I wrote this article in April to be published on the Chronicle’s 60th anniversary, August 11, 2025. The Chronicle died 5 days short of its 60th birthday. I knew this day would come, but, as you could see in my report, I didn’t want to believe it. I held on to hope.
Sixty Years of Storytelling: Why the Chronicle Still Matters
By Bob Hembree
Founded in a Frontier Town, Still Rooted in Community
On August 11, 1965, as Page emerged from the dust of Glen Canyon Dam construction, a small newsroom opened its doors on the red rock frontier. The Lake Powell Chronicle was born not in a metropolis but in a fledgling city built by engineers, laborers, and dreamers.
That first issue carried the voices of a town still inventing itself—stories of workers, families, schoolchildren, and water. Sixty years later, we’re still here, still chronicling the life of this unique place, still listening.
The Danger of Disappearing Papers
The Chronicle’s 60th anniversary comes during a time of profound challenge for local journalism. Since 2005, more than 2,500 newspapers across the U.S. have closed. More than 200 counties have no newspaper at all. And over 1,500—including rural counties in Arizona—have only one paper left.
In communities like ours, the loss of a local newspaper doesn’t just mean fewer headlines. It means higher costs, deeper divisions, and a dimmer civic light.
A landmark study from Notre Dame and the University of Illinois-Chicago found that when a local newspaper closes, municipal borrowing costs rise. Without journalists monitoring city budgets and bond proposals, financial oversight weakens—and taxpayers pay the price. One documented case showed that bond interest rates rose by as much as 37 basis points after a major newspaper shut down.
That’s not just theory—it’s money out of your pocket. And in towns like Page, where bond funding supports infrastructure, fire protection, schools, and public safety, the cost of silence is too high.
A Town Needs Its Truth-Teller
The Lake Powell Chronicle has never been just a newspaper. We are the town’s long-term memory, its morning pulse, and its stitched-together narrative. We’ve covered everything from city council disputes to Navajo Generating Station closures. From boat races to boil orders. From school sports to sacred landscapes.
Without a local newsroom, these stories risk vanishing. And when they vanish, so do the threads that hold a place together.
We don’t chase viral clicks. We chase agenda packets, arrest logs, festival flyers, and flood warnings. We knock on doors. We quote directly. We correct errors. We show up to meetings, even when no one else does. That’s our job. That’s our promise.
Rural Arizona Is on the Frontline
Page is not Phoenix. That’s the point. In cities like ours, a single newspaper may be the only watchdog, the only cultural platform, and the only consistent record-keeper.
And yet, these are the very places most at risk. Circulation drops. Advertising dollars shift to social media giants. Costs rise. Rural newsrooms get smaller, and eventually, they go dark.
We refuse to let that happen here.
Still Here Because You Are
For sixty years, we’ve printed your weddings and your obituaries, your victories and your heartbreaks. We’ve documented six decades of a region that continues to awe and evolve.
We are grateful—for every subscriber, every advertiser, every reader who clipped a headline or sent us a tip. The Chronicle endures because Page believes local news is worth preserving.
Our Pledge for the Next Sixty Years
We pledge to keep digging, questioning, attending, and recording. To stay grounded in Page, even as we evolve online. To represent not just government affairs, but the voice of the community—its elders, youth, workers, artists, tribes, and entrepreneurs.
Sixty years in, the ink still matters.
Here’s to the next sixty.