In Denis Johnson’s novel “Angels,” there is a scene where a character is enduring the scorching heat outside a Phoenix supermarket. The summer temperatures have transformed the parking lot into a shimmering lake of molten asphalt. Despite the feeble air conditioning system in the car, it offers little relief against the intense heat. This moment serves as a foreshadowing of the impending troubles that will soon unfold.
Having lived in Phoenix for a decade, I have grown accustomed to the sweltering 110-degree days of summer. I take precautions to stay hydrated and avoid walking outside barefoot. I find myself silently praying that my son won’t ask for baseball practice in the blistering heat of the afternoon.
However, this July, which happened to be the hottest on record globally, was exceptionally challenging for Phoenix. The city experienced 31 consecutive days with temperatures of 110 degrees or higher, with 17 of those days reaching or surpassing 115 degrees. My backyard pool turned into lukewarm bathwater, and my prayers were directed upwards, hoping my rooftop AC unit would keep functioning. The monsoons, which usually provide relief in July, were noticeably absent, with only a few dust-filled storms.
Phoenix tends to be blamed for its unsustainability, given its extreme temperatures. Yet, if we acknowledge that the threat to our climate is pervasive, we should also recognize that Arizona literature has always highlighted the state’s precarious environmental situation. In these times, as we all feel the heat, there are valuable lessons to be learned from Arizona literature about the consequences of exceeding our limits and the importance of mindfulness for the future.
Early warnings about this issue emerged when Westerners began exploring the Southwest in earnest. In 1878, John Wesley Powell presented his report, “Report on the Lands of the Arid Region of the United States,” to Congress, sharing his discoveries from his travels in the West. Powell emphasized the need for careful water management and living within our means, countering the grand visions of unimaginable agricultural abundance in the Southwest. This report was met with opposition from those pushing for Manifest Destiny, branding Powell as a “charlatan in science and intermeddler in affairs of which he has no proper conception.” It marked the beginning of a longstanding narrative for Phoenix – we were warned about the consequences of exceeding our limits, but we continued down that path regardless. Dams were built, and Phoenix gradually grew to become the fifth-largest city in the United States.
In his gripping dystopian thriller “The Water Knife,” Paulo Bacigalupi imagines a worst-case scenario where the Southwest is consumed by violence and conflict over water rights, escalating into a civil war across multiple states. Arizona, a state known for its expanding development and agriculture amid diminishing reservoirs and unyielding drought, becomes the focal point of attention. Bacigalupi’s portrayal of Arizonans pointing fingers at one another without acknowledging their own contributions highlights the state’s failure to take responsibility for its problems.
Bacigalupi’s novel is no mere fantasy; it draws inspiration from Marc Reisner’s investigative book “Cadillac Desert,” published in 1986, which explores the dangers posed by uncontrolled expansion and water rights in the Southwest. Reisner is not alone in his critique. Charles Bowden’s “Blue Desert,” also published in 1986, provides a comprehensive rebuke of those responsible for the creation of Phoenix, which he describes as a city masquerading as a “blob.” People kept moving in, enticed by cheap land and a sense of isolation from the rest of civilization. But as the region’s water tables depleted and rivers faced excessive demands, people failed to show restraint or concern.
The consequences of these actions have been dire and predictable and have impacted not only developers and residents but also migrants heading north to Arizona. The U.S. Border Patrol has reported hundreds of rescues due to heat-related incidents in the past month alone. Our disconnection between our civic and personal well-being and our stewardship of our resources is most evident at the border. This disconnection lies at the core of Natalie Diaz’s 2020 prose poem, “The First Water Is the Body.” Diaz reminds us that the water we drink, just like the air we breathe, is not separate from our bodies – it is our body. What we do to one affects the other.
Thankfully, there have been efforts from politicians and citizens to provide some hope. Arizona now consumes less water than it did in the 1950s. However, we still find ourselves hoping that the drought doesn’t persist, that Lake Mead doesn’t reach a critical low, and that desalination efforts yield positive results without causing further harm to the environment. I hope it never reaches a point where I have to carry around a bag that purifies my own urine, as depicted in “The Water Knife.”
If I seek hope accompanied by a warning, I turn to my favorite book about my home state – Willa Cather’s novel “The Song of the Lark.” The story follows an opera singer born in Colorado who achieves success on the stages of Chicago and New York. However, the emotional climax of the novel takes place in Arizona’s Walnut Canyon, near Flagstaff. There, the protagonist contemplates the abandoned cliff dwellings of the Indigenous Sinagua people, who inhabited the area in the 11th century. Cather beautifully describes the breathtaking scenery, the kind of beauty that has drawn people to the Southwest for decades. Yet, she writes about a place devoid of human presence – the Sinagua people disappeared centuries ago, leaving behind various speculations about their fate. Civilizational collapse? Conflict with rival tribes? Severe drought? There are countless ways to speculate about what could threaten our existence, and it extends beyond the borders of Arizona alone.
Mark Athitakis is a discerning critic based in Phoenix and the author of “The New Midwest.”
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