On a searing April day in White Mesa, Utah, Malcolm Lehi expertly navigated his Jeep Wrangler across a rugged dirt track, winding through scattered junipers and sagebrush. His quest was simple yet profound: to locate Entrance Spring, a pristine natural water source nestled within lands inextricably linked to his people, the Ute Mountain Ute. This cool, mossy spring lies perilously close, just across the highway, from the White Mesa Mill, a facility of critical national importance as the United States’ sole remaining conventional uranium mill. This industrial hub produces yellowcake, the foundational material for nuclear power fuel, a commodity now at the heart of America’s energy future.

For decades, the mill has been a lightning rod for intense debate, fueling fears among local communities that radioactive contamination could insidiously seep into their precious water sources and permeate the very air they breathe. These concerns resonate most acutely within the White Mesa Ute Community, where approximately 200 tribal members, including Lehi, reside a mere five miles south of the expansive facility. While state regulators and Energy Fuels, the company that has owned the mill since 2012, steadfastly assert that any pollution linked to their operations remains securely contained, this assurance offers scant comfort to the nearby tribal members. Their deep-seated apprehension is rooted in the stark, deadly legacy of uranium extraction that has scarred the vast expanse of the Colorado Plateau for generations, prompting profound questions about the potential for toxic waste to spread. Consequently, many in the community refuse to drink the local tap water, instead relying exclusively on bottled alternatives for their daily needs.

The tribe’s long-standing concerns have recently acquired an unprecedented urgency, driven by a powerful federal push to revitalize domestic uranium production. A pivotal federal law, enacted in 2024, mandates a complete ban on Russian uranium imports by 2028, thereby placing immense pressure on the nation to cultivate robust domestic fuel supplies. This policy shift is further amplified by former President Donald Trump’s ambitious goal, articulated during his presidency, to quadruple U.S. nuclear energy capacity by 2050, a vision underpinned by executive orders prioritizing mining on federal lands and expediting the approval process for new mining projects. This accelerated approach has already demonstrated its impact, as exemplified by the Velvet-Wood uranium mine in Utah, which famously sped through federal environmental review in a mere 11 days, drawing widespread dismay and sharp criticism from local tribes who were afforded a scant week to provide their vital input.

Achieving the formidable objective of quadrupling nuclear power capacity presents significant challenges, primarily due to the inherent difficulties in constructing new reactors and the frequent local opposition they encounter, as highlighted by David Hart, a senior fellow for climate and energy at the Council on Foreign Relations. Nevertheless, the burgeoning demand from energy-intensive data centers and the broader surge in electricity consumption have intensified interest in nuclear power as a viable, low-carbon energy solution, with a growing number of states now actively exploring and facilitating its expansion. Consequently, the critical endeavor to secure uranium, the essential ingredient for this energy source, is now vigorously underway across the nation.

The White Mesa Mill, strategically constructed in 1980 near what is now the iconic Bears Ears National Monument in southeastern Utah, stands as a central nexus in this latest uranium boom. It represents a focal point of the escalating tensions between deeply held local tribal concerns and overarching national economic interests. The surge in demand translates into a relentless procession of heavy trucks, daily transporting uranium ore to the mill from various regional mines, including one situated perilously close to the Grand Canyon, home to the Havasupai Tribe. This ore is then trucked directly through the sovereign lands of the Navajo Nation. Adding to the apprehension, the mill has also announced plans to expand its already extensive waste storage facilities, exacerbating local fears.

Malcolm Lehi, a former tribal councilmember, has emerged as a key figure in a rapidly expanding opposition movement that now encompasses members of the Havasupai and Navajo (Diné) tribes. These distinct tribal communities find themselves unwillingly linked by the very uranium trucking routes that traverse their ancestral lands. The Havasupai and Ute Mountain Ute tribes share profound and urgent concerns that toxic wastewater, a byproduct of uranium mining and milling operations, could migrate through the subsurface and irrevocably contaminate the precious drinking water supplies for countless future generations.

The deep-seated distrust permeating these communities is palpable. One spring morning in White Mesa, Yolanda Badback, a Ute Mountain Ute member and the unwavering leader of the White Mesa Concerned Community advocacy group, watched with a tone of exhaustion as three more uranium trucks rumbled past her open door, not far from the highway. "There goes another one," she remarked, her voice laden with the weight of years spent fighting the mill. Curtis Moore, Senior Vice President of Marketing and Corporate Development at Energy Fuels, confirmed that the mill typically receives between 10 to 15 trucks each weekday, with the vast majority traversing directly through the White Mesa community.

Moore acknowledges that the mill’s business has experienced a significant upturn after a relatively quiet 15-year period. The White Mesa Mill produced an impressive 1 million pounds of yellowcake last year, and the company projects a more than doubling of that output this year. Beyond uranium processing, the mill has strategically diversified its operations, now also processing radioactive waste transported from as far afield as Estonia and Japan, reflecting a growing global role in nuclear waste management. Furthermore, the facility recently secured a substantial $725 million conditional loan commitment from the U.S. Defense Department, earmarking funds to significantly scale up its domestic processing of rare earth elements – critical minerals essential for modern technology and national security. Moore projects that this new rare earths venture alone could generate 100 permanent jobs, noting that approximately half of the mill’s 105 current workers are Indigenous, though he estimates that no more than two belong specifically to the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe.

"When it comes to tribes in the area, I do very much understand their skepticism of uranium," Moore candidly admitted. "They’ve been lied to before." This acknowledgement resonates deeply with the region’s painful history. A uranium boom, aggressively driven by the U.S. government from the 1940s through the 1980s and largely concentrated around the Four Corners area (where Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Colorado meet), subjected countless miners, many of them Navajo (Diné), to dangerously heightened rates of mortality from lung and other cancers. Subsequent federal reviews unequivocally revealed that these miners were never adequately warned about the severe radiation risks, even after government scientists had gained a clear understanding of the dangers. The mining companies, in their wake, abandoned thousands of waste sites, which have since leached insidious contamination into surrounding soil and water, with over 500 such hazardous locations identified on and near the Navajo Nation alone, representing a grave legacy of environmental injustice.

Moore insists that current operational practices at the White Mesa Mill are dramatically different from the past. He states that today’s workers are exposed to only 15% to 20% of allowable radiation limits, and outside the mill premises, radiation levels are "effectively zero." He maintains that the site is "perfect" for a uranium mill, primarily due to its deep aquifer, which supplies the community’s drinking water and is purportedly protected by a substantial, impervious rock barrier known as an aquitard.

However, Scott Clow, the Environmental Programs Director of the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe, offers a nuanced perspective. He acknowledges that while the deep aquifer indeed exhibits natural quality issues, including elevated levels of arsenic, iron, and manganese, the public drinking water undergoes filtration and is deemed safe for consumption. Adam Wingate, the uranium recovery manager at the Utah Department of Environmental Quality, expresses empathy for the residents’ concerns. He points out that White Mesa is topographically downslope in terms of underground water flow from the uranium mill. He understands that hearing about a documented plume of contamination in a shallower aquifer beneath the mill – even if it’s not the primary source of their drinking water – combined with their own tap water exhibiting unusual tastes, can create a "scary spot to be in." Yet, based on the currently available evidence, Wingate asserts that the locals’ "health is not at risk because of the mill."

Despite these assurances from state and company officials, Lehi and Badback consistently report that the tap water in White Mesa frequently carries a distinct sulfurous smell and appears milky in color, leading most residents to avoid drinking it. "I don’t trust it," Badback declared, her family having been at the forefront of the fight against the mill for decades. "My main goal is to shut the mill down." This profound distrust fuels an annual spiritual walk and protest, sponsored by Badback’s advocacy group, which has grown significantly over the past decade. Much of the opposition specifically targets the mill’s substantial toxic waste, which is stored in five massive, lined pits known as tailings cells, collectively occupying 284 acres of land. Badback adamantly vows to oppose any expansion plans that include the construction of new tailings cells, especially given that they would be located approximately a quarter-mile closer to the White Mesa community than the existing ones. Moore counters that any new cells would adhere to modern standards, featuring triple liners for enhanced containment.

At a "No Kings" rally in Moab, some 80 miles north of White Mesa, Badback delivered a passionate speech and manned an information table, offering T-shirts emblazoned with the powerful message: "No Uranium. Protect White Mesa Ute Community." In 2021, her tribe passed a formal resolution unequivocally stating that the White Mesa Mill "has had severe health impacts on the residents of White Mesa and should cease entirely." While the psychological stress endured by the community is undeniably palpable, direct, causal links to other specific health effects have proven challenging to definitively establish. A 2023 federal health assessment concluded that radiation levels measured at the tribe’s air monitor in the heart of White Mesa from 2013 to 2019 were unlikely to cause harm to human health. However, the report’s authors acknowledged their inability to fully evaluate whether the mill’s radon emissions, a known carcinogen linked primarily to lung cancer, could impact bordering properties or residents. They specifically recommended that the tribe collect additional air samples closer to the mill, particularly during periods of heightened operational activity.

Adding to the community’s concerns, in December 2021, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) cited the mill for violating the Clean Air Act. The violation stemmed from the mill’s failure to adequately cover one of its tailings cells with liquid, a crucial measure to limit the emission of radon gas. The EPA characterized the violation as "egregious in nature and duration" and temporarily prohibited the mill from receiving waste from federally designated Superfund cleanup sites, which are among the nation’s most severely contaminated locations. According to state regulators, the mill subsequently rectified the problem and successfully passed its most recent air quality review in 2025.

Despite these corrective actions and official assurances, a deep sense of unease persists among some White Mesa residents. Badback and Lehi continue to report noxious odors, which they attribute to the mill, describing them as smelling like harsh chemicals or rotten eggs. Badback has also voiced serious concerns about ambient air quality and the prevalence of cancer and asthma rates within the community, issues that are currently being investigated by a comprehensive University of Utah health survey. Moore, however, vehemently denies that any odors originating from the mill could be detected beyond the immediate vicinity of the mill parking lot. Furthermore, Utah air quality officials state that the state does not conduct ambient air monitoring in White Mesa and does not currently regulate odors.

On that spring day, Lehi’s journey to find Entrance Spring continued, with the majestic silhouette of Sleeping Ute Mountain gracing the horizon – a sacred landmark for the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe, believed to embody a great warrior god. Along his path, Lehi paused to point out a circle of stones, which he intuitively felt marked an ancestral burial site. After parking his Jeep, he embarked down a faint trail, traversing a lush grove of willows, eventually finding his way into a streambed that he believed would lead him directly to the spring.

While the tribe does not currently rely on Entrance Spring for its primary drinking water supply, it remains one of several seeps and springs that are diligently monitored by the tribe, the state, and the company. These natural water outlets serve as crucial indicators, offering vital clues as to whether the mill’s waste ponds might be leaking into a less protected, shallower aquifer. In the late 2000s, an EPA report indeed documented elevated contamination by radionuclides – atoms that emit radiation as they decay – at Entrance Spring. EPA water samples, taken at various times, revealed uranium concentrations that occasionally surpassed the federal drinking water standard. However, subsequent fieldwork conducted by the EPA and the U.S. Geological Survey suggested that the uranium detected at Entrance Spring originated not from leaking waste ponds, but primarily from dust that was inadvertently blown off the mill’s outdoor ore storage pads. The latest tests from 2025 indicated that Entrance Spring had uranium levels of 22.5 micrograms per liter (µg/L), which, while within the federal drinking water standard of 30 µg/L, still represents an elevated concentration.

Clow emphasizes that the tribe maintains a vigilant watch over these seeps and springs. "We’re concerned about the pollution of those springs," he stated, underscoring a commitment that spans generations. "We are looking towards many generations in the future here." Clow is also closely monitoring the Burro Canyon Aquifer, which lies directly beneath the mill’s toxic waste cells and serves as a vital feeder for local springs. According to Wingate from the state, this aquifer is already polluted by a plume of chloroform and another of nitrates, with Energy Fuels actively engaged in pumping out the contamination in an ongoing remediation effort.

The complex geological composition of the region presents a persistent challenge in attributing contamination sources. When levels of contaminants rise, it often proves difficult to definitively ascertain whether they stem from natural geological causes or from specific mill activities, especially since substances like sulfate and manganese occur naturally in the local bedrock. Consequently, Clow, the company, and state officials frequently engage in spirited debates over whether the tailings ponds are indeed leaking. What remains beyond dispute, however, is the indisputable fact that the mill generates vast quantities of radioactive waste – and once such waste is created, its hazardous presence can persist for tens of thousands of years, a profound intergenerational burden.

Lehi ultimately followed the winding stream to its terminus in a curved grotto, the serene and sacred site of Entrance Spring. Here, water gently oozed from a rock face, collecting in a tranquil pool, offering a moment of cool respite from the harsh desert environment. Lehi surveyed the scene with a sense of wonder, taking in the dripping green moss that adorned the grotto. As a descendant of revered medicine men, Lehi feels a solemn duty to protect this ancient landscape, just as his ancestors did, irrespective of whether the tribe currently utilizes this particular spring for drinking water. "Water is life," Lehi asserted, his voice echoing the profound wisdom of his heritage, "because that’s where we all began." His words encapsulate the enduring struggle of the Ute Mountain Ute, who stand as guardians of their ancestral lands and waters, facing the enduring complexities of energy demands and the long shadow of nuclear waste.