Great Lakes Article:

Michael Pollocoff remembers what the water was like two decades ago, before Pleasant Prairie bloomed into one of Wisconsin's fastest growing communities.

"It looked like orange Kool-Aid and smelled like rotten eggs," says Pollocoff, the village manager.

Like other communities with declining groundwater supplies, Pleasant Prairie struggled with radium in its municipal wells. Water bills would go out with warnings about carcinogens, and Pollocoff would field calls from exasperated residents.

"Do you expect me to pay for this?"

Yes, he did.

"Do you expect me to drink it?"

No, he didn't.

The solution seemed easy. Six feet from a Pleasant Prairie water main lay a water main from the city of Kenosha and a pipeline to Lake Michigan. In 1988, the two communities brokered a deal. Kenosha got 3 square miles of land and, for the first time, an important access point to I-94; Pleasant Prairie got its link to fresh lake water.

But the village could not turn the spigot on.

Water cannot be taken outside the Great Lakes basin without the approval of the eight Great Lakes states' governors, and as close as it is to the shoreline, about half of Pleasant Prairie actually is outside the basin. The governors had never approved a diversion from one of the Great Lakes, but most were willing to go along. The governor from Michigan, John Engler, was the primary stumbling block.

To push its point, Pleasant Prairie paid $30,000 to a lobbyist in Lansing to tell its story. Soon thereafter, in September 1989, a picture of Pollocoff holding a bottle of rusty water appeared on the front page of the Detroit Free Press. Another picture showed residents being forced to fill up water bottles from a local artesian well.

Two months later, Michigan broke the logjam, sending a letter to Wisconsin officials saying it would not object to letting Pleasant Prairie turn on the Lake Michigan faucet. The decision was one of the most important in the history of Pleasant Prairie, transforming the village from cropland and faded barns to subdivisions, retail outlets and crisp industrial buildings.

Until then, the village had not been able to capitalize on its proximity to Chicago. Water made the difference.

Pleasant Prairie is a classic example of the power and politics of Great Lakes water, and the reason there is growing concern about the way it is managed.

The flip side
What happens when water access is denied

Lowell, Ind., is also a classic example, but for the opposite reason.

For years, this little town just beyond the boundary of the Great Lakes basin struggled with excessive levels of naturally occurring fluoride, making its water unsafe to drink. Like Pleasant Prairie, it petitioned the Great Lakes governors to allow a hookup to Lake Michigan water. And like Pleasant Prairie, the big holdup was Michigan, again under then-Gov. Engler.

Unlike Pleasant Prairie, Lowell was refused permission, and local officials are still steamed.

"We lost Lake Michigan water because of the capriciousness of one man, which I think is government at its worst," says David Gard, president of the Lowell Town Council. " . . . We were in a desperate situation, and they slammed the door on us."

Michigan has traditionally taken a hard line on diversions because it has no worries; the entire state is within the basin. In the past, the Michigan Department of Natural Resources has said it opposes diversions "supporting growth and expansion in an area unable to provide its own public water supply," according to documents.

These days, century-old brick buildings line Lowell's main street, giving the town a bit of a Norman Rockwell feel. But if he were alive today and painting Lowell, Rockwell might draw a town elder with a perplexed expression, as if thinking: "Where's everyone going?"

Cars and trucks lumber along Commercial Ave., without stopping en route to I-65 and U.S. Highway 41 - the two main highways in the area. There's new commercial development beyond the edge of town. New homes and subdivisions are popping up as sprawl from Chicago and other northern Indiana communities moves southward.

Lowell has missed out.

After it was denied Lake Michigan water in 1992, the community was forced to spend nearly $5 million to drill new wells and build a new municipal water system. The first six wells did not produce enough water to provide an adequate reserve.

Town officials ended up ignoring the recommendations of two hydrologists, took the advice of a local farmer instead and drilled a deep well on the outskirts of town. They struck water. Supplies today are acceptable, officials say.

Like many communities, Lowell wants to grow, and it must annex surrounding land to do so. But water is the key to making everything else work. Council President Gard says his community will eventually ask the governors again for permission to use Lake Michigan water.

"We need to bring some ground into town," Gard says. "Will our well field support it? I don't know. But Lake Michigan would have been a clear and enduring answer for us."

Coveted resource
Concern grows about mining Great Lakes

With their ocean-like grandeur, the Great Lakes may seem limitless. Even today, as lake levels have fallen close to historic lows, the total impact from users of the five lakes can be measured in a few inches.

But despite the lakes' immensity, agencies that protect them claim that little of the water can be wasted. Only 1% of the water is renewed annually by rain, runoff and the huge quantities that trickle in from neighboring groundwater, according to the Great Lakes Commission, a U.S.-Canadian agency devoted to resource issues.

There is concern that the lakes could be mined far beyond their current levels, and that concern is growing as fresh water becomes perhaps the most critical resource of the new century.

Amid this backdrop, the political strength of the Great Lakes states is waning. With congressional power shifting to the Sun Belt states, "we fear Congress may well come in and impose something on us," says Todd Ambs, administrator of the water division at the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources and a staff representative on the Council of Great Lakes Governors. "If it's left up to them, we are, shall we say, somewhat skeptical the rest of Congress is interested in protecting Great Lakes water resources."

Such apprehension percolates across the region.

"You take all of these insecurities, plus the political problems that are inherent in water, and you see why people are worrying about the lakes today," says George Kuper, president and chief executive officer of the Council of Great Lakes Industries, an Ann Arbor, Mich.-based organization that represents big water users.

People have long wanted to use the Great Lakes, which account for about 20% of the world's freshwater supply, to solve their water problems. One time it was a proposal to ship water to Asia in tankers; another time it was a suggestion to pipe water to the Great Plains.

"People look at these great bodies of water and say, 'It's ridiculous to say we can't use more of it,' " says Peter Gleick, an Oakland, Calif.-based water policy expert and co-founder of the Pacific Institute, a non-profit center that focuses on the environment and sustainable development. "I think it is a legitimate fear. I think it's perfectly appropriate for the Great Lakes community to worry about outsiders wanting to take Great Lakes water."

Alarm bells

Governors, premiers work on new rules

Because they border Canada, the Great Lakes have been governed by international treaties and laws that date back to the Northwest Ordinance of 1787.

In 1985, in reaction to a new round of proposals to pull water from the lakes, the eight Great Lakes governors and the premiers of Ontario and Quebec (which is included because the St. Lawrence Seaway is considered part of the system) signed the Great Lakes Charter, which outlined a series of principles to collectively manage the lakes.

A year later Congress stepped in and passed the Water Resources Development Act. The law required the governors of Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York to approve any water diversion outside the Great Lakes basin.

The basin marks all land in which water eventually flows back to the lakes. It twists and swerves, sometimes reaching inland for hundreds of miles. Other times, such as the stretch from Milwaukee to Chicago and into northern Indiana, it becomes a mere ribbon around the water itself, stretching no farther than a few miles from the shore.

In 1998, a business start-up called the Nova Group, based in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, persuaded Ontario officials to approve a request to use Lake Superior to fill up water tankers bound for Asia. The deal collapsed, but the United States would have been powerless to stop it because of Canadian sovereignty.

"That sent off alarm bells across the Great Lakes states," says Jeff Edstrom, a Chicago-based consultant and former staff member of the Council of Great Lakes Governors.

In addition, water law experts advised the governors in 1999 that their authority could be unconstitutional because states typically can't impose limits on the interstate movement of goods. In addition, their veto authority over water deals might violate international trade agreements.

"Then there was declining lake levels and growing concerns about climate change, and all of a sudden you had a lot of people who said this is not a resource that we can take for granted," says Sam Speck, director of the Ohio Department of Natural Resources and chairman of the Great Lakes Commission.

All of these events prompted the governors and premiers to meet in Niagara Falls, N.Y., in June 2001 and pledge to find new rules for dealing with water management.

Calling themselves "Annex 2001," they set a deadline of June 2004.

A working group of officials representing the governors and premiers is expected to unveil a draft of new protections early next year.

The guiding tenet: Water taken out of the basin would have to be cleaned and returned so there is no net loss to the lakes. For the very largest of diversions, water would have to be returned at a higher quality than usual treatment methods.

If water could not be returned, users would have to pay for projects, such as restoration of habitat or wetlands that would benefit the lakes.

States could be delegated the responsibility to decide small diversions, such as Pleasant Prairie, with some limitations.

The group is also working on a proposal that for the first time ever might force communities to adopt conservation measures if they want more water from the lakes than they now use.

Annex 2001 will eventually have to go before Congress and state legislatures, as well as the provincial legislatures and the Canadian Parliament. Experts believe it could overcome the legal problems while protecting the lakes from large-scale diversions.

A thirsty country

Big diversions unlikely, but can't be ruled out
The Great Lakes have long been the target of grandiose diversion proposals.

In the 1980s, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers studied whether the Great Lakes could help the Great Plains by replenishing declining water levels in the Ogallala Aquifer, the vast supply of groundwater stretching from Texas to South Dakota.

In 1981, mining interests proposed a $2.1 billion pipeline that would use Lake Superior water to transport coal slurry from Wyoming and Montana back to the Midwest.

And in 1988, drought conditions prompted Gov. James Thompson of Illinois to call for diverting water from the Great Lakes to raise water levels on the Mississippi River and relieve stalled barge traffic.

As projects surfaced, so did politicians to denounce them.

"As far as I'm concerned, the only water we should sell is that which goes out in cans mixed with malt, hops and barley," Gov. Lee S. Dreyfus joked two decades ago.

With new protections in the works, will some faraway place with water troubles still want to tap the Great Lakes?

High energy costs to pump water over long distances, and bitter battles with property owners along a project's path would present major obstacles.

"The era of big water transfer projects is coming to an end because we are finally beginning to understand the true costs of those projects," says water expert Gleick.

But Gleick and others agree that the Great Lakes states need to make sure they are protecting the big waters.

"What happens if there are major changes in the economy?" asks Reg Gilbert, senior coordinator for Great Lakes United, a Buffalo, N.Y.-based environmental group. "Water at the moment is cheap. But will it be that way in the future? Who knows what people will consider the smart thing to do in the future?"

Boom times

Pleasant Prairie's growth started with water
Rick Anderson knows all too well the value of water, and what it means to be inside or outside the basin.

For years, he and many of his neighbors quietly endured foul-smelling water, and sometimes no water at all.

He lives in an affluent subdivision south of Gary, Ind., and from his lawn he could almost drive a golf ball into a big tree-lined pond. But the pastoral setting belied the troubles that lurked underground.

Anderson built his home in 1995 and dug 12 wells trying to find decent water. He bought $20 water filters and went through them like toilet paper. He turned to a 90-year-old water witch, who claims he can find water, with no success.

But when neighbors finally did some research, they discovered something better than a rich vein of groundwater to solve their problems. The subdivision was tucked a half-mile inside the Great Lakes basin and was able to connect to Lake Michigan through the local water utility.

"You have no idea how fortunate we felt," Anderson says.

Great Lakes water also certainly was the answer for Pleasant Prairie.

The community's population, which had remained virtually unchanged from 1980 to 1990, jumped 34% to 16,136 in 2000, making it one of the fastest growing communities in Wisconsin. Property values zoomed during the 1990s, as well, skyrocketing from $300 million to $1.6 billion.

LakeView Corporate Park - 45 minutes from O'Hare International Airport - broke ground shortly after the village got water and helped jump-start the boom. The 2,100-acre business park is assessed at $57 million; it now draws more than 30,000 workers every business day. Main St. is not a quaint village center, but a sprawling 65-store outlet mall just off I-94 that sells everything from Versace fashions to Waterford crystal to Maidenform bras.

The village built an $11 million community center in 2000 - the LakeView Recplex - that lies on the shore of Lake Andrea, an artificial lake that used to be a gravel pit.

Many of the subdivisions are new, too. In the last decade, Pleasant Prairie became a magnet for Illinois homeowners - two-thirds of all new homes built in the first half of the 1990s were purchased by Illinois residents, according to the village.

New subdivisions and more traffic may not strike some as progress. But no one can argue that this would have happened without Lake Michigan water.

"The essential elements of economic development are sewer, water and electricity," Pollocoff says. "If you miss any of those, you're done."