The Biggest Straw Wins”: Inside Maine’s Growing Revolt Against Poland Spring’s Water Extraction


Maine has always taken pride in its water—cold, clean, abundant, shaped by forests, granite, and rain that seems endless. But in towns like Hollis, Denmark, and Fryeburg, that confidence has begun to crack.

Across rural Maine, where residents rely on wells for nearly everything—drinking, farming, firefighting—the same question is surfacing again and again:

How much water can one company take before the rest of the community runs dry?

For many Mainers, that question is no longer theoretical.

A Billion-Gallon Business Meets a Thirsty State

Poland Spring, now owned by Primo Water after changing hands multiple times from Nestlé to private equity, pumps about one billion gallons of groundwater from Maine every year—enough to fill more than 1,500 Olympic swimming pools.

The company’s largest facility sits in Hollis, where it can extract up to 238 million gallons annually. For a state famous for abundant freshwater, that once seemed harmless.

But drought has rewritten the equation.

“This is the fifth major drought year in a decade,” one resident explained. “Maine’s water used to feel limitless. It doesn’t anymore.”

For farmers like Nina Fuller, water scarcity is no longer abstract—it’s personal.

“I ran out of water twice,” she said, standing beside her sheep pens. “You can’t just dump bottled water into a trough. You can’t farm without groundwater.”

In 2022, the same year her well went dry, Poland Spring sought to double its permitted withdrawals in Hollis.

“At that town meeting, people were furious,” she recalled. “It just seemed crazy to take more when so many of us were running out.”

The company ultimately backed off—temporarily.

A Pattern That Reaches Far Beyond Maine

When Nestlé bought Poland Spring in 1992, it folded the historic local brand into a national bottled-water empire. Around the country, similar fights erupted:

California accused Nestlé of withdrawing water without proper rights.

Michigan faced protests over a dramatic expansion of pumping.

Florida residents opposed withdrawals from fragile spring ecosystems.

In 2021, Nestlé’s North American water brands were sold to BlueTriton, backed by private-equity firms. Pumping increased in multiple states—including Maine.

And despite a severe drought in 2024, company withdrawals here didn’t slowdown. In fact, documents from Fryeburg and Denmark show that September 2024 pumping was higher than in previous years—even as the company publicly announced reductions.

“How Can They Say It’s Not Having an Impact?”

In Denmark, Maine, Peter Nilsen points across a shrinking pond.

“Water should be where we’re standing,” he said. “It’s nowhere near what it used to be.”

Just a few feet away, his friend Chris Doyle told her story.

She moved into a small house on Peter’s land. They dug a well. It struck water—then went dry.

They started tracking Poland Spring’s pumping reports. “Every time they pumped heavy, the well dropped,” Chris said.

When a snowstorm briefly halted the company’s operations, Chris’s well rose 24 inches in 24 hours.

Town officials told her there was “no possible impact” from the company.

But she says the timing speaks for itself.

“We rely on them to report the data. And sometimes it comes with a real lag.”

Denmark allows up to 105 million gallons per year to be extracted—yet the company pays just $34,000 annually in property taxes.

“It’s pennies compared to what they take,” one resident said.

A 45-Year Contract and a Fight for Transparency

In Fryeburg, Poland Spring doesn’t pump directly from a spring it owns. Instead, it leases access to a privately-owned water utility, on the same per-gallon rate residents pay.

In 2012, the company secured a contract for access lasting up to 45 years.

“That’s multiple generations,” former state representative Nickie Sekera said. “People were shocked.”

Residents appealed to the Maine Public Utilities Commission—but all three commissioners had professional ties to Poland Spring or firms connected to it. It took a year and a half to get them recused.

Their replacements approved the deal anyway.

“We weren’t getting full information,” said former legislator Maggie O’Neil, who later introduced a bill to give residents a vote before long-term extraction contracts could be approved.

Poland Spring publicly argued the bill would make Maine “unaffordable” for business. Quietly, the company sent multiple lobbyists to the State House.

“They killed the bill,” O’Neil said. “They worked both sides of the aisle.”

The Law That Shapes It All: “Absolute Dominion”

Maine is one of only three states in America where groundwater is governed by absolute dominion.
In plain language:

If you own the land, you can pump as much water as you want.

Residents call it “the biggest straw wins.”

“It protects big landowners and commercial extractors,” Sekera said, “while putting neighbors at risk.”

In 2023, Maine lawmakers passed a bill to study whether the law should be changed. But the study must be funded—and as of the fall, it still wasn’t.

“Is this law serving us?” asked Denmark official Laurie Stephens. “Or is it making it easier for a few companies to drain what everyone depends on?”

Who Benefits—and Who Pays?

Primo, Poland Spring’s parent company, reported nearly $2 billion in third-quarter revenue—almost half from its regional bottled-water brands.

Its top investors include:

BlackRock

Vanguard

Fidelity

One Rock Capital Partners (private equity)

Meanwhile, the towns supplying that water—Hollis, Kingfield, Fryeburg, Denmark—are dealing with:

wells running dry,

ponds shrinking,

fire departments delivering emergency water,

residents paying thousands to drill deeper wells.

“I was lucky,” Nina Fuller said. “My community helped me drill a new well. But a lot of people aren’t lucky. Without action, more wells will fail.”

Communities Begin Asking the Hard Question

In Fryeburg, residents recently met to discuss buying their local water company outright—turning it into public property.

“No profit margin. More public oversight,” said resident Emily Strahler.
“Water should belong to the people who live here.”

Others argue Maine must rethink its relationship with extraction entirely.

“Take away the water and you don’t have much,” a resident said. “It’s the one thing we can’t replace.”

Communities aren’t fighting bottled water.
They’re fighting scale—the industrial removal of the very resource that defines life in Maine.

And they’re fighting for control.

“People come together when their water is threatened,” Sekera said. “It’s not partisan. It’s human.”

A State at a Turning Point

For some Mainers, this is about fairness.
For others, it’s about survival.
For nearly everyone, it’s about the future.

Because water taken from Maine’s aquifers never comes back.

And as drought deepens, as private investment ramps up extraction, and as political systems lag behind reality, the stakes rise.

“If we fail to take action,” O’Neil warned, “that’s on us. And the consequences will only grow.”

In a state built on water—rivers, lakes, streams, springs—the defining fight of the next decade may be over who controls it, who profits from it, and who gets left with an empty well.