From the Springhouse to the City Tap

In 2013, my husband and I spent close to $100,000, along with weeks of sweat and labor, to fence our cattle out of the springs and ponds on our farm. We live on land that feeds Tinker Creek, and like many in our area, we’ve always known that the water starts around here. It bubbles up out of the ground, clear and cold, and gathers itself from every spring and seep along these Botetourt hillsides until it becomes something big enough to name.

We took on the project through the Mountain Castle Soil and Water Conservation District, with partial help from federal cost-share programs. But a lot of it came straight out of our pockets. My husband laid miles of pipe by hand, running water from a well to troughs so the cows could drink without stepping into the streams. We did it because it was the right thing to do for our land, for the wildlife, for the water downstream.

That water, of course, ends up in Carvins Cove.

Most folks around here know that the reservoir sits just over the line in Roanoke County, but what many forget - or maybe never knew - is that the water in Carvins Cove is largely Botetourt water. Tinker Creek, Catawba Creek, and dozens of smaller veins start here, not in the city. Springs like ours feed them. The Tinker Creek diversion tunnel, built in the 1960s, rerouted that water into the reservoir. With the turn of a valve, it went under the mountain.

Botetourt County officially joined the Western Virginia Water Authority in 2015, but that doesn’t erase what came before. Back in the 1930s and '40s, Roanoke City needed water. It looked north, acquired the land, and built the dam. The community of Carvins Cove was condemned and flooded out. Families lost their homes. The city owned the reservoir and, for decades, controlled the flow without asking much of the county where the water began.

Now, Botetourt citizens pay the same rate for water as anyone else in the region. That’s how the Water Authority works: a uniform rate for a shared system. Fair on paper, maybe. But it still sits sideways with me. We protect the source. We fund the conservation. We watch the rain fall here, the springs rise, the runoff roll downhill—and then we pay the same as folks whose water comes through miles of pipe and a whole other county.

That feels a little like buying your own apples back from the store.

I understand how infrastructure works, and I understand the need for regional partnerships. What I don’t understand is why there’s still so little public acknowledgment of where the water comes from and who’s been caring for it all this time.

Carvins Cove is one of the largest municipal parks in the country now. A conservation easement protects over 11,000 acres around it. People hike and bike there, unaware that the water under their feet may have started in a cow pasture ten miles away where someone like us chose not to let the cows walk through it.

Water is going to become more important than ever in the years ahead. Google in June bought 312 acres in Botetourt County to possibly build a data center. There’s been talk about infrastructure, power, and taxes—but not much yet about where the water’s going to come from. I can tell you this much: it’s not going to come from Roanoke. It’s going to come from us. From our farm and all the farms around us who have springs that flow on into Tinker Creek.

And we’ll still be here watching the deer, walking our fields, and keeping our springs clean. Whether anyone says thank you or not.