Author(s):John Tirman.
Source:American Scholar 78.1 (Wntr 2009): p30(11). (4396 words)
Document Type:Magazine/Journal
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Full Text :COPYRIGHT 2009 Phi Beta Kappa Society
The presidential campaign of 2008 will be recalled for many firsts: the first African-American presidential nominee, the near-miss campaigns of Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin, the record spending and record turnout. But what was not new was its reliance on a very old standard of American politicalculture, the frontier myth. Perhaps no other set of ideas about America is more powerful politically, and the two autumn campaigns were reverential in their implicit bow to, or explicit exploitation of, the dense complex of frontier images and values attached to the American experience.
The limitless possibilities of the American dream, the expansion of American values, the national effort to tame faraway places, the promise of a bounty just over the horizon, and the essential virtue of the American people who explore and settle these frontiers--all of these tropes fortified the hopes of the campaigns to situate their candidate in the company of legendary pioneers. It is a testament to the power of this myth that it grips us still--its self-gratifying qualifies having ensured its long lineage--even as the actual frontier of American action is swiftly closing. A century ago, the closure of the continental frontier obsessed politicians and intellectuals alike. Today, when the global frontier is closing, our political leaders have little sense of its significance.
Instead, the run for the White House recycled the frontier myth with scarcely a nod to its growing irrelevance. The Republican ticket, representing Western frontier states, was exemplary in this regard. John McCain's credentials as a genuine hero were much in play. In frontier mythology, the hero is central to how we understand the tasks of taming the wilderness and extracting its bounty, and from Andrew Jackson to George Armstrong Custer to Jimmy Doolittle, the American hero has often been a warrior. That burnishing fact of McCain's career was front and center in the political campaign. His self-description as a "maverick" glosses the hero status neatly, because the hero in our national narrative is typically the loner seeking justice. He repeatedly called himself a Teddy Roosevelt Republican, invoking one of the icons of the frontier myth, a self-made hero if there ever was one. And in his campaign he recycled one of the sacred phrases political leaders like to use to underscore their commitment to America's unique greatness--John Winthrop's line from Matthew that we are "as a City upon a Hill," an exemplar for all the world.
The maverick hero was joined on the ticket around Labor Day by Maska Governor Sarah Palin, who was introduced as yet another maverick and a frontier mother who hunts and can "field dress" a moose. Much was made of this, both sarcastically and triumphantly, but the direct embrace of the frontier myth was unmistakable and instantly popular. "The gun-toting Sarah Palin is like Annie Oakley," exulted Camille Paglia, "a brash ambassador from America's pioneer past." One conservative blogger called her "a Western frontier version of Thatcher." In viewing the giddy Palin debut, one reference that came to mind was historian David W. Noble's depiction of "timeless space" as a treasured American perspective--the absence of confining histories, cultures, or mores, combined with the limitless American landscape. Maska self-consciously conveys those qualities, considering itself a residual frontier, and the many exciting possibilities of that frontier were rejuvenated in the person of Maska's governor.
The Democratic ticket's claim on frontier values was less obvious. Barack Obama invoked John E Kennedy, Harry Truman, and Franklin D. Roosevelt as paragons of a global leadership that must be renewed, implicitly assuming that the whole world is our rightful domain of action. In this, he is in the internationalist tradition that seeks to promote American values, missionary-like, to a grateful world. As an Illinois lawyer-politician and as an African American, he is readily associated with Lincoln as frontier hero and liberator of the slaves. In his manner and education, he has often been compared with Kennedy, the new frontiersman. Obama's intriguing personal journey is that of a lone truth seeker on a quest (common to all heroes), in this world but somehow always elevated above the mundane, an American Odysseus. His rapid rise to national prominence has been built on the irrational hope of his supporters that he can singlehandedly transform politics and the world, and indeed he was lampooned on the right as a Christ poseur.
What is striking about these candidates is the authenticity of their credentials. McCain's heroism is evident in his gruesome captivity narrative, replete with cycles of courage and weakness. Obama scaled heights never before ascended by a black American, overcoming obstinate racism and xenophobia as the Herculean labors of a new epic. (Compare these two with the would-be cowboys Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush clearing brush from their ranches.) These truly heroic images are among the reasons why the campaign was fought so fiercely.
As the 2008 election shows, we can't escape the frontier, even if the frontier has escaped us.
Why is the frontier myth losing its relevance? When the continental frontier closed--when the last indigenous tribes were subdued and the land taken--it created a sense of crisis in American politics. The answer to that crisis was to look outward, across oceans, to imagine frontiers to conquer abroad. Much of the ensuing century has involved America on such global frontiers. But now that frontier is also closing, as our capacity to treat the world like a virgin terrain diminishes, and the question it stirs is What next? What frontier, if any?
The cultural theorist Richard Slotkin describes the myth of the frontier as "the conquest of the wilderness and the subjugation or displacement of the Native Americans ... the means to our achievement of a national identity, a democratic polity, an ever-expanding economy, and a phenomenally dynamic and 'progressive' civilization." This conquest, he explains, was not only pursued for its own tangible rewards--security, land, and riches--but for and by a morally cleansing series of "savage wars" that conveyed upon the pioneers a "regeneration through violence." It was at the frontier, where civilization confronted wilderness, that American values were forged. The frontier provided abundance for those courageous enough to seize it, in contrast to the scarcity and squalor and discontent common in cities in the East. The frontier myth braced and was braced by individualism, Social Darwinism, Manifest Destiny, and similar traditions of American ideology, and has been endlessly replayed and elaborated through the cultural power of novels, films, and journalism. While not always recognized for what it is, it informs our foreign policy, our sense of place, and our purpose on this planet.
The world as an American frontier was a new idea when Theodore Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, and a few other intellectuals assayed the closing of the continental frontier. Roosevelt was a central figure in this realization. His lament about the closing frontier drew on an essentially racialist notion of how Americans--or Americans of a certain heroic class--subdued the savages and thereby burnished their own virile qualities and moral capacity to lead. The historian Frederick Jackson Turner promoted the more palatable idea that democratic self-reliance was a consequence of the American frontier experience, and that the closing of the frontier (which the Census Bureau proclaimed in 1891) was a threat to American democratic virtue. The frontier had also provided the United States a safety valve for development, unlike Europe, where socialism and class antagonism marred the political landscape. The economic stagnation America was experiencing in the 1890s, after a heady period of economic expansion, was one alarm ringing through all the thinking about the frontier and its legacy.
If the end of the North American frontier was a crisis for democratic and manly virtue, Roosevelt and Turner had an answer: extend the frontier elsewhere. Long before the USS Maine was blown up in Havana harbor, Roosevelt advocated war with Spain, which bestowed the Philippines to the new American empire and provided Roosevelt with the "savage war" and Asian foothold that were meant as an antidote to the frontier's demise in North America.
Woodrow Wilson was less bombastic but no less committed to the extension of the American idea. "The spaces of their own continent were occupied and reduced to the uses of civilization; they had no frontiers wherewith 'to satisfy the feet of the young men,'" he wrote in A History of the American People. "These new frontiers in the Indies and on the Far Pacific came to them as if out of the very necessity of the new career before them." In the White House, from which Roosevelt suppressed the Philippines rebellion and built the Panama Canal, both with a high human toll, Wilson invaded Mexico, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, and Haiti before entering World War I. All of these actions undertaken on behalf of democratic ideals prefaced his attempts to make the world safe for democracy. While he was, in contrast to Roosevelt, increasingly anti-imperialist, he was no less expansionist--in one historian's words, the "very model of Turner's crusading democrat."
The myth has been remarkably resilient. Not only did it inform American expansion globally during the presidencies of FDR and Truman, but the uncertainties posed by the Cold War (which used cowboys-and-Indians iconography time and again), the nuclear arms race, and subsequent crises of confidence (particularly urban crime, oil price explosions, the 1979 hostage taking in Tehran, and the 9/11 attacks) led to the embrace in popular culture and politics of the comforting narrative of civilization versus savages. The myth remains vibrant, but the frontier itself is disappearing again.
The end of the Cold War was the first sign that the global frontier was, closing. The superpower standoff formed much of the United States identity in that phase of our global involvement, and its power explains our failure to construct a successor to that form of engagement. The "twilight struggle" with Soviet communism still shapes how we structure foreign relations, institutions, military doctrine, public diplomacy, and our sense of self-worth. It was a colossal, Manichaean contest, much like the one the pioneers experienced as they cleared and settled the continent. The anticommunist campaigns, which began internally as long ago as Wilson's intervention against the Bolsheviks from 1918 to 1920, resulted in dozens of military interventions, CIA covert operations, and lavish support for anticommunist regimes. This pattern was nourished by the depiction of communists as a threat to civilization. The conclusion of the U.S.-Soviet rivalry nearly 20 years ago thereby drained American globalism of a paramount ideology--a way of seeing ourselves in the world--and the supposed vitality that came with the waging of "savage wars" in Africa, Latin America, and Asia. It is with difficulty that we let go. That the war on terrorism closely followed, and invoked this warrior myth--the fight for Western values against barely human and wholly alien "hostiles"--should come as no surprise, since it evinces a purpose built by the Puritans and renewed throughout our history.
In the aftermath of the attacks of September 11, 2001, America instinctively reverted to the old category of a battle for civilization's soul. Susan Faludi, in The Terror Dream: Fear and Fantasy in Post-9/11 America, incisively applies Slotkin's framework to this rapid mobilization for a "war on terrorism," especially the regeneration through violence for the heroic men of America. This battle intoxicated the nation for a time, but the scale, threat, and results look paltry in the shadow of previous warrior epics.
So while the ennobling and rewarding savage wars of the anticommunist frontier are diminishing, that pattern of mobilization and intervention has simply been imitated, with relatively little retooling, in the war against small and scattered gangs of Muslim extremists. This mimicry is likely to fail. The menace of would-be shoe bombers and a few restive Muslims in faraway and desolate places pales before the thousands of nuclear weapons that were aimed at us by the Soviets, the millions killed in Korea and Vietnam, and the totalitarianism of Stalin or Mao. The relentless invocation of every soldier or firefighter as a hero dilutes the essential mythic heroism once reserved for a Boone or a Crockett or a Lindbergh. As in Vietnam, moreover, the "Indians" are not so easily subdued, and the costly setbacks of the anti-terrorism campaigns are stirring a growing distaste for savage wars.
The end of the global frontier is also evident in its diminishing bounty. A primary cause of the imperialistic urge of the 1890s was the perceived need to export American products to sustain or increase production domestically and to relieve labor agitation. Such a boom in exports followed, enabled by natural resources and agricultural production. But the U.S. trade situation turned sour in the 1970s and has continued to deteriorate ever since. The decline is precipitate. In 1992, the trade deficit was $50 billion. In 2007, in constant dollars, it was $730 billion. As a percentage of all economic output, exports did not exceed the levels of 1900 until the 1990s, and by then imports were outpacing exports.
At the same time, income has stagnated for three decades for all but the wealthy in America--a direct slap at one of the tenets of the frontier myth, that expansion would lessen unequal distribution in the American economy. "The bonanza frontier offers the prospect of immediate and impressive economic benefit for a relatively low capital outlay," Slotkin writes in Gunfighter Nation (1992), and "bonanza profits derive from the opportunity to acquire or produce at low cost some commodity that has a high commercial value." In the 19th century, the bonanza was gold and land; in the 20th-century global frontier, it was oil and other minerals, financial products, and cheap goods from abroad.
The dismal performance of the global economic empire is often attributed to the nationalization of oil assets in OPEC countries, but even when oil prices were low in the 1980s and '90s, the U.S. trade balance and personal income statistics were deteriorating. The declines have come during the period of insistence on free markets in the developing world (another modern-day equivalent of bonanza economics), a doctrine that proved ineffective if not disastrous for those countries over the last quarter century. The free market is attractive in theory, but when pitting transnational corporations against small developing countries it becomes an arena of economic predation. At the same time, rivals for economic dominance, including the European Union, Japan, China, India, Russia, and others, are crowding out U.S. control of markets and resources, a trend that is accelerating. The expansion on this continent was made possible by pushing out the British, French, Spanish, and Mexicans, and by eliminating the indigenous tribes, but this is no longer feasible in the global frontier.
The 2008 crisis in America's mastery of global finance signaled another sharp reversal. In the midst of the market turbulence that shook Wall Street and foreign markets, German Finance Minister Peer Steinbruck proclaimed that "the United States will lose its status as the superpower of the global financial system. The global financial system will become multipolar" and use a more diversified basket of currencies, undermining one of the last symbols of America's economic strength--the dollar. It was a sentiment widely echoed throughout the capitals of the world.
The most important reason for the closing frontier, however, is the limits of the earth itself, the biological capacity that is now diminishing with frightening speed. This is a consequence of the "taming of the wilderness," which has certainly been tamed and is now wreaking its revenge. The longstanding notion that resources were ours for the taking, and for using promiscuously, is no longer viable. The closing of this frontier not only impedes economic growth built on this attitude (the engines fueled by cheap oil in particular), but has other costs as well--the agricultural, health, and safety challenges of rapid climate change, among many others.
The depletion of earth's resources and the climate change that results from profligate consumption of those resources are well established now among scientists. The Washington reaction to this is right out of the frontier-myth playbook, however, and indeed is reminiscent of the debate that surrounded the onset of outward expansion of a century ago. Then, as now, the anti-imperialists were condemned as elitists and weak willed, people attempting to impede America's God-given right to take our mission to the rest of the world. Today, the very modest proposals for arresting carbon emissions, for example, are derided by many proponents of big business as part of the global warming "hoax" that seeks to deprive Americans of economic growth and unbridled consumption. The intemperate quality of the attacks signals that a deep chord has been touched, the belief in the ever-expanding frontier that is pioneered and settled by Americans. The deterioration of the earth's ecosystem was rarely mentioned in the 2008 campaign.
The war in Iraq illustrates how these three phenomena converge. It was fought in part to fulfill the new imperatives of the war on terrorism, and it was a war, so thought the Bush advisers, that we knew how to fight--armored divisions, air power, command and control, and so on, reflecting Cold War preparations. The mission (apart from the alleged nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons) harkens back to the "civilizing" impulse of Roosevelt and Wilson and displays all the racial typing of the natives, and callousness toward them, that marred U.S. interventions in the Philippines, Vietnam, and Latin America. The "bonanza" is the promise of oil, and the control of oil pricing worldwide. With its predecessor, Operation Desert Storm, Operation Iraqi Freedom signals how American consumption has led directly to large-scale resource wars, this one now 18 years in duration. An air of desperation clings to the war, as the mismatch of expectations and outcomes becomes ever more apparent, and as the inability of the United States to treat the world as its virgin domain is exposed.
Given these odious consequences, what is the future of the frontier and its myth? The reflexive answer is to discard it altogether as a guiding set of values. The frontier metaphor imparts ideas of American exceptionalism and the moral right to resources, cultural superiority, and limitlessness in all things we choose to do. If there are no limits, there is no need for common struggle. If the world is our oyster, there is no need for restrictive rules and regulations, for lowering expectations. Four hundred years of this ideology--fostered and promoted by church and state, the news media, schools, and popular culture generally--has nurtured this exceptionalism that feeds arrogance and wastefulness and war.
But the myth is resilient. The alternative is to reinvent it, to co-opt, in effect, frontier symbolism from its destructive tendencies and transform it into something more vital. Many leaders have attempted to use the frontier metaphor as a way of launching ideas for reform or renewal, invoking, for example, "the war on" campaigns--the war on poverty, the war on drugs, the war on cancer--which draw on the conflict and moral struggle that played such a central part on the frontier. Some of the discourse about globalization today uses concepts similar to the frontier ideology: both the "clash of civilizations" (from Samuel Huntington) and the more piquant "clash of globalizations" (from Stanley Hoffmann) grapple with American-led cultural, political, and economic change and the conflicts and bonanzas they may be encountering or inducing. Yet very few political or opinion elites recognize the frontier myth--the restless urge to expand and to dominate--as the root and branch of our self-defined global role. Thus very few have tried to alter its course and meaning.
The most intriguing attempt to harness the myth in recent memory was John E Kennedy's New Frontier, which was the core concept in his acceptance speech as the Democratic Party's nominee and throughout his 1960 campaign. He recalled the past in the conventional way--the pioneers who settled the American West "were not the captives of their own doubts, nor the prisoners of their own price tags," he told the convention. "They were determined to make the new world strong and free--an example to the world, to overcome its hazards and its hardships, to conquer the enemies that threatened from within and without." But then he went on with a more interesting twist:
Some would say that those struggles are all over, that all the
horizons have been explored, that all the battles have been won,
that there is no longer an American frontier.... Beyond that
frontier are uncharted areas of science and space, unsolved
problems of peace and war, unconquered problems of ignorance and
prejudice, unanswered questions of poverty and surplus. It would be
easier to shrink from that new frontier, to look to the safe
mediocrity of the past, to be lulled by good intentions and high
rhetoric.... I believe that the times require imagination and
courage and perseverance. I'm asking each of you to be pioneers
towards that New Frontier.
Kennedy still used the older mythic call as a "race for mastery of the sky ..., the ocean ..., the far side of space, and the inside of men's minds," but the notion that the frontier was not geographical or spatial, but one of applied knowledge and of human relations, was an innovation and one that has not been surpassed. That Kennedy and his cohort did not live up to this new inflection of the frontier myth scarcely needs noting, but the rhetorical framing of a new kind of frontier, a half century later, might have finally met its moment.
Using the metaphor as a way of galvanizing both the public and our political leaders to adopt new challenges--challenges to be explored and tamed, from which public good can be extracted--may be more plausible given what we now can see about global limits. The need to arrest climate change with sustainable development is just such a challenge, one that must broadly mobilize society. How to reshape our politics to confront this challenge is not a problem with an obvious solution. The frontiers of science or knowledge are hoary notions, but as a counterpoint to the decaying frontier myth, they possess renewed vibrancy--and are especially potent if linked to the new mission as a heroic feat. The hero is the human exponent of the frontier myth, and all heroes embody qualities that speak to the anxieties of the age. Self-sacrifice, an innate sense of purpose, physical or intellectual prowess, and a willingness to confront the dangers of the frontier--all are qualities of the hero.
Meeting the environmental challenge requires more than colossal investments in science and intensive diplomacy; it mandates a shift in the way we think about U.S. goals, our range of action, and our commitment to values beyond self-enrichment. It requires collective, heroic action, the kind that can move a society in times of peril. And it requires a new lens on the world, one that sees in developing countries not bounty but common needs and aspirations. The environmental crisis binds us globally in ways that no previous cataclysm ever has--not war, not epidemics, not other natural disasters. If the oil addiction of the industrial countries is not reversed soon, the resource wars we have suffered already will intensify along with the choking effects on air and oceans. If China and India do not reduce their rate of growth in carbon emissions, the earth's ecosystem will be dangerously degraded. If Brazilian rainforests continue to be mowed down, we lose precious and possibly irreplaceable sources of oxygen to refresh the atmosphere. If sustainable development cannot be fostered in Mexico and Africa and the Middle East, the migrations to the industrial world will induce intolerable social and economic stress. These are collective problems by dint of their inexorably collective outcomes. And in this, the world now differs radically from the one that was merely a frontier for exploitation.
When we look to the three signals of how the frontier has closed--the warrior ethos, bonanza economics, and environmental limits--it is apparent that all three are equally culpable and equally important to a transformative politics. Fortunately, the dominant myth of the frontier is not the only distinctly American modus vivendi, as leaders as far apart in time as John Winthrop and John Kennedy demonstrate. Our political and cultural leaders today, however, have rarely hinted at the imperative to reconstruct our mental architecture of the world and our place in it. If the world is essentially regarded as a font of anti-American terrorism or rivalry, as a social, political, and physical wilderness to be tamed, then we will be battling in the diminishing space our old habits have forced us into. That frontier is closing. The daunting but necessary task of redefining our horizons is upon us.
Where to start? Perhaps at the beginning. Winthrop's line from his 1630 sermon, "we shall be as a City upon a Hill," is frequently intoned to suggest that America is uniquely gifted and providential. Countless politicians have sermonized with this gratifying image and used it, erroneously, to celebrate belligerence, individualism, and aggrandizement. Looking at Winthrop's whole text presents a different sense of what the meaning of that phrase might be. He implored the Puritans to
do justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with our God, for this
end, we must be knit together in this work as one man, we must
entertain each other in brotherly affection, we must be willing to
abridge ourselves of our superfluities, for the supply of others'
necessities, we must uphold a familiar commerce together in all
meekness, gentleness, patience and liberality, we must delight in
each other, make other's conditions our own, rejoice together,
mourn together, labor, and suffer together, always having before
our eyes our Commission and Community in the work, our Community as
members of the same body, so shall we keep the unity of the spirit
in the bond of peace.
There was more, of course, and not all of it gentle and meek, but it is remarkable how humble and communitarian and ascetic his vision was, a vision reflecting the ethos of the early Massachusetts Bay Colony. More remarkable still is how suited such an ethos could be again. So the answer to the question "What frontier now?" may be to return to the humility of the first frontier.
John Tirman, the executive director and principal research scientist at MIT's Center for International Studies, is at work on a book about Americans' attitudes toward war.
Source Citation:Tirman, John. "The future of the American frontier: can one of our most enduring national myths, much in evidence in the recent presidential campaign, be reinvented yet again?(Cover story)(Essay)." American Scholar 78.1 (Wntr 2009): 30(11). General OneFile. Gale. Columbia College Library (Chicago). 12 Mar. 2009
Gale Document Number:A192052988
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Title:Civilization: Just add water: Without irrigation, Ark Valley would suffer from its nature.
Source:Pueblo Chieftain (Pueblo, Colorado) (March 8, 2009)(749 words)
Document Type:Newswire
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Full Text :COPYRIGHT 2009 The Pueblo Chieftain
Byline: Chris Woodka
Mar. 8-------- TAMING THE LAND The Arkansas Valley plain was once an inhospitable land, called by some "the Great American Desert." In the middle of the 19th century, it began to change as railroads, cities, factories and farms displaced the American Indian culture that viewed the valley mainly as a hunting ground. Slowly at first, and then in a rush in the 1870s and '80s, the area grew. While there were many factors responsible, none was as important as irrigated agriculture, which remains the backbone of the valley. This series of weekly articles will look at the development and trends of irrigated agriculture in the valley. To comment or make suggestions, please contact Chris Woodka, 719-544-8214, or cwoodka@chieftain.com.
------ The main features of the landscape were rocky crags in the arroyos. Streams disappeared before reaching the river, and were sparsely lined with cottonwoods and an undergrowth of plum, mountain currant and wild grape. If there were trees any distance from the river, they were scrubby white cedar. Many of the streams, and sometimes the river itself would disappear during
the driest times, and turn into deadly walls of water during a heavy rain. The water was often brackish. On a few of the upland tracts there were patches of grass, which up until about 1872 sustained buffalo herds for the 10,000 or so indigenous Cheyenne, Arapahoe,
Kiowa, Comanche, Ute, Apache and Crow people who might be hunting in the valley at any given time. That describes the Lower Arkansas Valley as it was known before Europeans entered and built irrigation systems that changed the landscape, according to a history by Charles Bowman published in 1881. By 1881, it had been 75 years since Zebulon Pike's early forays into the valley; 50 years since Kit Carson first stopped at Bent's Fort; and more than a decade since the railroad began spawning towns up and down the Arkansas Valley.
Colorado was a state and its founding fathers had seen fit to include provisions that made it clear that while the water belonged to all the people, the priority for its use belonged to those who were first in line to appropriate it. The year 1881 was also significant for Pueblo, already an established town on the banks of the Arkansas River. It was the year Colorado Fuel and Iron began rolling out steel rails, but also the beginning of establishing Pueblo as the
center of commerce in a valley whose prosperity hinged on agriculture.
But still, the native environment had, for the moment, survived the first onslaught of civilization. Irrigation canals began to be built in the early 1870s, replacing the earlier practice of simple diversions of the river into farms in the bottomlands. Claims to water were, by the 1880s, piling up on top of each other so quickly
- sometimes leading to violence, bloodshed and even death -- that the state created the office of state engineer in 1881 to enforce water rights. By the end of the 1880s, the Arkansas River in most years was fully appropriated, often overappropriated. The larger canals changed not only the economy and settlement of the valley,
but the landscape of Southeastern Colorado. The late Frank Milenski, a historian of Arkansas Valley water, in his book "Water: The Answer to a Valley's Prayer," quoted John Vroman, the first president of the Catlin Canal, when he retired in 1903: "When I first came to this country some 30 years ago, the general appearance of the landscape was all but inviting to prospective farmers, who now are located on beautiful homes. There was nothing but a vast expanse of hill and dale thickly covered with sagebrush and greasewood for habitation for the coyote, the rabbit and the rattlesnakes.
"Thus it has been for countless ages and thus it seemed doomed forever to remain and thus in fact it would have remained, but for the dauntless courage, foresight and of the few hearty pioneers who, realizing the enormous possibilities of the soil when plentifully supplied with water, began the building of canals to convey the water from the river to these lands." Next: Dreams of Prosperity
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Source Citation:"Civilization: Just add water: Without irrigation, Ark Valley would suffer from its nature." Pueblo Chieftain (Pueblo, Colorado) (March 8, 2009): NA. General OneFile. Gale. Columbia College Library (Chicago). 12 Mar. 2009
Gale Document Number:CJ195116245
