Arizona Residents Fear What the State’s Mining Boom Will Do to Their Water

This story is co-published with Arizona Luminaria, a nonprofit newsroom dedicated to community-centered reporting.

MAMMOTH, Ariz.—Overlooking a ridge in the Galiuro Mountains, one of Arizona’s famed Sky Islands that provide refuges for wildlife in the hot Sonoran Desert, Melissa Crytzer Fry and her husband, Steve, stand above what could one day become an underground mine. 

Steve pulls up a map showing Faraday Copper’s proposed mine site on a tablet and points to surrounding locations that would become mining pits, waste piles or facilities for the project. A creek that feeds into the river below them, at the mountains’ base, would become six open pits.

Under the peaks here lies copper, a long-standing pillar of Arizona’s economy and a critical mineral for the renewable energy transition because of its ability to transmit electricity. Its significance is not lost on the Frys; Steve works in the tech industry that depends on it.

But mining’s legacy is all around them in the desert northeast of Tucson. Facing their overlook, a tailings pile from a 1970s copper mine scars the earth.

For more than a century, Copper Creek, running deep into the foothills, has drawn the interest of mining companies, but none have ever dug in along it.

People come to southern Arizona and the Western U.S. to live near landscapes owned largely by the federal government and open to the public, as is the case in the San Pedro Valley that the Frys call home. But those lands are also open to mining companies that have free rein to claim the land and water.

If Faraday’s mine is built, the Frys worry the creek that feeds into the local river could disappear. Miners could dig open pits atop it and deplete the aquifer below, as the mine would likely require water to be pumped out once the digging punctures the underground reservoir, a process known as dewatering. Under Arizona law, anyone is free to pump as much water as they please in rural places like these, and even where the water is regulated, mines are largely exempt.

“A project like this,” Steve said as he looked over the mine’s proposed site, “has something for everyone to hate.” 

Concerns like Fry’s are increasing across the state as mining booms again to supply the energy transition with everything from uranium mined near the Grand Canyon to copper dug throughout southern Arizona. Locals, tribes and environmentalists are concerned about how these projects could wreak havoc on the state’s already depleted aquifers, which are the only source of water for many communities across Arizona. 

“We’re all on wells out here and no one can give us an answer as to what aquifer the water is going to be coming from,” Melissa said of the potential mine in the Galiuro Mountains.

Worrying over water is nothing new in Arizona. Nearly 80 percent of the state lacks any groundwater protections, which has allowed large agricultural operations to move in and pump as much as they want without even keeping track of how much they suck from aquifers or paying a penny for it, leading residential wells in some areas to run dry. Water experts, local leaders and rural residents have pushed for years to change that, with the governor now also calling for action, but legislation to resolve the issue has proven divisive in the state legislature.

Mining operations can also pump as much as they want, even when aquifers are tapped out.

“A project like this has something for everyone to hate.”

Agriculture uses most of Arizona’s water, with mining currently consuming just over one percent of the state’s supply. But large mines still require huge amounts of water—some of the biggest currently operating or being proposed in the state require trillions of gallons. And they can also have lasting impacts on the quality of the resource. The state requires mines to acquire aquifer protection permits, which regulate pollutants from mining entering an aquifer and the plans designed to mitigate them, but communities still worry about how water quality will be protected.

And there are far fewer restrictions over how much water gets used.

“People need to be aware that foreign companies are coming in and are allowed to take as much water as they need,” said Naelyn Pike, a member of Apache Stronghold who has been fighting the proposed Resolution Copper mine in Superior, Arizona that would require vast sums of water at a site sacred to the San Carlos Apache Tribe. 

Faraday Copper’s project near Mammoth is just the latest example of a mine threatening scarce water resources in the desert, its opponents argue. 

The project is currently in the exploration phase in which the company evaluates the resources in the area and whether a mine is economically feasible, but even that work requires water. Faraday is seeking permits from the Bureau of Land Management, which oversees the federal land in the area, for 67 drill sites to conduct exploratory drilling searching for mineral deposits. It would need to pump 70,000 gallons of water per month for cooling and cleaning at each of those drill sites, according to documents from the company and the BLM. 

The proposed mine is in its very early stages, with Faraday “far from understanding what an operational footprint could be,” said Angela Johnson, Faraday’s vice president of corporate development and sustainability, in a statement. “At the center of this decision-making is how we protect water resources. In Arizona, water is a scarce and precious resource.” 

Though concerns about Faraday’s impacts, for now, are speculative, those fighting the project say you only need to look at the mining laws on the books and what other projects have already done to know what could come. 

One major copper mine with publicly documented groundwater consumption, Freeport-McMorran’s Sierrita mine, located south of Tucson, withdrew 22,409 acre feet of groundwater in 2023 from one of its rights, according to records from the Arizona Department of Water Resources. That nearly 7.3 billion gallons of water heading to one mine is enough for more than 60,000 Arizona homes. A proposed manganese and zinc mine, both critical minerals, near the town of Patagonia in southern Arizona, would pump out 6.5 million gallons of water a day just in the dewatering process, according to the mine’s plans of operations. Another mine east of Phoenix uses 15,682 acre feet of water per year, which environmentalists allege has caused depleted flows at a local creek that supports two endangered species, leading them to file an intent to sue the U.S. Forest Service and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, claiming the decision to allow the mine to expand operations violates the Endangered Species Act.

In parts of the state with groundwater restrictions, each acre foot of water withdrawn for mining costs just $3.50; in the other 80 percent of the state, it costs nothing.

“Water is just absolutely dirt cheap in Arizona,” said Russ McSpadden, a Southwest conservation advocate for the Center for Biological Diversity working to bring awareness to the environmental impacts of mines, especially on groundwater. “That’s why we see so many mining communities come in from Canada and Australia and elsewhere—because they know they can largely mine the water for free.”

Federal Laws and Lack of Groundwater Regulation Boosts Mining

Mining in the U.S. is governed by a law older than the state of Arizona—the Mining Law of 1872. To help settle the West after the Civil War, it declared that “all valuable mineral deposits in lands belonging to the United States” are “free and open to exploration and purchase.” To this day, all that’s needed to stake a mining claim on public lands is to plant four stakes in the ground and file the paperwork. No royalties are paid for the minerals extracted from the lands owned by American taxpayers, something other extractive industries on federal lands like fossil fuel developers have to do. And Congress is actively considering legislation to make it even easier to mine. 

In Arizona, the legacy of the 1872 law is everywhere. The state capitol’s dome is copper. And the mining laws created below it are even more lenient than the federal law, experts say. There are currently more than 400 active mines in the state, many of them small, with nine major active copper mines providing nearly 70 percent of the country’s production of the metal. Arizona is the largest mineral-producing state in the country, with mining contributing around $10 billion to the state’s economy. 

Though it’s easy to stake claims on federal lands, mining projects still have to go through lengthy environmental review processes overseen by federal regulators. But on state land in Arizona, the reviews are less intensive.

For example, federal laws require a mining operation to pay cash bonds to the BLM in the event the company goes out of business and can’t restore the mined land. However, on private lands in Arizona, companies are required to just issue a corporate guarantee that they will reclaim the land, said Roger Featherstone, director of the Arizona Mining Reform Coalition. 

“Companies don’t want to mine any longer on federal land,” Featherstone said. “They want to be mining on state land. And that has tremendous advantages when it comes to permitting.”

Mining also paved the way for the state’s existing groundwater laws, said Kathleen Ferris, a senior research fellow at Arizona State University’s Kyl Center for Water Policy, who previously directed the Arizona Department of Water Resources when the state’s groundwater laws were passed. Beginning in the late 1960s, copper mines in the Tucson area began pumping groundwater from the Santa Cruz Valley to mining operations far from the aquifer, leading farmers concerned that the mines would deplete groundwater needed for agriculture to sue them. The fight eventually entangled the city of Tucson and went all the way to the state’s Supreme Court, which ruled water couldn’t be transported out of a “critical water management area,” cutting off mines and cities from pumping groundwater from one basin to another. Ultimately, Ferris said, it led the state legislature to start the process that developed the 1980 Groundwater Management Act.

The law created Active Management Areas (AMAs)—namely in large urban areas—where groundwater is regulated. Developments must obtain certificates confirming that they hold a 100-year water supply. Existing water rights holders, mostly farmers, retained grandfathered irrigation rights. Mines can acquire dewatering permits for removing the water that fills pits after mines puncture the aquifer, and operations permits for water needed for other uses like processing the minerals. While those don’t require a 100-year water certificate, they come with conservation requirements, like maximizing water recycling, which has led to mines in Arizona recycling about 75 percent of the water they use. The permits are easy to get, but infrequently applied for, as many mines are located outside of AMAs, according to Ferris and a review of the permits granted by the state water department. 

And outside of the AMAs, groundwater remains largely unregulated, including for mining,  leading to severely overdrafted aquifers, land subsidence and wells going dry. Ferris and others have called attention to the issue for years. The bulk of the problem comes from agriculture, she said, and most of the discussions regarding new regulations deal with the impacts of large farms. But “any groundwater use should be under some sort of regulation,” Ferris said.

It’s something Faraday has noted in its reports for the Copper Creek project. “Since the Project is located outside of an Active Management Areas (AMA) administered by the ADWR, groundwater use is not subject to certain state statutory and administrative regulations,” a technical report for the project reads. It notes that the state environmental quality department “has designated both Copper Creek and the portion of the San Pedro River immediately downstream of its confluence as impaired waterways, indicating that these waters do not meet established surface water quality criteria.”

As the nation looks to pivot away from fossil fuels, miners are staking new claims and decades-old projects are regaining momentum across the Western U.S., where federal public lands holding minerals critical to the energy transition remain open for extraction. Lithium is used to create batteries that store wind and solar energy and power electric vehicles. Copper is used to transmit energy. Uranium can power nuclear power plants. All are found in Arizona. Top of the list of concerns from locals near any new mine is nearly always how it will affect water supplies. 

‘Destroying God’s Great Gift to This Earth’

Henry Muñoz is one of those locals.

In Superior, Arizona, a community an hour east of Phoenix that got its start as a mining town, he worked for 24 years in mines, just like his father and grandfather before him, then spent a decade on the city council. 

Driving through the city of 2,500 on the eve of summer, he tells the story behind every building and site. How as children he and his friends used to play on top of a toxic tailings pile from the local mine that is now fenced off. How sickness rippled through the mine workers. And how the industry’s boom and bust cycles eventually left him without a job in 1999 when the copper mine in Superior shut down.

But mining might soon boom here again. The hospital Muñoz was born in is now the headquarters for Resolution Copper, a subsidiary of two of the biggest mining companies in the world, Rio Tinto and BHP, that are looking to turn Superior from a historic mining town to a future one. But Muñoz, who knows better than most the economic benefits and environmental impacts mines can have on communities, has dedicated his retirement to stopping this one.

Developers plan to use what’s called block cave mining, a more environmentally impactful way of getting the minerals than operations Muñoz worked on. The method, used to access low-grade ore, requires undermining the ground so it collapses under its own weight to reveal the copper. 

“In order to go green, Superior is going to have to go brown.”

In his garage, Muñoz, now chairman of the Concerned Citizens Retired Miners Coalition, has binders filled with hundreds of pages from the mine’s environmental impact statement covering a table. He has a 3-D model of what the mine will look like once constructed. It would leave behind a hole 1.8 miles wide and 1,000 feet deep. You could put the Eiffel Tower in the pit left behind and it wouldn’t reach the top, he said. The crater would be nearly as big as the town itself. To mine the copper here would require as much water as the city of Tempe, home to Arizona State University and 185,000 people, estimates of the mine’s water consumption from independent hydrologists hired by the coalition and local tribe have found.

“In order to go green,” Muñoz said, “Superior is going to have to go brown.”

Unlike the proposed Copper Creek mine near Mammoth, Resolution Copper’s mine is located in the Phoenix AMA, where groundwater is regulated. The environmental impact statement for the mine predicts it will consume roughly 15,000 acre feet a year, but reviews from hydrologists have found that to be a conservative figure, with the mine potentially consuming around 50,000 acre feet a year. 

A team of BLM hydrologists reviewing the mine’s environmental impact statement regarding water resources found the analysis was “insufficient to address the true cumulative hydrological impacts” of the project and did not properly account for climate change and the likelihood of drought and extreme weather events in the region. 

Another report by a hydrologist commissioned by a local tribe to look at the water impacts Resolution Copper will have said: “Arizonans are in a situation where current users need to pump more water from already depleted aquifers in order to survive, at the same time Resolution Copper insists on pumping 250 billion gallons of water from the same aquifers.”

To Muñoz, the project’s future impacts are clear: “‘We’re going to destroy your aquifers. We’re going to contaminate them. We’re going to leave that hole there. And we’re going to leave a tailings pile [where toxic waste from the mine is stored], which will be the fourth largest in the world,’” he said.

Resolution Copper disputes that, with a spokesperson for the company saying in a statement the project had been “thoroughly vetted” by federal agencies and experts and that the “project meets all applicable laws and regulations and ensures sufficient water supply for all foreseeable demands over the next century.” The spokesperson added the company is treating the water from the dewatering process and sharing it with local farmers for irrigation purposes, while also spending millions to secure long-term water storage credits to supply the operation. 

“We are deeply invested in this community’s future,” the spokesperson said in a statement. “We remain committed to maintaining an open dialogue with all stakeholders, including Native American tribes, to ensure responsible and sustainable development as the project progresses.”

But beyond the concern over water is how it would destroy one of the most sacred sites for the San Carlos Apache Tribe, who have been fighting for decades to stop the mine. 

The mine would be built on top of Oak Flat, or Chi’chil Bildagoteel, a significant site for prayer and sacred ceremonies for the Western Apache, whose religious beliefs are inextricably tied to the land. Western Apache are taught the Creator has given life to all things. At Oak Flat, that land is a direct corridor to the Creator, where Gaan–called spirit dancers in English but are more like angels—reside and allows them to connect to their religion, history, culture and environment, said Wendsler Nosie Sr., an Apache elder, former chairman of the San Carlos Apache Tribe and leader of Apache Stronghold, a group at the forefront of the fight to save Oak Flat. 

“But once it becomes a big hole, then the Gaan people, the spirit, is gone,” he said. “That’s destroying God’s great gift to this earth.”

Since the 1950s, Oak Flat has been protected under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Forest Service. For years, the late Sen. John McCain pushed legislation to have the land made available for mining via a land transfer, where a company typically offers up environmentally important land it owns in exchange for lands better suited for extraction but unavailable for development. 

Each attempt failed until 2014, when McCain and former Arizona Sen. Jeff Flake attached a last-minute rider to that year’s defense bill, requiring Oak Flat to be transferred to Resolution Copper. The transfer launched one of the country’s most controversial and high-profile environmental fights, with the San Carlos Apache and environmentalists fighting to stop the transfer and save Oak Flat. 

Three lawsuits have made their way through the federal court system. One argues the mine will violate the Apache’s rights to religious freedom. Another argues that, under a treaty between the tribe and the U.S. government, the land still belongs to the Apache tribe and they never conceded it. Another lawsuit, filed by the Arizona Mining Reform Coalition, the Center for Biological Diversity, Earthworks, the Grand Canyon chapter of the Sierra Club and the Inter Tribal Association of Arizona, alleged the Forest Service failed to analyze and mitigate the proposed mine’s potential damage to the environment and failed to to comply with multiple laws and regulations. The religious freedom case, which has the highest profile, awaits a decision over whether it will be heard at the Supreme Court after a ruling from an appeals court in favor of the mine. 

Nosie and his family have been fighting the Resolution Copper mine for decades; he now lives at a campground at the site to watch over it. And neither Nosie, his family, Apache Stronghold or their allies plan to stop. Too much is at stake.

In Mammoth, ‘Highly Speculative’ Project Worries Locals

At the site of Faraday’s proposed mine near Mammoth, a wet winter and spring left the land around Copper Creek’s confluence with the San Pedro River lush. Bird nests proliferated around a trail camera the Frys kept there. By Melissa’s count, it has documented 57 unique species, from black bears and bobcats to birds like the green-tailed towhee and spotted owls. “This is our front yard,” she said.

It’s also where 345 metric tons of tailings from the mine would be piled. 

“There’s a whole lot of water down here,” Steve said. “Imagine it filled with waste.”

Historically, the area, which consists of the towns of Mammoth, Oracle and San Manuel, has always had mining. Mammoth got its start as a mining camp in the 1800s and the nearby San Manuel Mine operated until 2003. 

The operations scarred the earth, but the area is still rich in biodiversity, with the San Pedro Valley being the second largest intact landscape in Arizona behind Grand Canyon National Park. When moving here, Melissa said they did their homework and felt that, while the Mammoth area was a mining community historically, it wasn’t one anymore. 

“We moved here because of the serenity and the peace and beauty out here,” she said. “And I fell in love with the wildlife and the biodiversity that’s out here.”

The Frys don’t want to see the Galiuro Mountains or the San Pedro Valley further impacted by resource extraction or energy development, and fear, like many across Arizona where new mines are being proposed, that the environmental impacts will far exceed the benefits.

“The crazy thing is that these communities have been through this before,” Melissa said. “They’ve seen the boom and bust. They’ve seen when a mine pulls out and then there’s absolutely nothing left and everybody’s struggling.”

Hector Lovemore, who lives in the nearby town of Oracle and spent his career in the mining industry, is also skeptical. Faraday is just the latest company to propose mining at Copper Creek, he said. At first, he thought the plan sounded good in the community meetings he attended regarding the project, but as he learned more, it became clear to him that “these guys are full of s–t.”

“Totally ignorant of things they shouldn’t be ignorant of,” Lovemore said. “Where’s the power going to come from? Where’s the water going to come from?”

He’s not convinced the project is feasible or a good idea, he said, but remains open minded. 

Though the company awaits BLM approval for all 67 exploratory bore holes, it has gotten permission to drill at 11 different sites. That led the Center for Biological Diversity to allege the company and the BLM had illegally segmented some of the larger proposed drilling projects into smaller ones—four of the 11 approved drill sites are among the initial 67, a review by the environmental group found—to avoid the environmental review process, and requesting the BLM rescind its approval of the sites. Projects over five acres, like the exploratory drill sites, require a lengthy environmental review process under the National Environmental Protection Act. Sites less than five acres don’t require a review.

Faraday Copper denied the allegation. “We respectfully disagree with the views expressed in the letter and believe that our activities, both current and proposed, comply with all of the applicable laws, rules, and regulations,” said Johnson, the company’s vice president of corporate development and sustainability, in an email. 

In a July 2 letter, the attorney general of the San Carlos Apache Tribe was “greatly concerned over the exploratory drilling operations” by Faraday that “progressed without BLM first consulting with the Tribe” and “may be affecting the Tribe’s cultural and ancestral resources, water rights, and downstream interests.”

The likelihood of mining returning to Mammoth remains uncertain and if it does, Faraday may not be the one doing the drilling and digging. Two geologists with Faraday surveying the area said the company is there just to survey the site and see if a mine would be feasible.

“Our scale isn’t really like to mine the area,” said Evan Purcell, one of the geologists. Rather, they determine what’s in the area and sell the secured permits and information to a different, larger mining company that can dig up the minerals. 

“It’s clearly highly speculative,” Featherstone, with the Arizona Mining Reform Coalition, said. “Which does no good at all for folks like Melissa and Steve, where you know your own property is near the whole thing, and there’s really not much planning you can do because, you know, these guys can basically do pretty much whatever they want.”

For it or against it, the Frys said, they just want more people in the community to know about the project and how the laws allow for mines like it to pop up.

“Because of the 1872 mining law, anybody can come in here and suck up water in a fragile ecosystem of the desert,” Melissa said. “It’s just insanity. I don’t think most people know that that’s how this all works.”