Sweeping across the Great Plains from the Rocky Mountain’s eastern slopes, a hot Chinook wind thrashes the cornstalks. It’s the kind that parches skin, rips off hats and steals away breath.

Brett Oelke, 36, is sheltering inside his Hoxie, Kan., farm’s shop with brother-in-law Matthew Juenemann and Charlie Payne, business partners who share resources. They’ve opened a John Deere combine to clean the concave. It’s a dry day in early September. Across Oelke’s 9,000 acres of mostly corn and soybeans, about half are baked to a crisp.

“This year hasn’t been as dry as 2022, but it’s not far behind,” he says, harkening back to the worst drought in his memory. Daylight bleeds in from cracks in the siding, falling onto his sun-weathered face and tough hands. He kicks at the dust and pauses as another gust of wind rattles the metal: “The irrigated acres look great. The dryland, not so much. There are fields we won’t even harvest. On dryland, we’re probably at 75% loss. Maybe 60%.”

If he could, Oelke would irrigate everything from his nearly 20 wells, and 27 or so center pivots. That’s what his father and grandfather did. That’s what everyone did back in the day — and why the Ogallala Aquifer below northern Kansas is in such dire straits. Back in the 1950s, its water table was about 100 feet below the irrigation pumps that drone on continuously. Today, Oelke estimates it’s 180 feet beneath his dusty boots and still dropping, despite strict conservation efforts.

Related:How one state is reducing irrigated water usage

“It had a rough 50 years,” Oelke says. “They didn’t think it would be a finite resource.”

Turns out, it is.

Localized water control

Putting water onto crops isn’t simple anymore. Farmers in Oelke’s region can’t just turn on a spigot.

They’ve evolved along with regulations. Each winter, Oelke carefully crafts an irrigation management plan, working within the confines of a five-year, 55-inch irrigated water allotment that’s dictated by the 99-square mile Sheridan 6 Localized Enhanced Management Area (LEMA), which balances state authority and localized control via each area’s groundwater management district.

Kansas has five GMDs. Oelke, who serves as president for GMD4, understands the LEMA’s history well.

“Around the turn of the century, the acting GMD board knew there were areas of significant water decline due to over-appropriation of wells. Six high-priority areas were identified,” Oelke explains. The state of Kansas, which owns the water within its borders, could legally act based on its first-in, first-right water permitting law: “The last irrigation well that was drilled would be the first one to be shut off.”

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It was a scorched-earth approach to an emergent situation, and the impacted farmers pushed back. They wanted a nuanced solution and worked together to find one.

“At the time, we averaged just a hair over 14 inches [per year],” Oelke says. An agreed-upon 20% reduction brought that down to about 11 inches annually. Because it was averaged over five years, growers could bank or use their allotment depending on yearly needs.

Planning ahead

About a mile down a dirt road, Oelke leads the way through his family’s ranch-style house to a nondescript farm office. He sits down at a worn chair and clicks open a spreadsheet. Over the last two decades, setups like this have fundamentally changed the way Sheridan County producers farm.

“Work smarter, not harder,” he says, gesturing to a pink piece of paper that’s stuck to the computer screen. “I know roughly where I’m at pumping water. That sticky note right there is each well, and how much is pumped each year.”

Irrigation is carefully planned. Come winter, he’ll take stock of 2024’s losses and water usage, adjusting accordingly to balance his five-year average. Even with the drought, he can’t overspend. So next year, he might plant more wheat to conserve water.

Related:Vandoske dairy succeeds with slow, steady growth

“You can’t anticipate a drought. If you could, I’d trade on the market and make millions,” he says. “Since we can’t predict the future, we use the past.”

A success story

Almost 15 years in, the LEMA approach has been hugely successful. Farm profit is stable, despite hardship, and Oelke says he’s confident they’ll eventually reach “status quo” — pumping out as much water as what’s coming in from recharge rainfall. The system is sustainable both financially and environmentally.

The landscape throughout much of northwestern Kansas is evidence of this.

“Up until the LEMA was created, it was all corn, corn, corn, corn. Knowing you are water-restricted, you no longer try to shoot for 300-bushel-an-acre corn,” Oelke says. These days, the region’s crops are more diverse. “You figure out, OK, I’m gonna plant less corn and use less fertilizer. Ultimately, my yield goal is down. And at the end of the day, you have less inputs and realistically, not much different production.”

Taking it all in stride

Beyond the office’s backdoor, Oelke’s pointer mix, Remi, bounds through fodder on the hunt for rodents. Sandburs stick to pant cuffs. The sun scorches uncovered skin. After trudging for a few minutes, the wind turns cool, carrying spray from a center pivot.

“It’s currently walking in reverse,” Oelke says, pushing through green stalks to reveal its industrial metal frame. In this irrigated field, the crop is tall and healthy. It’s impossible to see the losses elsewhere. But Oelke knows they’re there, just a few turns down the dirt road.

He’ll account for them in next year’s crop.

Above, there’s not a cloud in the sky, and the stiff, persistent wind shows no sign of slackening. Oelke won’t let up, either. He’s resilient, having learned to take setbacks and successes in stride.

“You’ve gotta put it in God’s hands. I can only control what I can control. The rest is going to be what it is,” he concludes.