Apples, Water, and Resilience in Northern New Mexico
By the time the first frost settles into the high desert valleys along the Río Grande each fall, the apple harvest is already winding down. In towns like Dixon, Velarde, and Chimayó, the smell of roasting green chile mingles with the sweet tang of cider. Roadside stands brim with sacks of tart Arkansas Blacks, crisp Winesaps, and deep-red Manzanos, a variety so old its name simply means “apple tree” in Spanish.
For centuries, apples have flourished in these valleys, sustained by an ancient irrigation system and a culture of communal land stewardship. But their deep roots in the landscape weren’t inevitable. They were hard-won—part adaptation, part resilience, and part resistance.
The Rise of the Apple
Spanish colonists introduced apple trees to Northern New Mexico in the 1600s, bringing grafted stock and seeds from Europe and Mexico. At first, they also planted grapevines, hoping to recreate the Mediterranean-style vineyards they had known in the Old World. But high elevations, harsh winters, and short growing seasons proved unkind to the vines. Apples, on the other hand, thrived.
Tougher than grapes and more forgiving of late frosts, apple trees adapted well to the rhythm of the acequias—community irrigation ditches that snake through northern villages, fed by snowmelt and mountain streams. The trees were planted alongside other subsistence crops like corn, beans, and chile, forming the backbone of a traditional Hispano agrarian economy.
By the 1800s, orchards were well established, with families grafting and trading hardy varieties to suit local microclimates. Apples became a staple: dried into orejones, baked into empanadas, pressed into cider or vinegar, and bartered at markets.
Grapes, Apples, and Prohibition-Era Tensions
But apples didn’t entirely replace grapes without tension—especially during Prohibition.
When the 18th Amendment took effect in 1920, banning the manufacture and sale of alcohol, grapes suddenly had a second life. A legal loophole allowed individuals to produce up to 200 gallons of wine a year for personal use. Across the country, vineyards boomed. In New Mexico, grape growers sought to meet the demand for home winemaking, leading to a surge in planting and distribution.
Apple growers weren’t so lucky. Hard cider, a once-common way to preserve apples, became taboo. In many regions, including Northern New Mexico, orchards were cut down or neglected under suspicion that their fruit could be used to produce alcohol. According to local cidermaker Craig Moya, “apple trees were sometimes destroyed, and water priorities shifted away from orchardists.”
While direct conflict between apple and grape growers is sparsely documented, oral histories and scattered legal cases—such as the 1923 arrest of Celestino Vincioni for delivering grapes to miners in Dawson—highlight the complex, and sometimes contentious, landscape of agricultural law and survival during this era.
The Weight of Water and Government Intervention
The story of apples in Northern New Mexico is, in many ways, a story of water. Orchards are only as healthy as the acequias that feed them. But water, once communally managed and predictably seasonal, has become increasingly politicized—and scarce.
The 1938 Rio Grande Compact, a multistate agreement, governs how water is shared between Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas. In recent years, legal battles over groundwater pumping and reduced river flows have brought federal scrutiny to the region. In 2024, the U.S. Supreme Court rejected a proposed settlement between New Mexico and Texas, with the federal government asserting its interest in protecting downstream irrigation systems and tribal rights.
At the same time, federal conservation programs like EQIP (Environmental Quality Incentives Program) have faced delays and underfunding. Nearly $27 million in aid earmarked for New Mexico farmers was stalled in 2025 due to USDA staffing shortages, leaving growers without support for water conservation, soil improvement, or orchard restoration.
Meanwhile, climate change continues to exacerbate the strain. Warmer temperatures, late cold snaps, and unpredictable precipitation patterns have forced farmers to adapt—or abandon—their orchards.
Revival in the Roots
Despite these challenges, a quiet revival is taking place.
In towns like Dixon and Alcalde, younger generations and land-based nonprofits are bringing old trees back to life. Heirloom apple varieties are being rediscovered and propagated. Grafting workshops, orchard mapping projects, and fall festivals are helping connect people to their agricultural heritage. Artisanal cideries, like New Mexico Hard Cider in Albuquerque and Black Mesa Winery in Velarde, are once again pressing fruit from traditional stock.
These efforts are part of a broader movement to reclaim food sovereignty, restore community ties to land and water, and reimagine what farming can look like in the 21st century.
“Our apples aren’t just crops,” says one grower from Chimayó. “They’re ancestors. They’re stories. They’re memories.”
In Northern New Mexico, the apple is more than a fruit. It is a survivor—a witness to centuries of change, conflict, and care. And as long as the acequias run and the orchards bloom, the story isn’t over.