Writing by James Sledd
Epiphany 2: On the Range or in the Courtroom?
Epiphany 3: Damming the Future
Other Writing:
» Untitled
» Vanishing Act
Epiphany 1: Untitled
As I walk up the sandy trail, a glacial valley opens in front of me. Knife-like granite ridges shade the trail like stone parasols, providing welcome respite from the relentless desert sun. Below me, Tuttle Creek scours the canyon that confines it, unaware that miles of concrete trench and steel siphon will soon usher it out the faucets of Los Angeles. On the drier canyon walls, stubby pines (limber? pinyon?) secure footholds among cacti and boulders. Further up the valley, giant ponderosa cluster in friendlier environs, their thick caramel boles visible from my perch over a mile away. Fir trees huddle together near the snow-fed streams, the only place such water-loving trees can survive. To the east, the Owens Valley shimmers in the mid-day heat, while the treeless Inyo Mountains seek relief beneath puffy cumulus clouds.
I had never been to the Sierra Nevada before. The mountains of the Pacific Northwest formed my personal archetype of alpine splendor. There, vast glaciers tumble from volcanic peaks, inching inexorable towards verdant forests below, the rivers issuing from their snouts snaking towards the cerulean fingers of Puget Sound. How could summits as high as Mt. Rainier, yet devoid of glaciers and overlooking the brown drabness of the Great Basin, be equally impressive?
Now that I have seen the Eastern Sierra, I find myself re-evaluating this conviction. I am awed by the combination of sheer granite faces above and scrubby desert below. Looking down, I can see the dark ribbon of US Highway 395. I find myself wondering whether the travelers hurtling by below are equally impressed. What do they see through their windows as their motor homes lumber down the asphalt towards destinations better known and more grand? Do they notice the spire of Mt. Whitney reaching skyward like a great igneous hand? Do they spy the herd of Tule Elk mingling with Black Angus in the alfalfa fields? Do they spy the red-tailed hawk perched on a spindly telephone pole, its amber eyes probing the ground below for prey?
Moreover, do these travelers in search of natural beauty (at Joshua Tree, Yosemite, of elsewhere) appreciate it once they arrive at their destinations? Most visitors to our national parks never wander far from the climate- controlled comfort of their vehicles, straying only to bestow a cursory glance upon an interpretive sign or snap a photo from a scenic overlook. Modern campers in their half-million dollar motor homes don’t even feel compelled to ask their helpful park ranger how to find the Coke machine, for their mobile bungalows not only have fully-stocked refrigerators, but also king-sized beds and satellite television. Their curiosity thus slaked, most don’t attempt to learn about their temporary home, oblivious to the rich history of native peoples who inhabited the area for thousands of years. Meanwhile, the drone of a gasoline generator, needed to power electric amenities, destroys the silence that should rightfully accompany communion with nature.
These travelers miss the grandeur of the mountains. Unwilling to leave the safety of their steel-and-fiberglass cages, they cannot see a harrier swooping low over an alpine meadow, listening for prey or marvel at golden trout swimming lazily in crystalline alpine lakes. From the comfort of their beds, they gaze upon the ceiling, and miss a meteor streaking through the Milky Way above their roof. Secure within their Glade-scented cubicle, they lose the tang of sage in the evening air.
In attempting to bring the comforts of home into the mountains, these campers squander the scenery around them. Instead one must stroll far from scenic overlooks and interpretive displays, walk up the valleys and marvel at the ridges above. One must abandon the comforts of home and stray from the beaten path—even if only for a few days, a few steps—and carefully observe their surroundings. One must abandon their thick mattress and join the scorpions and rattlesnakes on the rocky ground. Then, maybe, they will notice the stately ponderosa stands, the stubborn pinyon clinging to the vally walls, and the heady rush of alpine streams—even if the water takes a detour to a far-away city. Then, perhaps, wanderers could learn to appreciate new landscapes, places not sanctified within National Park boundaries, and come to love places that don’t mesh with their pre-conceived notions of beauty.
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Epiphany 2: On the Range or in the Courtroom
Ranching holds an iconic place in American culture. The image of the cowboy sticks like a spur in the Western psyche. As enshrined by Charles M. Russell, the mounted cowboy looks across the frontier, surveying his herd with rifle slung across his back and hat brim pulled low over his weathered brow. Although many ranchers now herd their cattle with ATVs instead of quarter horses, the cowboy image associated with the frontier still helps define ranching culture in the West.
Most ranchers admit that abusive grazing can badly damage the land; however, they insist that by carefully managing their herds, they can be front-line stewards for the land they use. Ranchers like Agee Smith of the Cottonwood Ranch, who know that irresponsible use damages the range, attempt to mitigate harm by entering into collaborative agreements and changing grazing methods in order to reduce damage to critical ecosystems such as riparian zones.
On the other hand, John Marvel would like us to believe that Western ranching is a black-and-white issue. According to Marvel, ranching on public lands is unnecessary: grazing harms ecosystems, and he claims that ranching is not economically important enough to justify any damage. Additionally, Marvel believes that cattle have no place on lands owned by and managed for the American public; Western Watersheds Project pursues litigation to achieve this end as quickly as possible, without attempting to collaborate with ranchers.
The reality is much more complicated than Marvel suggests. Ranching is still an important piece of rural Western economies. By Marvel’s own reckoning, cattle ranching makes up 5% of the economy of Owyhee County, Although not overwhelming, this is significant, and excising one out of every twenty jobs would devastate fragile rural economies. Marvel counters that 60% of ranches grazing public lands are absentee-owned; he describes the remaining 40 percent—a significant minority—as “mom-and-pop” operations. Absentee-owned ranches still contribute significantly to local economies. For example, the Cottonwood Ranch is largely absentee-owned, but the Smith family still manages the land; ranch managers and hands live on and work nearly all absentee-owned ranches.
Ranchers claim that if coerced out of business by litigation, they would be forced to sell their ranches, which could then be subdivided for exurban ranchettes. Marvel and Western Watersheds aren’t concerned; Marvel even says that he believes subdivisions are better for the environment than grazing. I find this hard to believe: Subdivision is a legitimate threat to the health of Western land. Developments capitalize on urban fascination with cowboy culture; by doing so, they destroy the very culture that captivates their residents.
Marvel is right about one thing: poorly managed grazing can devastate ecosystems. Even when carefully managed, grazing does more harm than good. The riparian areas we looked at on the Boies and Cottonwood ranches had recovered significantly, but only when cattle were not grazing the area. However, I believe that collaborative efforts such as we saw on the Boies and Cottonwood ranches can reduce grazing impact. By bringing all interested parties together—ranchers, regulatory agencies, and citizen groups—I think that, in most cases, collaboration can result in an acceptable plan. If the proposal doesn’t work or a permittee violates regulations, then litigation could be used to force compliance in dire situations.
Agee Smith and Steve Boies revealed that some ranchers detest more restrictive grazing policies required by collaborative management and simply raise as many cattle as possible. In order for collaborative solutions to work, regulatory agencies must be more effective at controlling abusive grazing. Many BLM, Forest Service, and Nevada Department of Wildlife staff commented that their agencies are too underfunded, understaffed, and overworked to effectively enforce regulations. For example, each BLM range officer has to cover more than a million acres of rangeland. The biggest problem is money, and if agency budgets increased, they would be infinitely more effective and rangelands much healthier.
As long as cowboy culture is strong enough that guests will pay thousands of dollars to visit Cottonwood Ranch, ranching on public lands will not disappear. The fact is, however, that grazing does damage Western ecosystems and contributes to climate change. Some management actions could have an immediate effect: as Agee Smith said, grazing fees could be raised. Perhaps the long-term solution is for Americans to eat less red meat. Reduced demand for beef would gradually remove cattle from rangelands while allowing rural economies to adjust. Instead, John Marvel and Western Watersheds pursue a “solution” that would suddenly force ranchers out of a generations-long livelihood, breeding resentment, morphing ranches into subdivisions, and driving a wedge between ranchers and environmentalists.
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Untitled
Fighter jets streak through the sky above the baking flats of the Owens Valley, the roar of their engines booming off the granite walls of the Sierra Nevada. What do the pilots see from their Lexan bubbles, thousands of feet above the desert floor? Do they see the red-tailed hawk soaring gracefully below them, mere hundreds of feet above the desert floor? Twisting and rolling in the sky, the jets mimic the hawk’s soaring flight down the granite-flanked valley.
Although the jets are miracles of modern technology, the hawk is perhaps more impressive. The red-tail can soar silently on a thermal for hours, vigilant for prey that would be frightened into hiding by the thunder of jet exhaust. To a hawk, the cliffs and crags are perches and nesting sites; to the pilot, they are granite talons that can snatch and shred his craft if not carefully avoided.
The hawk is at home in the mountains; the fighter is an invader—an unprincipled machine of war unwelcome in the land of predator and prey. Long after its aluminum imitator has departed, the red-tail will remain, its yellow eyes patiently scanning the ground below.
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