recent drought, only one in every four gallons diverted by COID was actually absorbed by crops.

While state officials did not dispute these findings, leaders at the irrigation district expressed skepticism regarding the data, which was compiled by state agencies for water availability studies. COID officials argued that the drought years were exceptional, yet the analysis spanning both wet and dry periods indicated a consistent, low proportion of water reaching crops. Much of the diverted water, records show, percolated into the ground, evaporated into the arid air, or drained into surrounding scrublands and deserts, with some replenishing aquifers and returning downstream to a river already burdened by elevated temperatures and pollution. The scant fraction that did nourish crops was overwhelmingly dedicated to grass and pasture.

Chris Casad, a native of Bend, witnessed firsthand the transformation of his region from a timber and agricultural hub to a center for tourism and recreation, as farmland gave way to suburban sprawl. Even now, irrigation canals snake through Bend’s residential neighborhoods, extending to luxurious estates, ranches, and resorts on the city’s periphery. Among these properties is a sprawling horse ranch owned by Phil and Penelope Knight, of Nike fame, one of the world’s wealthiest families and, according to water use data, one of COID’s largest consumers. Their ranch, which raises high-end horses and sells hay, declined to comment on their water management practices.

Another example of affluent water use is an 80-acre property transformed from dry scrubland into an "exclusive compound paradise," as described in a recent auction listing. Cinematographer Byron Garth acquired water rights through COID a decade ago, cultivating a landscape featuring a 6,300-square-foot mansion with heated floors, multiple guest houses, an expansive garage, and a swimming pool, all enveloped by lush, green lawns. Garth admitted that while he questioned the water usage during the drought, he rationalized it by believing someone had to use the water. A realtor highlighted the aesthetic appeal of the manicured grounds, noting that "it’s nicer to look out over a lush pasture than it is the high desertscape."

The Ranch at the Canyons, a gated community of opulent Tuscan-style mansions, exemplifies another significant water consumer within the district. Its residents collectively own an equestrian center, a wedding venue, a winery, and a nonprofit farm, promising homeowners "the peaceful rhythm of agricultural life—without the work." Similarly, a $15 million property listing paints a picture of a "Playground for Ambitions, for Imagination, for Dreamers, and for Doers." Analysis of state data from 2015 to 2022 indicates that over 90% of COID’s acreage is dedicated to grass—primarily pasture and hay for livestock, alongside extensive landscaping.

Casad’s own farming career began within COID, though his focus was on intensive crop production, not grass. By 2010, he was successfully cultivating thousands of tons of organic potatoes annually, a crop that once positioned Central Oregon as a major supplier. He supplied local farmers’ markets, provided potatoes to a regional brewery, and welcomed school groups to showcase the realities of a working farm. COID’s water was once a reliable resource, "always on," Casad recalled. However, the consistent water supply presented its own challenges, as he couldn’t unilaterally cease irrigation without jeopardizing his landlord’s water rights. This led to the practice of managing an "overabundance," often by digging ponds to capture excess water.

On more than a third of COID’s land, irrigation is conducted through flood-irrigating fields, where water is channeled directly across the land, saturating crops and then pooling or draining away. While water management experts note that this runoff and canal leakage can eventually filter into aquifers or return to the river system, contributing to its recirculation within the basin, the immediate impacts are felt downstream. State scientists report that fish habitats in the Deschutes River suffer as irrigation districts divert the vast majority of its flow during the growing season. Average remaining flows over the past decade have fallen significantly short of ecological needs.

Even landowners who flood irrigate for hay and pasture, like David Fisher, a 72-year-old butcher shop owner, express concern. "We’re just wasting water. Really. We are," he stated, adding, "Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a tree hugger or one of those people that think that we should stop this for the frogs or the fish. But there’s got to be a middle of the road."

Oregon’s legal framework for water rights, rooted in the "beneficial use without waste" principle, has historically been permissive. Decades-old legal precedents, such as a California court ruling that prohibited using irrigation water to drown gophers, illustrate the narrow definition of waste. Water rights are treated as property rights, and courts have largely deferred to historical practices in determining water allocation. Attorney Karen Russell describes the legal understanding of waste as akin to pornography: "You know it when you see it." This broad interpretation means that whether a landowner cultivates crops for a celebrated regional potato festival or maintains vast lawns for luxury estates, the water right is protected.

Craig Horrell, COID’s Managing Director, has publicly defended the district’s practices, bristling at the term "hobby farms" and asserting that district managers cannot dictate land use choices. "We as district managers don’t get to decide whether we like somebody growing carrot seed or somebody having two llamas and a Prius in the driveway," he argued. "If you’re using your water beneficially and growing a beneficial crop, that is what we manage. We don’t have the right to say whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing." The district actively monitors land use through aerial surveillance, flying planes over its 70-plus square miles of fields to identify dry spots. Landowners risk losing their water rights if they fail to demonstrate use at least once every five years, a process that has led to the cancellation of rights in only four instances statewide since 2020, none of which occurred within COID.

COID’s Deputy Director of Water Rights, Jessi Talbott, noted that the district actively encourages water use, sending over a thousand letters to landowners since 2021 about potential water right forfeiture, aiming to promote water stewardship. However, this has led to unusual practices. Casad’s former landlord received a warning letter in 2016, prompting the Casads to water a compost pile and equipment yard to satisfy the district’s requirements, a costly and inefficient necessity. Similarly, Andria Truax and Dan Baumann, who operate a nursery specializing in drought-tolerant plants, received a warning letter in 2023, forcing them to irrigate areas that were difficult to grow anything on, even as other farmers faced water cutbacks.

Talbott expressed frustration with the finding that only about 25% of COID’s diverted water was consumed by crops, calling it "infuriating," given the district’s educational efforts. Horrell, however, maintained that the district does not over-deliver water and, in fact, some properties receive insufficient amounts. COID’s own water management conservation plan, covering 2015-2020, estimated crop water needs at roughly 27% of the district’s diversion, a figure that aligns with the recent analysis. District officials have not responded to requests for comment regarding these figures.

State leaders have grappled for years with the complex challenge of managing the Deschutes Basin’s water resources amidst increasing drought, population growth, and escalating demand. Bend and Redmond, the basin’s largest cities, face uncertain future water supplies, with COID diverting significantly more water than both cities combined during the 2022 drought. While agriculture is a major water user nationally, COID’s contribution to Oregon’s agricultural economy is comparatively low, with the region notable primarily for its horse sales.

State Representative Mark Owens, a hay farmer and advocate for water management reform, criticized the surplus water allocation to "hobby farmers" who he argues do not need or utilize it efficiently. He contends that Oregon’s water management framework, designed to foster rural economies, is outdated and no longer serves its intended purpose. "You have a group of folks that employ nobody, harvest nothing, so how are you actually providing a public benefit for that water?" Owens questioned, asserting that the system is indeed broken and that the focus should be on maximizing "crop per drop."

Oregon’s legislature has favored incentives over mandates, offering programs that compensate landowners for leaving water in rivers without forfeiting their rights. While Baumann and Truax participated in such a program, COID’s board has capped enrollment, limiting access for many. Horrell explained that the district must maintain high canal water levels to ensure adequate delivery to farms at the end of the system, a consequence of its 120-year-old gravity-fed infrastructure. The district acknowledges the significant water loss through evaporation and leakage, seeking over $700 million in public funding to replace open canals with pressurized pipes.

"There is no dispute that we all want a better, more equal, more balanced water delivery system that benefits our river, our partners, districts, cities. That’s a given," Horrell stated, adding, "How we get there is what we argue about." He emphasized that COID operates as a business that must adapt to climate change, noting the district’s voluntary reduction in diversions during recent droughts and its efforts to supply water to downstream farmers through piping initiatives. Yet, he maintained that these actions do not diminish the district’s water rights. Environmental advocate Yancy Lind observes that despite public ownership of rivers, irrigation districts hold significant power, stating, "We live in the West and in the West, water is power and the irrigators have the water. It’s that simple. They have all the cards. We’re just trying to pull little crumbs out from them."

Chris Casad ultimately relocated his farming operations to the North Unit Irrigation District in Jefferson County, a district that historically receives less water and is the first to face cutbacks during droughts. While North Unit offers half the water per acre compared to COID, its farmers are recognized for their efficiency, employing water-saving sprinklers and runoff-capture systems. Casad calculated that this reduced water supply on more fertile land could suffice. However, the 2020 drought tested this strategy, forcing him to fallow two acres for every acre of vegetables planted. His neighbor, dairy farmer Jos Poland, faced similar hardship, selling half his herd due to soaring feed costs.

The emotional toll of the drought was profound. Casad recalled working through the night on his farm while his wife experienced labor contractions, understanding the immense pressure he carried. He spoke of burying the painful memories deep within. Jefferson County Commissioner Kelly Simmelink reported a near doubling of the county’s suicide rate during the drought years, a crisis exacerbated by falling commodity prices, rising operational costs, and water scarcity. This led to the successful establishment of a state-funded suicide prevention hotline for agricultural producers.

Two years into the drought, Casad learned he would need to reduce his water usage even further, dedicating four fallow acres for every one planted. The news devastated his wife, Cate Havstad-Casad, who lamented in a video diary, "It doesn’t have to be this way. It is Oregon water law which will give a very wealthy person with a hayfield that they literally mow and leave in the field and do nothing with because their life has nothing to do with the land… that person will get twice as much water as any professional farmer will get in North Unit."

Casad no longer grows potatoes; his once-vital harvester now serves as a playground slide for his young children. He now cultivates hay and grass for cattle, crops requiring less water. However, the future remains precarious for farmers in the Deschutes Basin, with the current year’s snowpack being one of the lowest on record, impacting the springs that feed the river. More than half of Oregon counties have already declared drought emergencies. The Casad farm is still contending with debts incurred during the last drought, and Chris Casad has taken on roles as a part-time feedlot worker and now a school bus driver, a stark contrast to his aspirations as a potato farmer. The once-prominent potato harvester, a symbol of his farming ambitions, now stands idle, a relic of a different era.