For generations, the Hopi people have carried prophecies foretelling a profound rupture of the Earth upon the arrival of non-Indigenous nations, a stark vision of life thrown out of balance. This ancient warning resonates deeply with many familiar with the 1982 film Koyaanisqatsi, a Hopi term meaning "life out of balance," which powerfully juxtaposes accelerating industrialization with the timeless sandstone of ancestral lands. Today, record-breaking heat domes, dwindling snowpack, and severe moisture deficits plaguing the American West serve as undeniable omens, tangible manifestations of the very conditions Hopi elders and ancestors cautioned against for centuries. These environmental disruptions are not merely regional anomalies but rather stark indicators of a global ecological crisis, underscoring the urgency of heeding Indigenous wisdom in an era of unprecedented climate change.

Central to this unfolding crisis is the plight of the Colorado River, known to the Hopi as Pisisvayu. This vital artery of the arid West now lies tragically obstructed by pah’uutsi, the imposing Glen Canyon Dam. The dam has transformed a free-flowing river into the stagnant expanse of Lake Powell, a reservoir that, while intended to harness water, instead bakes under the relentless sun, smothering sacred sites beneath its shrinking waters. Its life-giving flow is siphoned off for extensive development projects in burgeoning cities like St. George, its historical journey to paatuwaqatsi, the Sea of Cortez, terminated prematurely. Glen Canyon Dam stands as one of three colossal structures in Arizona designed to impound the Pisisvayu, monuments to a colonial engineering mindset that sought to dominate nature. Yet, the Hopi remember a different epoch, a time when water was revered, treated not as a commodity to be controlled, but as an integral member of the family, a sacred trust from the Creator to be stewarded alongside the land itself.

The Hopi people’s enduring relationship with water is etched into their very existence. For countless generations prior to colonization, they undertook arduous journeys, hauling precious water up steep hills to their mesa-top villages, a life-sustaining practice vital for their ceremonies and daily sustenance. As dry farmers, they have perfected the art of cultivating food for millennia, relying exclusively on the rhythms of rain cycles and snowpack for their crops. The current author, for example, has spent sixty years growing food for his family on the small reservation square in northern Arizona, a parcel carved by the federal government from the vastness of Hopitutskwa, their traditional lands. Beyond dry farming, traditional ranching has been a way of life for decades, along with heating homes with wood – practices that inherently foster a deep understanding of living off the land. Even in rounding up cattle, the preference for horseback over all-terrain vehicles mitigates severe damage to delicate vegetation and soil. Even when physical injuries sustained while serving in the military prevent riding, the commitment to stewardship means rounding up cattle on foot, a testament to the profound covenant with the Creator.

Across generations, the Hopi have borne witness to profound and often devastating transformations impacting animals, people, landscapes, and food systems. They have watched in dismay as water, diverted from the land, flows instead towards luxuries — golf courses and swimming pools fed by the colossal Central Arizona Project. These amenities are conspicuously absent on Hopi lands, prompting a critical question that underscores a fundamental societal imbalance: is this water consumption driven by genuine need, or by insatiable want? This query highlights a stark divergence in values, where the intrinsic value of water for life-sustaining purposes is often overshadowed by its allocation for recreational or aesthetic desires in an increasingly consumerist society.

The prevailing legislative and management frameworks governing land and water resources often betray a profound ignorance and a steadfast refusal to consult with those possessing generations of lived experience. Water cannot be effectively retained on the land when federal agencies — including the U.S. Forest Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and their overseeing bodies in the U.S. Congress and the executive branch — consistently prioritize external financial interests over the ecological and cultural imperatives of Indigenous communities. These agencies frequently manage vast tracts of ancestral lands and critical water resources as if they were mere crops to be cultivated and sold to the highest bidder, rather than sacred ecosystems to be protected. The proposed transfer of Oak Flat, a deeply sacred site for the Apache people in central Arizona, to the multinational mining giant Rio Tinto, under the dubious premise of a prosperous land exchange, represents the very frontier of ongoing colonialism. Rio Tinto, an Anglo-Australian corporation, epitomizes these "foreign interests," and its proposed copper mine is an exceptionally water-intensive undertaking. The critical questions remain unanswered: from where will the immense volumes of water for this mining operation be sourced in an already parched region? And will Rio Tinto be held accountable for the inevitable pollutants that will inevitably flow downstream, threatening the water supplies of major population centers like Phoenix and Tucson?

Throughout Hopitutskwa and extending far beyond, particularly in New Mexico, these same agencies and decision-makers, often beholden to powerful special interests such as the oil and gas industry, have facilitated rampant hydraulic fracturing, or fracking. This environmentally destructive process exacerbates the global climate crisis by releasing methane and other greenhouse gases, while simultaneously depleting vast quantities of precious groundwater through its wasteful operations. This pattern of resource extraction and environmental degradation is not confined to the American Southwest but is a global phenomenon. Again, the fundamental question arises: is this a genuine societal need, or merely an insatiable corporate want? For the Hopi, upon passing from this life, their body’s moisture is believed to reunite with the Earth, enabling their spiritual transformation into Oomawsinom, the Cloud People. The pervasive emissions, pollutants, and profound disrespect for water actively impede the completion of this sacred spiritual journey, underscoring the deep interconnectedness between environmental health and spiritual well-being.

The political landscape in Arizona has also seen the introduction of numerous anti-wolf and anti-wildlife bills at both state and federal levels, largely at the behest of the powerful cattleman’s industry, designed to enrich shareholders who often have no direct connection to the land or its ecological integrity. One such egregious bill, HB 2160, even sought to empower specific special interest groups to manage wolf populations, should they fall under state jurisdiction, yet conspicuously excluded any tribal voices. This is particularly galling given that Indigenous communities have coexisted with wolves and other so-called "predators" for millennia without resorting to such levels of panic or legislative overreach. Many believe this manufactured hysteria serves as a calculated distraction, diverting attention from the true accountability of state and federal agencies and decision-makers for the abysmal fate of countless wild creatures. Scientific data overwhelmingly demonstrates that wolves are keystone species, playing an indispensable role in maintaining ecosystem health and, crucially, helping to retain water on the land. When humans and animals were first brought into existence, the Creator did not solely empower people to manage the land; a delicate balance was also established within the ecosystem, with waterfowl, reptiles, amphibians, and raptors all serving as vital messengers, integral to bringing water back to the land.

The U.S. Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management, bound by a "multiple use mandate," frequently treat ancestral aboriginal lands as a mere balance sheet. Success is measured by outdated, extractive metrics such as the number of cattle heads or board feet of timber logged. While these agencies are legally mandated to consult with tribes, this often devolves into little more than perfunctory 30-minute phone calls with tribal government officials, entirely devoid of meaningful face-to-face interactions or the deep, relational work essential for engaging with cultural practitioners. This superficial engagement highlights a crucial distinction: consultation does not equate to consent. As the Hopi affirm, "We cannot drink oil or money." These so-called public lands are rapidly drying out, victims of chronic overgrazing, aggressive thinning practices, and the relentless recreational demands of all-terrain vehicle (ATV) use. Furthermore, the limited environmental protections that once guided land management have been systematically dismantled by past administrations, particularly those beholden to the fossil fuel industry. Precious time is being squandered defending basic protections, time that should be proactively invested in compelling these agencies to genuinely serve the people, the land, and the animals. This necessitates a fundamental redefinition of success, shifting focus towards keeping water on the land through abundant biodiversity, fostering increased habitat connectivity, and championing true coexistence.

The mismanagement of land and water resources in the relentless pursuit of profit forms the very bedrock of this global environmental disaster, threatening the continued viability of life itself. It is the insidious rationale that led to the deliberate drowning of ancestral sites during the creation of Lake Powell. Settlers, imbued with a belief in their own mastery over nature, conceived they could literally impound a wild river within an unnatural concrete basin, bending its formidable will to their own designs. Yet, as the waters of Lake Powell recede dramatically due to accelerating climate change, revealing the long-submerged ancestral sites once again, the Hopi have always understood a profound truth: water cannot be artificially held on the land in such a manner indefinitely. True water retention is an intricate, organic process, inherently linked to the health of the entire ecosystem. Water is held within the living bodies of animals, in the expansive branches and foliage of trees, and crucially, in the rich, moisture-laden soil of old-growth forests. Water is held on the land when deer and elk populations are naturally regulated by their wolf relatives, allowing vital vegetation to flourish and bind the soil. Water is held on the land when it is not violently drilled or blasted from the Earth’s core for fracking and mining operations. Ultimately, water is held within our own human bodies, an intrinsic connection to the whole, every single drop precious. Paahuquatsi — water is life. Kwakwákwy: Thank you.