The first time Toni Fernandez got high off opioids, the pills were stolen from a little orange bottle in a friend’s parent’s medicine cabinet. She was in the seventh grade, growing up in Alamosa, the region of Colorado flooded with the most prescription opioids during the height of the opioid epidemic.

“One of the kids in our school, I guess his dad was prescribed large amounts of narcotics,” Fernandez said. “And he would just bring them and share them with us.”

Alamosa, in the high-desert basin of the San Luis Valley, was flooded with more than 17 million prescription pain pills between 2006 and 2019, equating to 77 pills per resident per year. Two worlds coexist in the quaint rural town. In one, children play in the park next to the Rio Grande while neighbors wave hello to each other along Main Street. In the other, a mass dumping of opioids has led to life-altering addictions that have broken families, devastated bank accounts and left some without homes.

Fernandez found herself living in the latter world. At 21 years old, she was prescribed Percocet and Valium for a back injury. Once the pain resolved, she continued to chase the euphoric high the pills brought her.

“Living the fast life, doing drugs, selling drugs, all the things — that was just the culture,” Fernandez said. 

From there, Fernandez struggled through years of addiction, moving to meth and heroin when pills sold on the street got too expensive.

In 2020, Fernandez sought medical treatment for her addiction, accessing Medicaid, the federal government’s health insurance program for the poor and disabled, to pay for drug treatment that played a central role in her journey of recovery.

“For the first two and a half years of my recovery, I was using a Vivitrol shot, which was like a godsend,” she said, referring to a prescription drug used to treat addiction by blocking opioid receptors and reducing cravings.

But these days, the passage of Medicaid cuts under the Trump administration may make the treatments that helped turn Fernandez’s life around inaccessible to the many still struggling in Alamosa and throughout the valley. Under new work requirements and federal funding cuts, those in need of costly treatments for their addictions may face insurmountable financial barriers.

Without insurance, treatments that help curb withdrawal symptoms like Vivitrol cost around $1,000 to $1,500 per monthly injection. Suboxone, a similar treatment, costs between $150 and $500 for a 30-day supply. For someone in Fernandez’s situation, accessing these treatments without any form of insurance is nearly impossible.

“We have some of the poorest counties in Colorado, and then you add that substance use disorder on top of it (and) the lack of being able to work,” said Melissa Dominguez, a nurse and lifelong resident of the valley. She is a member of the Colorado Opioid Abatement Council who spends her time connecting people struggling with substance use disorder to recovery resources.

“It’s just not really attainable for them to be able to go to the pharmacy and pick up their script and pay a couple hundred dollars every week, or even once a month,” Dominguez said. 

Cutting holes in the safety net

The budget reconciliation bill, passed in July 2025, cuts federal funding for Medicaid by 15% over the course of 10 years. Additionally, new Medicaid provisions planned for 2027 will require nondisabled adults under the age of 65 who are childless or the parents of older teenagers to prove that they are working, volunteering or attending school for at least 80 hours a month.

 While people with substance use disorder are explicitly excluded from the work requirements, there are no written guidelines within the provisions that define how individuals can prove their exemption. 

According to Deborah Steinberg, a senior health policy attorney at the nonprofit Legal Action Center, these cuts will have dramatic consequences for substance use disorder treatment.

“We know that any cuts, whether it’s to eligibility categories or to benefits, are just going to make treatment less affordable and less accessible,” Steinberg said. “For a lot of providers, Medicaid is also their largest revenue source so it means that some providers might close.”

There is also no standardized way states will implement the exemptions or define substance use disorder, Steinberg added. She worries that many people who would qualify for an exemption for their substance use disorder could fall through the cracks and lose coverage without a formal diagnosis.

“We’re going to miss a lot of folks,” Steinberg said. “I fear these exemptions are just not going to be enough to actually protect people as they were theoretically intended.”

The Colorado Department of Health Care Policy and Financing estimated that the implementation of these work requirements would affect 375,000 Coloradans.

And while crackdowns by the Drug Enforcement Administration have reduced opioid prescriptions, street drugs like heroin and fentanyl are becoming new vices for people formerly dependent on their doctor-approved medications. Dominguez said many of her patients were first prescribed opioids for pain then were abruptly cut off, prompting them to move on to illicit drugs. 

When her prescriptions ran out, Fernandez felt she needed to fill the void. She stopped showing up to her job as a certified nursing assistant and began working different jobs — often waitressing — to earn quick money. In 2013 she began using heroin and, that same year, became pregnant with her youngest son. From there, Fernandez was in and out of jail, stealing to support her addiction. 

“People think of being a mom and being an addict, that we love the drug more than we love our kids, which is never the case,” Fernandez said. “It’s just all the trauma that’s surrounded our circumstances that keeps us there and we just don’t see a way out.”

As a high schooler, Fernandez had a 4.0 GPA and received multiple acceptance letters from universities. But, she said, substance abuse was normalized by her parents throughout her youth. When she was 17 years old, her father, who struggled with a dependency to alcohol and cocaine, died by suicide. Addiction was always in close proximity, so Fernandez followed the paths carved out by the generations before her.

“I call it valley-minded because we just don’t see outside of it,” Fernandez said. “I had never had anybody in my life show me that there was something bigger than what was here.”

Judy McNeilsmith, the director of operations and program services at La Puente, a nonprofit organization in Alamosa, said that it’s difficult to break habits and escape social groups that encourage substance abuse in the small, rural communities sprawled across the valley.

“You can’t live in a rural area without going to the grocery store and seeing somebody you know so it’s really hard to break those patterns,” McNeilsmith said.

Stopping a destructive cycle

At La Puente’s homeless shelter, on a quiet Saturday afternoon, employees serve bolognese pasta, mashed potatoes and bread. People eat their meals by a box full of Narcan, a nasal spray used to reverse opioid overdose, that is free to take. Many of the people at the shelter, McNeilsmith said, have struggled or are actively struggling with substance use disorder. She said that some people lost their homes after struggling with addiction, while others have stories that reverse that order.

“It’s kind of like the chicken and the egg,” McNeilsmith said. “Poverty begets crisis and crisis — you do what you can do to get money.”

By 2020, Fernandez had enough. She was in jail for drug charges and her kids were nearing the age she was when she tried her first prescription pill. The fear that they might repeat the same cycle that was drowning her was mortifying.

“I know how old I was when I started experimenting, so that kind of hit hard,” Fernandez said. “I just totally started rebuilding my life.”

Once she was released, Fernandez began her journey in sober living and, with Dominguez’s guidance, accessed the medication-assisted treatment that helped lift her from where she’d been stuck. She received Vivitrol shots for the first two and a half years of her recovery.

“It just took away the cravings and the thoughts. I didn’t like the smell of barbecue sauce, vinegar — any of that stuff — because it smelled like the heroin. And when I was taking the Vivitrol, that just wasn’t there,” Fernandez said.

Fernandez accessed these treatments through Medicaid. Without it, she said, she likely would not have been able to receive them and doesn’t know what her alternative treatment paths could have been. She actively works as a recovery coach for Hard Beauty, a nonprofit organization that offers peer support to those struggling with or recovering from addiction. Her clients, Fernandez said, also rely on Medicaid to pay for her coaching services.

McNeilsmith worries that Medicaid cuts will decimate the health care services for those in recovery across the valley. Approximately two in five residents in Alamosa County rely on Medicaid, and, for hospitals and treatment centers in the region, Medicaid makes up a significant portion of the payments they receive. If people lose their Medicaid coverage, these institutions will not get that money. McNeilsmith worries that with some residents losing their Medicaid, local hospitals could face devastating financial strain and be forced to close.

“We are a high-poverty area and adding those additional requirements is going to really impact the safety net and have folks with no resources,” McNeilsmith said.

New hope in the valley

One of these resources is a new detox and rehabilitation center that just celebrated its first anniversary in July.

The center opened with some help from the projected $880 million in opioid settlement funds paid by pharmaceutical companies to the state of Colorado following lawsuits over their role in the opioid crisis.

South of Main Street, nestled between railroad tracks and the Alamosa County Jail, is the aptly named Hope in the Valley. Its staff describes it as the only full-scale treatment center with withdrawal management in the San Luis Valley. Community members say it brought much-needed support to the area. The long one-story brick building is split: one side is a detox with a 10-person capacity and the other is a residential treatment program that houses up to 15 patients.

On the rehabilitation side, residents take part in a ceremony for two individuals who will soon be graduates of the program. David Herrera, the center’s community engagement coordinator, shares his favorite stories of the two residents as the room bursts into chuckles. Herrera expresses excitement that, with one of the graduates gone, he will now be the funniest person at Hope in the Valley again. The room joins hands in prayer for the two and wishes them well in their recovery journeys outside the brick walls.

Herrera himself struggled through addiction. In the backyard of the facility — which for now is just asphalt, a chicken coop, some chairs and a basketball court — Herrera says he wants to build a labyrinth for residents to walk through, a representation of the addiction and recovery process he found himself in. Herrera sought treatment for alcohol addiction in Estes Park and said that when he told his case manager he would be moving on to the valley, she expressed hesitation.

“She just said, ‘David I’m going to be honest with you. There’s not a lot of resources down in the valley,’” Herrera said. “This was only two and a half years ago.”

At that time, Herrera said, there were only about four Alcoholics Anonymous meetings a week in Alamosa. But now there are daily recovery meetings hosted by Hope in the Valley that are open to the public. According to Herrera, this shift has been needed.

“The psychological defeat from the opioids has been devastating to our community. You have people that have lost family members to this addiction — moms and uncles and dads and the whole thing,” Herrera said. “And you hear it all the time, but it’s very real here.”

Fernandez, who helps lead peer support groups at Hope in the Valley, witnessed many of her acquaintances and loved ones from her youth, including her own brother, fall victim to addiction.

“A lot of us are not here anymore,” Fernandez said.

However, Fernandez and Herrera say, because of the opening of the center, there’s more local support for people struggling with addiction.

“The first time I went to treatment, I had to go to Pueblo,” Fernandez said. “And now this treatment center has built more of a community — which I love — for all of us, not just the people that have been here.”

This community is also reliant on Medicaid. Most residents, Herrera said, use Medicaid to access Hope in the Valley’s detox treatment, 30-day residential program, any necessary hospitalizations, intensive outpatient treatment, telehealth services and medically-assisted treatment.

On a brisk Saturday in November, outside Milagros Coffee House, a focal point of downtown Alamosa, a small number of protesters gather, holding signs reading, “Medicaid protects your family” and “Unite and resist” as cars pass through the intersection.

McNeilsmith says, given the impact cuts in government benefits would have for many valley residents, the community has been protesting for health care access and rallying around food drives. This community-based activism and support is not well-recognized by the rest of the state, according to Dominguez.

“A lot of times I feel like up north they don’t see the community that we do have here,” Dominguez said. “Compared to Denver, compared to Greeley, we don’t have half of some of the resources that they have. But the resources we do have, we work really hard to connect with each other and get people connected to the resources that are going to be best for them.”

Fernandez is grateful for this community and with its backing, she’s been able to raise her kids in a healthier environment. Instead of experimenting with prescription drugs, they play basketball at the local recreation center. Still, many of the people and resources in this environment rely on Medicaid, and cuts could make the already precarious and difficult process of recovery more so.

“I think there would be people a lot worse off,” Fernandez said. “To cut somebody off their medication — people are just going to go full blown back into addiction.”

GRAND JUNCTION — In a Colorado Mesa University ballroom Tuesday, about 200 farmers, water professionals and community members watched as the Colorado River District staff flipped through graph after graph during a presentation. 

Each new slide had one fundamental message: Colorado and downstream states are heading into summer with epicly poor water conditions. 

“If there’s anything in your memory about a dry year that you’ve seen, a warm year that you’ve seen, 2026 is beyond all of that,” said Raquel Flinker, the district’s director of interstate and regional water resources.

Research groups, news organizations and water officials have been blaring warnings about the worst snowpack in history and water supply concerns heading into the summer. In some ways, conditions are so bad, the state is headed into uncharted territory, experts said. In the face of a worrisome year, farmers, reservoir operators and city utilities are focused on getting the best data possible. They’re turning to scientists and pilots with newfangled snowpack measurement methods — plus the tried-and-true measurement methods used since the early 1900s.

Their goal: Figure out how to use a scant water supply as effectively as possible.

“There’s not a lot of snow out there, nor has there been,” said Jeff Deems, co-founder and chief technical officer with Airborne Snow Observatories Inc. “We’ve had very little snow and it’s melting early.”

The ASO teams found themselves in a flurry of activity in March. The company, born out of the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory, takes to the skies and slopes each year to snag snow measurements using laser technology and staff members’ own two feet. 

Their flights provide a highly detailed and accurate snapshot of conditions in each watershed. Water managers use the ASO lidar maps (short for a remote sensing method called light detection and ranging) to complement federal data. In all, it gives reservoir operators, city water utilities and water officials a better idea of how much water is in the mountains — and what their summer water supply might be.

ASO did 18 flights in seven days across Colorado, from St. Vrain and Big Thompson watersheds in northern Colorado to the Rio Grande, Boulder Creek, Roaring Fork and Dolores watersheds in central and southern parts of the state. What they found was more grim data.

“It’s been pretty frantic,” Deems said.

Fine-tuning the data

Mountain snowpack is a vital water source for Coloradans and downstream communities in 19 states and Mexico. For decades, Colorado communities have relied on federal data provided by snow-telemetry stations, which often feature small sheds outfitted with scientific gear in remote parts of the mountains.

These measurement stations, called the SNOTEL network, provide continuous data and many stations have accrued decades of historical data.

The network has been around since the 1970s and is made up of over 900 stations in the West, 114 of which are in Colorado. Researchers have been taking widespread manual measurements since the early 1900s.

According to SNOTEL data, Colorado’s snowpack was at 24% of its 30-year norm as of Wednesday, the same date, April 8, that usually marks its peak each year. The snowpack for the roughly 250,000-square-mile Colorado River Basin was at about 25% of its norm, according to a Colorado Basin River Forecast Center update Tuesday morning — one day after the basin’s normal peak date, April 6.

But SNOTEL stations miss snow below 9,000 feet and above 12,000 feet. They are a point measurement: They don’t, and can’t, actually measure an entire basin.

ASO flights capture all elevations in a watershed, instead of just one point. In the past these flights have found more water in Colorado watersheds than appeared in SNOTEL data. But the flights only provide a snapshot of winter conditions, on a certain day at a certain time, instead of a continuous historical record.

This year, not so much. Some parts of watersheds are doing better or worse than indicated by the SNOTEL stations, Deems said. But by and large, the ASO data is lining up with SNOTEL measurements and federal river forecast centers.

“There is quite a lot less snow than we’re used to having. No surprise there,” he said. 

The ASO teams flew over the Blue River watershed near Silverthorne and Breckenridge. The terrain funnels water into the 65-mile waterway that eventually flows into the Colorado River, the lifeblood for communities, farms, environments and industries in much of the Southwest and parts of northern Mexico.

The Blue River also feeds Dillon Reservoir, an important water source for Denver Water, Colorado’s oldest water utility, and about 1.5 million people in the Denver area.

For most of the watershed, the snowpack on March 20 was about half what it was on April 11, 2025. 

But ASO also found variations in watersheds. Some areas are substantially worse than last year. Other parts are about the same as last year, he said. 

And knowing exactly where water is — and isn’t — can help reservoir managers and city planners use water more efficiently this summer.

“That’s not like a miracle save or anything,” Deems said. “But what that says is that there’s enough complexity out there that we need to measure it carefully so that those managers understand that there may be more water in parts of their watersheds than is suggested by one or two (SNOTEL) stations.”

Planning for a hot, dry summer

As snowpack melts, irrigation district managers in the Grand Valley, an area with some of the most secure, reliable and oldest water rights in the state, are trying to decide how to handle their water supply for the summer, some said at the Colorado River District gathering Tuesday.

Long-time peach growers in Palisade are keeping an eye on the skies as they aim for efficient water use. 

Everybody is trying to be very cautious, said Priscilla Walker, a Palisade resident whose family has owned peach orchards for decades. 

“Peaches don’t use the water as much as alfalfa and subdivisions,” she said. “Would you rather have the best peaches in the world or fountains, neon signs, swimming pools and Kentucky bluegrass lawns? That’s really the choice because we have no control over how much water falls.”

The next question for water managers is: How much will actually end up in reservoirs? 

Some of the snow simply turns directly into water vapor in a process called sublimation. Plants and soils suck up snowmelt as it passes through watersheds toward rivers. Some water can evaporate along the way.

“All of these factors affect what fraction of the snowpack we get as runoff,” Deems said. “Last year, one of the stories was that runoff efficiency was quite low. Given the hot, dry, windy weather that we’ve had, we might expect similarly very low runoff efficiencies this year.”

For a century, the Colorado River has been managed in pieces. Legally and politically, it’s divided into two basins, with each state and community focused on securing its respective water supply. But that is not how a river functions. The Colorado River is an interconnected system, sustained by Rocky Mountain snowpack, rainfall and groundwater.

It is fragile, and under increasing stress. Two and a half decades into this century, the river that built the modern West has 20% less water flowing through it than it did on average in the last century. As heat and drought intensify, so do the stakes: Failure to recognize the severity of changing conditions, managing the river in parts without considering needs of the whole and inadequate planning for long-term shortages put the future of all the basin at risk. 

For the last five years, I have documented how the Colorado River Basin’s farmers are navigating water shortages and uncertainty amid deep political divisions about the river’s future. This project, called American Adaptation, examines three agricultural communities whose survival is threatened by a shrinking river, examining what happens to people when policies and water management struggle to keep pace with a changing climate. 

In one of the river’s northern watersheds, the Ute Mountain Farm and Ranch Enterprise is adapting its management as the water it relies on becomes less dependable. In central Arizona, farmers have returned to well water after becoming the first communities to have their supply cut off completely due to the basin-wide shortage. And in California’s Imperial Valley, the farms that receive the river’s largest water allocation are under growing pressure to share the burden of shortage. 

Together, their stories illustrate the stakes — and rising tensions — of the  current negotiations over the river’s future management. States, tribal nations and the federal government are reckoning with 100 years of developing water infrastructure based on assumptions of continuing abundance and expansion. These ideas — and the legal frameworks built around them — are colliding with the reality of a river with much less water than expected, raising complex questions about what the Colorado can sustain, how its water should be used and who will shoulder the necessary cuts.

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On 7,600 acres painstakingly carved out of desert brush, the Ute Mountain Farm and Ranch, a tribally run enterprise of the Ute Mountain Ute nation, produces cattle, alfalfa, corn and wheat. Its operations are led by Simon Martinez, Eric Whyte and Michael Vicente, who have deep personal connections to the enterprise. Martinez helped build the dam for the reservoir that provides the farm’s water, while Whyte cleared desert brush and mapped where the fields would go. Vicente, as the lead irrigator, can account for every drop of water that’s used.

In good years, the farm’s circular fields flourish in brilliant green bursts. But the past decade has brought increasingly erratic access to water. Each spring, the local irrigation district announces potential cuts after assessing snowpack runoff and the available water stored in nearby McPhee Reservoir. In 2021, the farm received just 10% of its water allocation and was forced to leave 6,000 acres unplanted. In 2022, 30% of the water came in, and last year, 34%, which the farm was able to increase to 50% after leasing shares from other water users.  

To survive, they adapted. Every year, the farm’s leadership creates numerous plans for different water scenarios. They have applied for grants, implemented low-flow nozzles in the irrigation system, installed small-scale hydropower generators. They joined a Land Institute pilot program to test crops that use less water. 

“We still haven’t thrown the towel in.”

“We still haven’t thrown the towel in,” said Simon Martinez. “Nobody ever thought, when the reservoir was built, that there wouldn’t be enough water to supply the farms that have been put out here. It’s not only us; it’s happening all through southwestern Colorado.”

Low-water years leave their mark. Brush and scrub quickly reclaim unplanted fields. Employees laid off during dry years are hard to replace. During consecutive years of heat and drought, farms that rely on the basin’s many smaller reservoirs become even more vulnerable. As the number of dry years grows, it is increasingly uncertain how much shortage the Ute Mountain Farm and Ranch Enterprise can sustain in the long term, despite the farmers’ determination to adapt.  

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When Water Disappears

 ???? Pinal County, Arizona, in the Sonoran Desert

Hundreds of miles south, Will Clemens manages his uncle’s 2,100-acre farm, cultivating cotton, alfalfa and Bermuda grass. Farmers in this region operate with a year-round growing season punctuated by dust storms and summer monsoons. 

In this intense environment, wells were the only water source before Colorado River water became available. Until the 1980s, farmers drew their water from deep underground, contributing to fissures, land subsidence and drying wells. The completion of the Central Arizona Project alleviated the pressure, delivering farmers cheap imported river water that was classified as lower priority and the first to be cut during shortages. Deliveries continued until 2022, when low water levels at Lake Mead triggered federal cuts, and central Arizona farms lost access. In response, Clemens’ local irrigation district drilled a dozen new wells. 

“I’ve been asking myself, does America really need to be in the agriculture industry?”

Without the river, Clemens and his neighbors have seen the canals’ water drop. At times, their irrigation district will cut off water before a field is fully irrigated, or struggle to keep up with the farmers’ water orders. More pressure on groundwater raises questions about what is sustainable in the future. Large parts of Arizona have no legal limits on pumping water from the ground. Even areas with legally protected groundwater have failed to meet a safe yield goal set in the 1980s to balance groundwater taken each year with naturally replenished water by 2025.

Some central Arizona farmers are selling or leasing their farmland to solar developers, as water dwindles and energy demands grow. Miles up the road from where Clemens farms, sleek black grids of solar panels gleam next to green alfalfa. For years, Arnold Burruel, Clemens’ uncle, has been in talks with a solar developer about selling the land. 

“I’ve been asking myself: Does America really need to be in the agriculture industry?” Burruel said. “America is not totally enamored with agriculture when it comes to pesticides, herbicides, groundwater, GMOs — all of the above. We are at a crossroads. Are we going to continue to farm the way we are farming and heavily subsidize growers that can’t make ends meet? Society has to come up with an answer.”

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From above, the All American Canal forms a stark blue line, slicing through the Algodones Dunes. One of the world’s largest canals, it is fed by the Imperial Dam, which diverts up to 6.8 million gallons of water each minute from the Colorado River.

This is the only water source for 500,000 acres of Imperial Valley farmland. Farms here are protected by senior rights at low risk of cuts and receive regular releases from Lake Mead, the largest reservoir in the United States. During summer months, the sun looms over the valley’s dusty, flat horizon, and temperatures often climb above 100 degrees. Despite decades of drought and growing water shortage, water has flowed uninterrupted to the Imperial Valley. 

“I have a responsibility for the people who work here to make sure we survive.”

Fourth-generation family farmer Jack Vessey, who oversees a 10,000-acre produce operation, knows the canal system well. Growing up, he searched for places to swim on hot summer days.

“We take water seriously,” said Vessey, who added sprinkler systems, which are more efficient than flood irrigation. In recent years, the Imperial Irrigation District joined other communities throughout the basin in voluntarily cutting water through 2026 in exchange for federal funds. The district’s compensation was several hundred dollars more per acre-foot than other participants. But as funding set aside for Western water by the Biden administration is drawn down, it is unclear how much will be available to pay for future voluntary cuts.

Vessey is aware of the growing pressure on the river and the valley’s farms, but he emphasizes that the community has helped with shortages and is protective of its water.

“I have a responsibility for the people who work here to make sure we survive,” he said. “I have to be a little selfish at some point and say, ‘Keep giving us the water we need.’ I know we’ve got to do our part, but I can look in the mirror and say we are not wasting water, we are growing food people need. 

“If it wasn’t for that canal coming off the Colorado River, this would just turn to desert.”  

This project was supported by the National Geographic Society’s World Freshwater Initiative.

We welcome reader letters. Email High Country News at editor@hcn.org or submit a letter to the editor. See our letters to the editor policy.

This article appeared in the March 2026 print edition of the magazine with the headline “The Shrinking River.”  

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Since the Confluence Early Childhood Development Service District was established last November by way of ballot measure 7A, the district’s newly elected Board of Directors has been busy laying the groundwork for a strong start to represent a diverse community.

“It’s a really exciting time to be involved in local government,” said Carolynne “Carly” Kraemer, board chair and Seat 4 representative. “On a national level people are becoming more involved and the voices that haven’t been historically represented or heard are showing up. This is a great time because that will carry forward and show up here.” 

Proposed by the nonprofit Confluence Early Childhood Education Coalition (CECE) and approved by 60% of regional voters, the special tax district will expand and improve access and affordability for early childhood care and education by leveraging funds from a 0.25% sales and use tax. Spanning the Parachute to Aspen corridor, the district is a government entity, separate from CECE, and will coordinate efforts between county, municipal and school district boundaries to maximize impact.

That same ballot, regional voters also elected five directors. Together they will oversee implementation of the district’s service plan, manage funding — including grant and tuition assistance allocation — expand existing programs and strengthen support for families. 

Larimer County is the only other Colorado region that has approved a similar initiative. Ultimately, the board is operating with extra intention while navigating new terrain.

“The [district’s] service plan has some very specific parameters, but the implementation piece is very broad. We want to make sure we’re very intentional with what that piece looks like,” said Kraemer. “Before we figure out where and how we want to go, we have to get our board really strong.”

In addition to Kraemer, the current board includes Seat 1 representative Amy Shipley (also director of Basalt Library), Seat 2 representative Paul Stanley (Garfield County Libraries’ Youth Services Coordinator), Seat 3 representative Adley Larimer (a former coach with Early Childhood Network) and Seat 5 representative Stefan Reveal (a loan officer at Alpine Bank and co-chair of the Kids First Advisory Board). 

“We come from all these different backgrounds and it’s so great we have different strengths to bring,” said Kraemer, who serves on the Basalt Elementary School Accountability Committee and is a former board member of Growing Years preschool. “We’re working hard to make sure we have a foundational understanding of everything.” 

Since early December, the board has focused on preliminary work such as developing administrative structures, systems of governance and oversight, drafting and approving the budget and continuing to gather community feedback. The board also appointed Glenwood Springs-based law firm Karp Neu Hanlon for legal counsel.

As a volunteer board that must operate with complete public transparency, Kraemer recognized that progress seems slow right now; but with a strong foundation the district can operate more effectively. Notably, anticipated funds are arriving into the district earlier than expected — March rather than June. However, because the systems are still being finalized, a timeline for distribution has yet to be confirmed. Kraemer did confirm that this year’s funds will only be allocated for early childhood education capacity and quality grants to address the lack of spots. Tuition subsidies for families will begin next year.

“There’s an urgency, but we need thoughtful execution,” said Kraemer. “We need to go slow to then go fast. I’d rather be thoughtful about a system than to hurry up and create one for the sake of execution and then have to backpedal.”

To assist with building the district’s programmatic infrastructure, the board recently selected Kathryn Kuhlenberg to serve as the interim executive director. Subject to final board approval on March 12, Kuhlenberg will help the board “maintain momentum, stabilize operations and build core infrastructure during the district’s initial formation.” This transitional independent contractor role is expected to begin in early 2026 and bridge a six to 12-month period before a permanent executive director is appointed. 

“It’s not a permanent position, but it’s foundational and really important. We need to capture the public’s priorities from the get-go,” said Kraemer. 

Moving forward, Kraemer emphasized the need to continue encouraging community collaboration.

“I hope that we lay a really strong foundation for operations that are centered on systems and the person — data-driven and also honoring the individual experience,” said Kraemer. “It’s our responsibility to keep the public’s interests centered; and not just the public’s interests, but the children and the families … Every person in this valley is part of the fabric of our community … When we help everyone we are strengthening that fabric.”

Regular board meetings occur the second Thursday of each month at 9:30am at Colorado Mountain College in Glenwood Springs. Visit www.confluencedistrict.org or email general@confluencedistrict.org for more information.

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A state Senate committee killed a bill that would have required farmers to get a third-party “prescription” before planting more of the now-ubiquitous crop seeds coated with pesticides, with even some Democrats saying the green effort went too far, too fast. 

Despite support from Gov. Jared Polis, the environmental groups and Democratic legislators trying to cut use of pesticide-protected seeds in Colorado agriculture lost out to arguments that farmers rely on the neonicotinoids or “neonics” to protect millions of acres of corn, wheat and other crops. Farm groups also won support saying individualized third-party audits were an expensive bureaucracy in an agricultural economy with leaf-thin profit margins. 

Two Democrats joined three Republicans on the Senate Agriculture and Natural Resources Committee to stop Senate Bill 65 — labeled the SEED Act — late Thursday after hours of testimony, with only Democrats Katie Wallace and Cathy Kipp voting to advance it. Supporters had argued that runoff from neonic-coated seeds was hurting important environmental pollinators like honey bees, and collecting in waterways for as-yet unknown impacts on humans down the road. 

“I’m disappointed to see this outcome,” said Wallace, a cosponsor. “This bill was a new approach to a long-term, pressing issue that protected farmer choice, ensured access to untreated seed, and eliminated the unnecessary uses responsible for neonic contamination.” 

Supporters had also argued there was no evidence that pesticide-coated seeds increase yields for many farmers, and that the seeds are often used in places that don’t have significant pest problems. 

“Pollinators are in trouble, and this loophole allows a major source of toxic pollution to enter our environment,” said Henry Stiles, Environment Colorado wildlife and conservation advocate. “We are disappointed in this result, but appreciate all the farmers, doctors and scientists who spoke in favor of the bill. Since senators expressed concerns about the impact of limiting these seeds, we will continue to demonstrate the need to save pollinators and show that there are safer, better options for farmers across the state.”

The Colorado Farm Bureau, among others, said the rejected bill “would have banned our farmers’ most effective, efficient, safe and affordable” way to manage costly pests.

“The Senate Agriculture Committee heard loud and clear from producers, agronomists, seed scientists, and a wide coalition from across the state that this burdensome regulation was unworkable, unreasonable, and unfounded,” said Farm Bureau director of state affairs Brandon Melnikoff. “Lawmakers recognized that removing this science-backed, proven pest management strategy would increase input costs while threatening the sustainability of our working lands.”

GRAND JUNCTION — On a sunny late-winter morning, the Las Colonias riverfront development is, surprisingly, bustling. 

City workers wrangle loose tumbleweeds along the development’s winding streets. Walkers and their dogs amble and sniff around a pond shaped like a butterfly. Campers in vintage Airstream trailers on the outskirts of the development pump up bike tires to get ready for a chilly spin on the trail along the Colorado River. Vehicles nose into parking spaces outside a pot shop and a hair salon. 

This is all that city leaders and business visionaries envisioned two decades ago when they began dreaming up the $30 million business-park makeover of this once-blighted and mostly deserted section of riverfront property south of Grand Junction’s downtown. 

Or, nearly all. 

The promise of a city replacing 128 acres of radioactive dumping grounds and a historic migrant farmworker neighborhood with outdoor-related development and recreation has not waned. But it has morphed as visions smacked into a pandemic and new economic realities. Build-out at Las Colonias has gone slower than anticipated. The area is not yet approaching dreams of a Western Slope  LoDo.

Since the city broke ground on the business part of Las Colonias, development of the area slumped and opened to a wider range of commercial enterprises, not only the recreation-oriented. 

“It’s all part of the evolution,” said Sarah Schraeder, who, along with her husband Thaddeus Schraeder, helped to convince the City of Grand Junction its abandoned riverfront should not be wasted. 

Empty building, unused zipline 

Las Colonias officially broke ground on infrastructure in 2018 after the decontaminated land given to the city by the U.S. Department of Energy had sat empty for decades. The next year, RockyMounts, a maker of bike racks, created a stir of optimism when it moved its headquarters to Grand Junction from Boulder.

RockyMounts was heralded as proof that recreation-related enterprises would find the parklike setting a solid draw.

But RockyMounts moved its distribution and warehouse operations to Utah after a year of operation. A lack of container rail shipping to and from Grand Junction proved to be a surprise snag. RockyMounts sold its manufacturing operation to an Australia-based company late in 2024 and left Grand Junction for Aurora. A large “For Sale” sign is now posted outside the empty 20,000-square-foot building.  

Nearby, a much heralded zipline stretches unused over the Colorado River. It was planned to be a eye-catching component of the recreation aspect of Las Colonias. But it closed in 2024 during its first full year of business due to “operational losses” and has now become a sort of Las Colonias albatross because of its high visibility.

When it had opened in the late summer of 2023 after two years of delays, there was no stampede of zipliners. It turned out there wasn’t a big market for a $22 zip from a tower on the north side of the river to a bluff on the south.  

The line was built by Bonsai Designs, the Schraeders’ aerial adventure company, which was the first business to plant a survey flag in the newly graded dirt of Las Colonias. 

Bonsai is still designing ziplines and aerial courses for worldwide markets from its Las  Colonias headquarters, but its closed zipline has generated local grumbling about the wisdom of city handouts. 

The city had handed Bonsai a million dollars to boost the $3.2 million Bonsai spent on its flagship building. In exchange for the financial help, Bonsai agreed to fund, build and operate the zipline. The agreement specified the city could take the line over if Bonsai failed to operate it. 

“We did way more than we were supposed to do, but we lost $100,000 each year of our two years of operation,” Thaddeus Schraeder said.

The city doesn’t appear to be in a rush to own a municipal zipline. City officials say Bonsai is welcome to use the line for training and research. They say Bonsai has met its other obligations, including job creation and maintaining its headquarters at Las Colonias. 

Other businesses are filling extra space

Bonsai was built with extra commercial space that now houses businesses out of the mold of the recreation-related enterprises envisioned in the early days of Las Colonias.  An accounting firm, an engineer, a realty company, and a construction business populate glass-walled offices overlooking the butterfly-shaped pond.  

The Schraeders say the outdoors-oriented aspect of Las Colonias is still a strong draw to the area, even if some of the businesses moving in are not focused on recreation. She said workers value the option of heading directly out to trails or to the city-built boat launch that has attracted a nearby kiosk renting watercraft.

To the west of Bonsai, a “Come See Us, We’re Open” banner flaps outside the shining glass walls of the new 12,000-square-foot OakStar Bank. 

A financial institution looming over the trails, a dog park and a river play area was also not what city leaders envisioned in the early days of Las Colonias. But they now say it fits because a third of its space is open for other commercial tenants such as a restaurant, a coffee shop, a yoga studio, or a winery — all wish-list amenities dating to the beginning of Las Colonias.

Trent Prall, the Grand Junction engineering and transportation director who has been instrumental in the development of Las Colonias since the beginning, said the swerve in some of the focus is not concerning. He said the city is simply broadening its horizons as it shapes a vibrant new area in the Western Slope’s largest city. 

“We have gotten more engagement with the river,” Prall said. “That is what we planned for.” 

Curtis Englehart agrees. Englehart took over as executive director of the Grand Junction Economic Development Partnership in 2022 after Las Colonias had already taken shape and after voters had OK’d the elimination of a stumbling block by extending riverfront land leases to 99 years from 25. 

“The Riverfront at Las Colonias is working really well,” Englehart said. “I think we’re definitely moving in the right direction.” 

Mike Bennett took over as Grand Junction city manager in 2024, and is also an advocate for where Las Colonias is headed. He said inquiries about the seven shovel-ready building sites at Las Colonias have been picking up this year.

“I don’t know who wouldn’t want to be there,” Bennett said. 

City dwellers have demonstrated that has some truth to it. 

More than 150 apartment and condo units have sprung up around the development. Hundreds more are planned or already under construction on what used to be a sawmill property, a sugar beet plant, and a trucking company on the north and east sides of Las Colonias.

Gap between Main Street and the river is narrowing

Edgewater Brewery, the first business to take a public-attracting chance on the riverfront in 2000, sold last year. The new owner, WestCo Brewing, has continued as an eating and drinking establishment within hollering distance of the $3.8 million,5,000-seat (in the grass) Las Colonias amphitheater. Known as the Amp, the venue has grown into a steady attraction where Bob Dylan, Snoop Dogg and Ringo Starr have performed for packed crowds.  

As city officials had hoped, businesses are also creeping from Grand Junction’s popular, art-displaying Main Street toward the riverfront along 7th Street. A martial arts studio, an old grain silo turned bungee thrill attraction, a new restaurant featuring platter-sized fried pork tenderloins, and a gym have sprung up along what was a gritty commercial and industrial area.

The city plans to revamp the corridor’s infrastructure to accommodate more development, Bennett said. He said it will include better transportation options on streets that have the challenge of crossing railroad tracks.

The concept of a “string of pearls” stretching from Las Colonias west towards Fruita is also taking shape with another city park area and a private development. 

The Dos Rios General Development District — 58 acres of mixed-use, residential,  commercial and retail use — has a very visible Starbucks. Nearby, the Confluence Center of Colorado opened its doors with office space for nonprofits, land- and water-related agencies, and a day care and preschool. 

Dos Rios is located on land that was even more blighted than Las Colonias. The riverside was previously a landfill strewn with 8,500 junked vehicles. A layer of radioactive tailings covered much of the junk. The city sold 15 acres of the cleared land to a Washington, D.C-based private developer, MR Properties. That company has built apartments and is offering land for a brewery, a wine bar, a food hall and event spaces.  

The adjacent city land has been used for creative park amenities, including a playground with an eye-catching fish-shaped wooden structure, a bike skills park, a splash pad and a beach.

Competition popped up in Montrose

Besides revamping its original concept for the riverfront, Grand Junction has had to vie for businesses with the Colorado Outdoors development along the Uncompahgre River in the city of Montrose.  

Englehart and Bennett said they would classify it as “complementing rather than  competing.” But the kinds of businesses that Las Colonias set its sights on, including Mayfly Outdoors, chose the Montrose riverfront rather than Grand Junction’s.  

The Montrose riverfront has also attracted a string of smaller businesses, including a distillery, a shop for anglers, a bike store, a yurt maker, a sauna workout studio, restaurants, a hot tub purveyor and a hotel. 

The promoters of Grand Junction’s riverfront say there is no jealousy directed toward Montrose. 

Thaddeus Schraeder said he views the multiple riverside developments in terms of “a rising tide lifting all the boats up.”

“This all shows that this is an up-and-coming part of the world. It lets people know that there is something going on over here,” he said. 

Englehart offered, “what’s good for Montrose is good for Montrose. What’s good for Grand Junction is good for Grand Junction. We have a few similarities but quite a few differences.” 

He said those differences include Grand Junction’s location along Interstate 70 between Denver and Salt Lake City, a growing Colorado Mesa University, and a labor force of 80,000. 

Englehart said he sees strong interest in Las Colonias. Development eyes on the area have picked up after a stall during the COVID pandemic and a stuttering jump in inquiries in recent years. That is changing. He said he is currently talking with five “solid prospects.” He won’t say what they are, but he said they would all complement the new, expanded focus of Las Colonias.