Austin Statesman
South Texas farmers put dry fields to other uses
By Robert W. Gee
American-Statesman Staff
Sunday, March 17, 2002
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• U.S., Mexico share an urgent thirst
• Chihuahuan farmers say they are suffering as well
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DONNA — Water is so scarce in these parts that Jimmie Steidinger has pushed over 18 acres of citrus and Bud Wentz has turned his 42-year-old grapefruit grove into a goat pasture.
"It was a good orchard," said Wentz, who turned 60 goats loose in the field last year. There's not much money in cabrito, or goat meat, he conceded, but the water in a nearby resaca, or irrigation lake, was drawn down and too salty to do the grapefruit any good.
Now, the wispy limbs of his once-bountiful trees have been eaten raw, their fruit shriveled and black — a bleak symbol of the declining fortunes for once-mighty Rio Grande Valley farming.
Agriculture here, in the subtropical tip of Texas, flourished after the construction a century ago of a vast network of irrigation canals, turning mesquite and cactus scrub land into lush fields of onion and cabbage, sugar cane and cotton, grapefruit and oranges.
The water that has almost always flowed from the Rio Grande to farmers' fields, however, has been in short supply in recent years.
Now after more than four years of South Texas drought and a prolonged dispute with Mexico over Rio Grande water rights, that reliable store of water is in danger of drying up.
Not so long ago, the Valley boasted more than 600,000 acres of irrigated cropland. Nearly half of that has been converted to less profitable dry farmland since 1996.
The farmers, many of them the third generation to farm the Valley's rich, alluvial soil, say their way of life is in jeopardy. And they place the blame squarely on Mexico, which has not made good on the release of hundreds of billions of gallons of water from their Rio Grande tributaries, as called for in a 1944 treaty. Mexico says it is suffering from its own severe drought and doesn't have the water.
"This is an act of theft as far as I'm concerned — stealing our water," said Steidinger, who, like many along the farm-to-market-roads around here, gets riled up at the mere mention of Mexico and water.
"It's not like a handshake. We've got an international treaty with another country that needs to be upheld," said Bobby Sparks, who farms 8,600 acres of cotton, corn, sugar cane and grain sorghum.
Some have made hard choices.
"This was all grapefruit, beautiful grapefruit," Steidinger said, standing on the edge of a weed-choked field. "But what can you do?"
He plowed down the fruit trees last summer so that he could concentrate more of his shrinking allotment of water to his remaining 180 acres of grapefruit and oranges.
But the rest of his crop is in danger, he said. Much of this year's fruit is too small for grocery store shelves, an outcome he attributes to the water shortage. He expects an average yield this season of 12 tons an acre, half of last year's.
Next year's crop could be worse, he said.
Water levels in two Rio Grande reservoirs that supply the Valley are at all-time lows for March. The spring, when row crops are planted, traditionally brings the heaviest water use. By June, farmers say, the only water left may be the reserves protected for municipal use.
"Now, it's fixin' to go to hell. Excuse me, but that's what's going to happen," said Steidinger, 61, who knows nothing but farming in the Valley. At age 12, he took over his father's dairy farm north of Donna when the old man was crushed by an angry bull.
Steidinger spends his days and many nights supervising a crew of three, as they water and trim the trees. Wearing his oversized blue jeans and oversized glasses, he likes to meander among the green, bushy rows, surveying his modest empire.
He'll snap off a Texas Rio Red grapefruit, flip open his pocket knife and with a slight twist of his wrist, slice it in half with one hand, like he's done thousands of times.
Then, he'll cut off a chunk and eat it. Then another, and another.
"See how red it is?" he says in his loud, southern drawl. "Low in acid. Good for cancer." He means good for preventing cancer.
"The trees are beautiful; it's a pretty crop. You watch it grow, just kind of like a baby," says Steidinger, who has no children.
Now, he's driving his Chevy pickup in the dark along a dirt road between his crop and the irrigation canal.
He's flooding his trees tonight, using some of the last of his water. The trees are in bloom. That's when they need water the most.
Without heavy rains, which haven't come in years, or that water from Mexico, he says, "This fruit may not ever go to market."
It's not only the citrus farmers with their 33,000 acres who are worried. It's the ones who farm cotton and vegetables and sugar cane, a Valley staple that can't survive without near-monthly watering. Many are turning to grain sorghum, a crop that can survive without much water, but that brings marginal returns.
Despite the Valley's image to the world — its famously sweet Rio Star grapefruit varieties are shipped around the country and exported to more than a dozen countries — agriculture is no longer king here.
Retail, tourism and manufacturing have largely fueled the region's booming growth, and most city dwellers are oblivious to the farmers' woes.
"People in the cities don't really see a problem," complained Dale Murden, general manager of Rio Farms. "They know the water comes from a tap, and that's all they know."
Farming in the Valley has never been easy. There are periodic freezes; the last ones in 1983 and 1989 wiped out most of the citrus. The humid climate promotes crop disease. Some commodity prices are at historic lows.
And then, there is drought. The worst drought of record, in the early 1950s, sucked the Rio Grande dry. The current water woes may be the final blow to many Valley crops, some old-timers predict.
Some have just plain given up.
Bud Wentz, the farmer-turned-goat-herder, recently subdivided and sold about 160 acres near Brownsville. He's trying to sell the rest of his 1,100 acres, some of which his grandfather started farming in 1918.
"I used to want to keep the farm for the next generation," said Wentz, who is 70. "Now, I could care less. If I could sell every acre for a decent price, I'll let somebody else pass it on to their kids. I'm tired of it. It's not fun anymore."
bgee@statesman.com; 445-3643
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