The hunger goes deep. Our collective needs feed off the planet like a silent, ravenous beast. We flip a switch to turn on a light, stock the fridge with beer, turn a dial to warm the house when a winter chill comes out of the mountains or cool it in summer heat. Our need for energy has left scars on the land and raised the planet's temperature. Still, the hunger drives us. Machines extract ore, pump oil or gas, trucks rattle across the high desert and deliver these fuels to plants, mills and refineries, which convert them to energy. As countries like China and India push to modernize, there is talk of a return to nuclear power. The price of ore is rising. Uranium mining could return to the Four Corners soon.

Much of the Four Corners was built on a uranium boom. Prices remained high when the government stockpiled weapons and power companies built nuclear plants. Towns emerged in the high desert, towns linked by roads that cut through ground we once called wasteland and now call backcountry. Tax dollars flooded in. Families put down roots and schools were built. To this day, people still talk about the uranium mines.

Historical journals recount stories of men who blasted holes in the earth, pressed jackhammers into the ground and stood by while clouds of yellow dust cleared. There are stories of claim jumpers, of men who guarded their stakes with rifles and heavy equipment. It was a hard life and dangerous work. Dynamite blasts or falling rock injured the careless or unlucky. Radiation levels were high. Some of the old timers still shrug off the dangers of uranium, pointing out that better ventilation eventually did improve working conditions, and that miners who did not smoke did not develop health problems later.

Nuclear power was considered a safe, clean source of power. Then in 1979, Hollywood released The China Syndrome, a movie about a nuclear power plant accident. The film was still in theaters when an accident at the Three Mile Island plant in Pennsylvania made headlines. Public opinion turned against atomic energy. The demand for uranium dropped, prices fell, and people walked away from the mines and mills.

The mess that some of them left behind reminds us that uranium mining carries risk. The Navajo Nation was rich in ore. Today, the Navajo have so many complaints of health and environmental problems from uranium mining that, in 2005, Tribal President Joe Shirley Jr. signed an act that prohibits uranium mining on reservation lands. The Atlas Uranium Mill outside of Moab left behind a massive tailings pile that covers 130 acres, which the Department of Energy must now clean up at an estimated cost of $472 million, according to the Journal of Land, Resources and Environmental Law. Another abandoned mill site lies outside of Durango, Colo. You can drive up Cottonwood Wash in Utah and see the old timbers, concrete slabs and rusted cans. Five miles outside of Tuba City, you pass homes razed to their foundations. A reclamation site lies just over a slope. The roots of uranium in this region are wide and deep.
      
When uranium mining stopped, the West kept growing. People came to live in small towns created during the boom years, and continue to do so. They have not come to work in mines. They come because they like to walk remote ground. They come to bike, kayak, hunt, fish, sit on canyon rims. They load wet bags on rafts, set cameras on tripods and wait for good light. They move West to enjoy outdoor lifestyles, and they drop billions of dollars each year on gear, guides, food and drink.

As the West has changed, so has mining. Modern mining practices have come a long way since the days when men with shovels, mules and pickups worked the hills. There are many federal regulations, and the government hires people who know them well. When you ask about scars on the land, you learn that uranium mines are typically small and deep. They generally aren't big, sprawling operations, like copper mines. Regulations require that companies reclaim the land when they are done mining. You can drive through Hack Canyon, on the Arizona Strip, and never know there was once a uranium mine there.
There is very little actual mining in the Four Corners now. Most of the digging now is being done in mines that already exist - the Sunday Mine near Uravan, Colo., for example. But the number of claims has skyrocketed in recent years, and exploration has increased dramatically. In San Miguel and Dolores counties in Colorado, 8,000 claims were filed last year. Around 12,000 have been filed on the Arizona Strip since 2004, said Al Birch, a geologist with the Bureau of Land Management.

The term "mining claim" is a rather nebulous concept. When you file a claim, you must maintain it or lose it. If you lose it, you can re-file it later, Birch said. Or someone else can. Claims go away. Others come and take their place. The BLM and Forest Service read mining proposals, shuffle paperwork, note the claims. This frantic legal dance does not mean that people will soon come with shovels and pickups. Those days are gone. Companies are drilling and exploring. They are making a geological map of what lies beneath the dirt. But sooner or later, the digging will start. It has already started on a very low level. Denison Mines Corp., the Canadian firm that owns Sunday Mine, wants to reactivate other parts of the mine that have been mothballed, said Matt Janowiak, assistant center manager for physical resources at the San Juan Public Lands Office. The same firm owns White Mesa Mill outside of Blanding. For the past several years, the mill has recycled tailings from reclaimed mines and mills. Recently, it has begun to process ore.
"Depending on what the markets do, we think we're going to see some activity again," said Ted McDougall, a geologist with the BLM's Monticello office. He does not foresee environmental or safety problems.

"The permitting process is different than it was in the '70s and the '80s,'' McDougall said. "We have to comply with many federal mandates, for example, the National Environmental Policy Act." The agency uses interdisciplinary teams to examine how mines will affect wildlife, recreation and cultural resources.

"There are a whole bunch of new laws in place that make the current operation environmentally sound," said Dave Sitzler, a mining engineer with the BLM's Albuquerque District Field Office. Federal Land Policy Management Act regulations and state mining laws must be followed. Environmental Impact Statements must be filed. Crews of private firms and government employees look to see that they comply with these regulations.
Bill Davis, of Abajo Archaeology, says that mines almost never come against ruins, but occasionally overlap less obvious sites, some of which are difficult to spot.

"They are hunting and gathering camps. You can walk right over them and not even know there is a site to begin with," he said. For the most part, he has found that mining companies will do whatever is necessary to protect these archaeological resources.
"The majority of the time these sites can be avoided . . . Ninety-nine percent of all companies we've ever worked for . . . they want to go the extra mile,'' Davis said.
The BLM tracks wildlife and the effects that mining will have on animals. In southeast Utah, bats and bighorn sheep could be affected, said Tammy Wallace, a BLM biologist.
"A lot of it will be impact from noise and traffic on the roads. A lot of these mines will be close to water sources," Wallace said.

Bighorn sheep throughout the country remain on a fraction of their former range. In Utah, the primary concern is shrinking habitat. Sheep are shy and flee quickly, Wallace said. Noise can scare sheep during lambing season, and water sources are important when lambs are nursing. Mining in sheep habitat could be a delicate operation.
"Access out there is so minimal right now, but you can already see the changes, just with exploratory drilling," Wallace said.
      
The problem with mining on public lands will not be dangers of uranium or lack of access. The problem will be too much access. Mines need roads. Roads create traffic. For years, many who venture into the backcountry have enjoyed solitude and silence, values that are hard to quantify, track and measure. People may find themselves withdrawing deeper, like bighorn sheep that must flee to escape noise. Although the prospect of new roads exists, most veins of ore have already been tapped once, and miners should be able to get by on existing roads, McDougall said. What you will see is more traffic.

"You're going to hear traffic. You're going to see dust on the roads," he said.
Critics point out that in the past, roads have changed the character of the landscape, and have led to the destruction of archaeological sites. Traffic brings people who litter, make noise, start forest fires, loot ruins and poach game. Roads, once built, are hard to close in the age of the ATV. The BLM is notoriously under-funded. Archaeological sites are already under pressure from growing population and a relentless plundering of Pueblo culture.
"They're underfunded for the huge amounts of land they have to manage," said Kim Crumbo, director of conservation for the Grand Canyon Wildlands Council. "They are running on fumes in some places."

To people who enjoy outdoor recreation, the principle of multiple use means that there is always a risk that someone is going to use the land for something other than recreation. Even people who use the land for recreation don't always see eye to eye. Witness the conflicts between hikers and bikers, fly-fishers and bait fishers, sport and trad climbers. We can't expect federal agencies to settle every conflict to everyone's satisfaction. But mining is just not another party with a seat at the table. Mining sits at the head of the table.

Under the Mining Act of 1872, mining interests override all other uses. The law was passed to encourage settlement in the West. Like the Homestead Act, it offered cheap land to anyone willing to invest a few dollars and dig a little. Under the act, investors can acquire public land for $5 an acre, wrestle ore out of the ground and pay nothing to the public in royalties. They can later turn around and sell the land at market value. Critics point out that the frontier is closed, the West is secure, and the law must change. But the law doesn't change.

"A major part of the solution is to bring that law into the 21st century," Crumbo said. Those who have tried, have failed. "It's difficult to challenge," Crumbo said. "The industry has a pretty strong hold on Congress."

A bill before Congress, HR 2262, may make changes to the Mining Act of 1872, forbid mining near national parks and give local and tribal governments more of a voice in land management. It has passed in the House, but languishes in the Senate.

Mining is a boom-and-bust proposition. The promise of wealth for investors, jobs for working people and tax dollars for communities can be too good to pass up. Today, companies are asked to restore land to its natural state when they are done mining. But when a company goes bankrupt, this burden falls to the taxpayer.

"The federal government is getting better at asking companies to clean up after themselves, but we have often been left holding the bag," Crumbo said. "When the ore dries up, they leave. When the price goes down, they leave . . . There's no incentive for them to stay," Crumbo said.

"We're not casting these guys as bad human beings," Crumbo said. They're just folks, trying to make a living. We're just concerned about the environmental impact."
The boom-and-bust nature of mining has begun to sink in throughout the West. Some of these communities have come to like the steady, recreation-based economies they have created after mining companies left. Since Atlas Uranium Mill closed in Moab, the city has become a mecca for mountain bikers, hikers, rock climbers. River outfitters shuttle paddlers to the Green or the Colorado.

Because there is very little new mining, Moab does not yet face a conflict between mining and recreation. But people hear the rumors. They wonder what lies ahead.

"We need to work with the BLM so it doesn't affect our recreation economy," said Joette Langianese, vice chair of the Grand County Council. She cannot help but note the irony that while the community watches the government spend millions to clean up a massive tailings pile, there is talk of new mining.

"We certainly don't want to make the same mistakes this go around," Langianese said.

The Arizona Strip is a vast land of red cliffs and two-tracks that disappear into deep canyons or slip over juniper hills. It lies north of Grand Canyon. Some of its drainages flow straight into the Colorado River. You can drive for hours in rather non-descript terrain, round a corner and see the canyon. It's the kind of country you can spend days, weeks, years exploring. The BLM recommends you take six days of food and water and two spare tires when you go there. You can see a few mines on standby as you drive the Strip's back roads, which means the mines are mothballed while companies that own them wait for the price of ore to rise.

Of these mines, one stands out - Kanab North, which rests at the edge of Kanab Creek, one of many routes into the Grand Canyon. Few places represent wilderness like the North Rim's remote corners, which lie far from the South Rim tourist shops and paved overlooks. A map of the region shows miles of public lands, watched over by federal agencies like the Forest Service, the National Park Service and the BLM. The land belongs to the American people. But the mine is owned by a company based in Canada, which hopes to cash in on the latest uranium boom, because people in China and India want electricity.

The hunger goes deep. The beast must feed. We can disappear for a few days or weeks into canyons, but we emerge to live in the modern world. We go home, flip on the lights and dump those nasty hiking socks into the washer. Our appetites for fresh meat or produce, cold beer, a well-lit room, cool air in the summer and warm air in the winter have helped create this mess. The mines are coming. Machines will dig, trucks will roll. It is too soon to know exactly what lies ahead. We have learned much since the last boom, and many laws have changed.

So why are people nervous?