This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2007, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
When Mormon prophet Brigham Young looked over the Salt Lake Valley 160 years ago, he said, "It is enough. This is the right place. Drive on."
And the rest is history - and quarter-acre lots.
Brigham's first sentence is the one I'm gnawing on this Pioneer Day. Utahns have faithfully followed his advice and made the desert "blossom as the rose" - or Kentucky bluegrass, as the case may be - over and over. And we've multiplied and replenished again and again.
Six generations later, the state is thriving. Provo and Orem are on the list of places to live. St. George is growing like an anthill. Unemployment is down; tax surpluses are up. Utahns' homes and families are bigger than anywhere else in the nation.
At the same time, trout are going belly-up in Parleys Creek, an artesian well some of those Mormon pioneers tapped in Salt Lake City has become contaminated by a plume of perchlorate, and summertime skies are frequently as gray as February inversions.
None of this is cause and effect, no absolute proof of bad stewardship of the place. But there's some question whether this place can sustain our way of life. There are still miles of dry grassland as far as the eye can see, acreage to cover with McMansions and turf and kids. We can build suburbs in Mona and Delle, douse our lawns with declining snowmelt and drive two hours to work in our Tahoes and Suburbans. But should we?
A recent study of Utah's ecological footprint concluded we can't - not indefinitely at least. Using an international measure of sustainability, researchers from the Utah Population and Environment Coalition found that Utahns consume more natural resources than the state generates - a gap of 11 percent. Put another way, 17 years ago, we were living within our means. Now, we're not.
In the second-most arid state in the country - a place that could never produce the food and raw materials Utahns consume - it's sort of a "d'oh" revelation. A statewide ecological footprint is an artificial formula to calculate supply-and-demand based largely on land use.
There is a more practical measure of personal "footprints" at myfootprint.org. My global footprint is 5.7, compared to 7.7 for most Americans. I eat meat virtually every day. Most of my food is packaged or comes from somewhere else. I drive a Honda Accord to work and to pick up my son at day care. I rarely ride the bus. I fly less than 10 hours a year. My house is 2,400 square feet. And I recycle.
Those crunching the numbers just want us to think about it.
"We'd like to think we're living as though the future matters," says Sandra McIntyre, the project's director. "The Earth has finite resources. We know we have to come into a balance where the overall use of our citizens does not exceed our fair share. What are we going to be leaving to the next generation?"
All those kids are both the cause and the victims of our lifestyles. Talking about family size is verboten in Utah. But it's the obvious elephant in the room. I'm one of six children. I doubt if my siblings and I will reproduce so prolifically as my parents. But with Utah's birthrate hovering at 2.6 children per woman, the highest in the nation, the results are obvious. Multiplying is not the same thing as replenishing.
Salt Lake City is not Las Vegas, Phoenix or Los Angeles, cities whose cancerous growth and water demands have reduced the Colorado River to a trickle at the Gulf of California. Not yet, anyway.
On this day, when we honor the vision of a husband of 27 and father of 57, we have to think about it.
Is it enough? Can we stop multiplying now?