Lead dead….

by Cleve Trimble

About 5 miles south of Merritt, a gravel road departs Highway 97 and heads west to Boardman Springs, a large ranch within the broad valley of Boardman Creek. Bill and Cindy Weller were its former owners; and entrepreneurial Bill, from New Jersey, took advantage of the setting by creating a commercial pheasant hunting operation. He obtained a license for the ranch to be a ‘Controlled Shooting Area’, a designation that allowed an extended season and usage that varied from the state’s usual game regulations. In return, he was required to replenish the pheasant population, adding back birds to replace those killed.

Weller was a ruggedly handsome guy with reddish, tousled hair and a movie star smile – the spitting image of Robert Redford. He was always on the lookout for a party, and for a way to make an extra buck. So rather than simply releasing a batch of stupid, pen-raised pheasants into the heavy, marshy cover along the stream, he made another game of it, one that paid him up front as well as later. After mowing out a broad area of pasture, he then placed a large, round hay bale at each of the 12 hourly positions around a giant, imaginary clock face. These stations were about 50 yards radially from the center — where imaginary hands on this imaginary clock would be based – and, there, a square, fort-like structure was constructed of bales to a height of about 8 feet, and left open at its top. Birds intended for release would be taken into this enclosure and tossed skyward, one-at-a-time, at about minutely intervals.

Participants in these ‘shoots’ — obviously not ‘hunts’– were invited on the basis of paying an entry fee of a couple hundred dollars, which included a lunch, steak cookout, booze, poker game, and Calcutta — a winner-take-all side bet on who would bag the most birds. Because only men were in attendance, everyone, naturally, wagered on themselves. After birds had been released in series of 5’s, the shooters would rotate clock-wise one bale until they had shot around-the-clock at all 12 stations, theoretically giving everyone an equal opportunity in case the sun or wind or horizon was influencing the birds’ paths of flight more than would simply randomness.

Although safety would always be a concern in such a configuration, the shooting stations were far enough removed from the central release point that the birds were well under way in their line of escape, so that it was clear which of one or two stations would be likely to take the shot. It wasn’t like a circular firing squad where shooters on the other side of the field were in range and at risk. The birds were almost always high enough that there was a safe background of blue sky; and the low-flyers were given free passage until they were entirely beyond – outside of — the circle. The unarmed guys in the center who were launching birds were shielded by the hay bales, an admirable element of forethought. The only problems to arise were squabbles between shooters at adjacent stations as to who would be credited with the score when both had fired simultaneously at a downed bird that had flown between them. The discerning participants were quick to identify and avoid being bracketed by one or two shooters with a peculiar reflex in which any motion in their trigger finger automatically caused their voice to shout “I got it!!”

In wandering about — shortly after I’d arrived at what proved to be the first of three annual events — I noticed a grounded red-tailed hawk in a nearby pasture. As I approached, it did not resist my examination: no blood; no broken bones; no evident injuries whatever. It could stand and hold its unsteady head up, but its nervous system just wouldn’t let it flee or fly. This beautiful bird was awake but helpless. And as I was considering how it might be delivered to the raptor recovery center, our host unceremoniously delivered a coup de grace that was more merciful than stylish.

Soon thereafter the formal shooting event began, and it became obvious that a large number of pheasants were being hit but not cleanly killed. They would lose some feathers or drop a leg or partially bounce in the air, only to keep flying out into the high grasses of the valley, beyond retrieval. They were mortally crippled and destined to become easy prey for raptors that would get a meal laced with lead. The red-tail’s diagnosis suddenly became obvious as well.

I began to lament that in the performance of a simple test of eye-hand coordination – shooting – something had to be killed to make the point. Even if the bird was only nicked, some other living thing might well pay a later price. I recalled a long-past Caribbean cruise when clay targets were being blasted from the ship’s fantail for $1 a shot. At the time I was relieved that nothing was being killed by this contrived entertainment until I realized that each pellet drifting to the ocean floor probably looked like a morsel to some little fish. One pellet may have broken a target but the hundreds that missed were still on a deadly mission. I chose to impress no one with my marksmanship on that distant day.

So when Weller’s lunch break came around, I clinked my spoon on a glass for attention and suggested that everyone switch to steel or bismuth shot shells, if they had any; or they could use some of mine.

“Why the hell would we do that?” exclaimed Weller, happily into his second bourbon.

“Because we’re wounding a lot of birds that will become fodder for hawks and owls that will then suffer lead poisoning. We’re killing off good creatures we aren’t even shooting at,” I patiently explained.

Weller was right back at me: “‘Good’ my ass; I shoot hawks and owls every chance I get because they are eating me out of pheasants, which are getting damned expensive. What’s ‘good’ is if those hawks and owls die of indigestion. Guys, shoot every stinkin’ one that gets in range because they’re getting smarter.”

Because Bill was always a gracious host, and because he was so momentarily emotive, his reward was a rousing cheer and a toast ‘to dead hawks”. I felt like a straight man for Dean Martin, but laughed at myself along with the crowd. Trying to influence this bunch was like pissing in the prairie wind – it was just blowing back on me.

The next year, the set-up was about the same except the weather was nicer and there were a few new players. And, again, I could not get my mind’s eye off of all the lead shot that was peppering the ground and waters that surrounded us. Literally tens of thousands of small pellets were raining down, spent, to lie forever thereafter in the sand, only to work their way ever deeper until the day they would finally hit the water table, making it deadly to everything that drank of it. And here we were, engaged in a frivolous sport that was setting the table for a future holocaust. So, after lunch, I again clinked on a glass to get attention and repeated my plea for everyone to please change over to non-toxic loads. I had reasoned that most were surely waterfowl hunters with some steel shot shells on hand, and, if not, I’d share my ammo.

“Why the hell would we do that?” bellowed Bill, well into his third bourbon. “I thought we already talked about your sick little hawkies last year!”

And remembering well the drubbing I’d taken the prior year, I decided to change the logic: “No, it’s because lead has a very high specific density, which makes it heavier than sand, and it will sink through sand over time and eventually get into the aquifer and poison everything that needs water.” I offered this ominous message in a tone that alluded casually to my undisputable background in science.

“OK,” he slurred. “You just said ‘over time’ and ‘eventually’. Over exactly how much time are we talking about here? Like 5 years… or 500 years… or 5,000 years? Which is it? Is ‘eventually’ more like 500 years, or is it more like 5 years?” He was hovering somewhere between surly and playful, and telling the difference was becoming difficult.

“Yes,” I admitted, “‘eventually’ is certainly more than 5 years, and could perhaps be closer to 500.”

“Well, I know I won’t be here in 500 years! Do any of the rest of you guys think you’ll be here in 500 years? Shit, if we’re not going to be here, what are we worrying about? So let’s everybody toast to being here today, and let’s go out and shoot hell out of those pheasants!” he roared, as he held high his glass in salute to his brilliant analysis. And the others, in deference to their host, tossed back what was left of their drinks and headed for the door. Once again, nobody asked for any of my ammunition.

The next year: same song, third verse. But this time I sat quietly at lunch, saying nothing. Weller had been waiting for the moment and couldn’t abide my silence after his ‘n’th libation. It was he who now clinked on the glass, and everyone cheered as he sputtered “Okay, listen up; it’s time for Trimble’s lecture on ammo. He does this every year, you know.” The booing and hissing became intense, and a few of them banged the table in unison, chanting “Speech! Speech!” After a while they hushed in anticipation.

“No, I don’t have anything to add”, I said quietly. “It’s perfectly fine with me that you all choose not to shoot steel. I really don’t mind, having won every Calcutta so far using this goofy ammo. Thank you.”

Two of those guys rummaged through their satchels before the afternoon shoot. I’d like to think they were looking for steel shot shells, but wouldn’t bet on it. I had tried, however, to speak a language they were likely to understand. And, once again, I got lucky on the Calcutta that day. It’s the Indian, not the arrow.

The problem of lead shot is significant, and goes directly to our collective inability to do the right thing if it causes even the slightest inconvenience or expense. How many hunters have a lifetime’s accumulation of partially-used boxes of old lead shells in the attic or basement or garage? Even I have some from hunting season’s over forty years ago. And how will these troves of death be disposed of? What will it take to get every hunter to relinquish his unused lead to a safe disposal program…perhaps one that trades for steel shot? The real question is: who will care enough to undertake such a monumental task nationwide?

Lead should, in fact, be banned in entirety in all sporting accessories worldwide. Other non-toxic options have long been readily available, but it is clearly less expensive to use up shells that were purchased umpteen seasons ago. Moreover, our politicians don’t want to affect the corporate economics of those that make munitions for our unending warfare, much less call attention to its terrifying environmental impact, much less cut off their campaign contributions. And because someone’s grandfather once said that only by shooting lead would game be cleanly killed and not just crippled, we remain in reverence to such an errant proclamation. It is not as though a bevy of environmental organizations haven’t pleaded long and hard to do something, yet governmental responses – not answers — are maddening: there is purported concern that banning lead will cause expense that would discourage the purchase of hunting and fishing permits, resulting in a drop in associated revenues; that the harmful effects, while admitted, only affect individuals within a species and not the species as a whole; and that local governments could take action restricting lead as they might deem necessary. Such hubris is irresponsible nonsense, especially when spouted by public agencies such as game and parks commissions. It’s not about future ecological well-being; it’s about short-sighted political interests. We are a nation of gutless sleepwalkers.

Two years ago, a pair of Golden Eagles nested in the canyon opposite my home, the first known to occur here. I watched as two chicks hatched and grew; as they balanced at the precarious edge of the huge stick-built nest; as they faced into the wind and extended their growing wings in trembling expectation of an updraft. I watched as they then did what Golden siblings are known to do: the Cain and Abel act, wherein the bigger of the two killed the smaller. And thereafter I observed the parents school that remaining fledgling as they soared together until summer’s end. But they haven’t come back, which goes against their known pattern of returning to the nest of a prior breeding success. I’ve seen none of the three, and would bet my entire Calcutta winnings that all are dead, of lead, either ingested in tainted meat or injected via some jerk’s gun barrel.

And, most regrettably, our friend Bill also ended up dying of lead poisoning – of the hyper-acute, instant variety: a self-inflicted bullet through a perfectly good heart that somehow misunderstood life in a fragile moment. Lead proved to be no less deadly when mixed with alcohol than with water. Sometimes irony is even crueler than justice might be poetic.

“truth’ll setcha free,” said fat marty over his shoulder to me as the young fella hooking him up to the para-sailing harness said “ya are good to go.” then he signaled the driver of the tow boat and f. marty was tugged airborne and flying down the curve of the beach high above the huts and tourists sippin drinks in the tropical sunset until he disapppeared as a dot far down the 7 mile expanse of negril, jamaica.

i didn’t see him again for years after that moment. he said we should get together “back in the states” when ever we could arrange our schedules.
i thought of our conversations at rick’s cafe late into the night drinkin red stripe and enjoying the cool breezes carrying the reggae sound from the band playing down on the beach front.

he was intriguing, i remembered after, and cindy said, “…putting you two together on any project or scheme would probably bring a world of crazy and trouble, it is good you don’t have much time to be in the same place at the same time much anymore…world of trouble i tell you…f. marty doesn’t want to lose and you, kenn, you don’t ever want to win, put the two of you together and only trouble and more trouble…, and i listen to her always on these matters of humans and their inherent weirdness because cindy is the only person i know and i bet you know that actually saw, in person, the beatles at the london palladium in 1963. i ask my readers out there, do you know anyone who actually saw the beatles in person? it gave her any insight other people don’t have.”

to be continued…

A video gallery of Deaddrift’s Spring trip to the East Verdigre Creek, May 2011.

A selection of images from a hike to the fabled Hidden Lake.

The location, which we will leave undisclosed, is a highly guarded secret…

(ok, ok, you beat it out of us, we can’t keep a secret from our loyal readers: it’s in Antelope County Nebraska- in a State maintained wildlife management area near Grove Lake)

[Show as slideshow]

A selection of images from DD’s spring trip to the East Verdigre Creek 2011

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Our spring time on the East Verdigre creek began with rain squalls, moments of sunshine and calm for easy casting, which rewarded us after months of waiting
for the time three of our deaddrift crew were able to stalk the banks, tie on a 16 hair’s ear and hope for the best. Our persistence paid off with some great times and, as always, great fishing.

The East Verdigre is a beautiful place in all times of the year, but the spring time is especially favored by anglers; the pleasantly cool weather and lessened insect presence combined with the accessibility offered by the low streamside plant growth all adds up to a perfect time to fly fish in one of Nebraska’s premier State managed wildlife and recreation areas.

[Show as slideshow]

Snake River/Merritt Reservoir Chronology

1958

Fish and Wildlife Coordination Act, amended.

“…act ensures that fish and wildlife conservation receives

consideration and coordination with all other features of water development programs such as title transfers.”

May 1964

Merritt Dam is completed by U.S. Bureau of Reclamation.

Aug. 14, 1986

NGPC letter from William J. Bailey, Jr., Assistant Director, to Kenneth F. Plumb, Secretary, Federal Energy Regulatory Commission on proposed hydro-electric project no. 9964-000.

“We recommend that the impacts of the proposed project on the fish, wildlife and outdoor recreation supported by Merritt Reservoir and the Snake River be determined”

April 14, 1987

Ainsworth Irrigation District opposes In-Stream Flows on Long Pine Creek to benefit the trout population.

March 1, 1990

Harlan Welch, of the Ainsworth Irrigation District organizes protest of scenic river designation for the Niobrara River.

Dec. 16, 1991

Representatives of the Ainsworth Irrigation District attended the monthly meeting of the Valentine City Council on placing a hydo-electric plant on Merritt Dam

“It (hydro-power) provides another group that depends on the river and would provide additional reasons to regulate the flow should an environmental effort be made to force

unrestricted flow year-round.”    Harlan Welch, A. I. D.

Nov. 15, 1995

Roberts/Brownback Land Grab Bill

“A bill to provide for the transfer of the Missouri River Basin,

Pick-Sloan Project facilities in the States of Kansas and Nebr., and for other purposes.”

http://www.rainbowtel.net/~bryants/hr2644.htm

Nov. 3, 1995

Topeka Capital-Journal article on Roberts/Brownback bill.

“…special interests helped write the bill.”

Dec. 6, 1995

Wichita Eagle article on Roberts/Brownback bill.

“It was a landgrab that would have made the 19^th-century railroad robber barons proud.”

Dec. 22, 1995

Topeka Capital-Journal article on R/B bill.

“The bill has the markings of an under-the-table deal that was supposed to be sneaked through.”

Jan. 11, 1996

Emporia Gazette article on R/B bill.

“A dumb idea.”

Jan. 28, 1996

Lincoln (NE) Journal Star article on R/B bill.

“Abuse of multi-use resources.”

April 1996

letter by Bill Meyers in Topeka-Capital Journal when Kansas was contemplating a similar title transfer of federal land.

“These reservoirs and the adjoining lands represent a diminishing public resource—our public lands and waterways. For a state that so prides itself on its rural heritage and connection to the land, the state’s citizens have precious few areas where they ejoy the beauty and wonder of natural settings, particularly in the northwest region of the state.

The trouble with transferring (i.e. selling) public lands to private interests is that the public loses an irretrievable asset whose value is intrinsic rather that assessable. Anyone who has enjoyed experiences on our public lands—hiking, camping, fishing, hunting, or simply being—knows that the very existence and accessibility of such places is of inestimable value.

Most of us are not privileged by birth or blessed through hard work and commensurate financial accumulation, to have the means to acquire our own parcel of land where we are free to enjoy the earth’s bounty,

Our public lands afford us this opportunity.”

May 24, 2002

Preliminary Permit Application for the Merritt Dam Hydroelectric Project to Federal Energy Regulatory Commission by Merritt Hydro, LLC.

“The members of Merritt Hydro, LLC have been and are currently involved in various phases of numerous projects in the past fifteen years including projects in Idaho, Utah, Montana, and Hawaii.”

Oct, 29, 2002

Letter from Kirk Nelson, NGPC, Assistant Director, to Magalie R,  Salas, Secretary, Federal Energy Regulatory Commission on Review of Notice of Application for Preliminary Permit for the Merritt Dam Hydroelectric Project, FERC no. 12201-000.

“Environmental effects of stage fluctuation and hydraulic parameters due to hydropeaking operations can be very detrimental to fishery and other aquatic life (e.g. stranding, habitat alterations.

Nov. 22, 2002

Sherman Reservoir Title Transfer to Middle Loup Power and Irrigation.

April 4, 2003

Reclamation to Study the Feasibility of Title Transfer Ainsworth Unit Division.

“At the request o the Ainsworth Irrigation District (District), the Bureau of Reclamation will begin studying the feasibility of transferring ownership of all Ainsworth Division facilities fromthe federal government to the District.

April 23, 2003

Ainsworth Unit Title Transfer Scoping Meeting Ainsworth Conference Center, Ainsworth, Ne.

April 24, 2003

Ainsworth Unit Title Transfer Scoping Meeting Building at Campgrounds, Valentine, Ne.

June 10, 2003

letter from Rex Amack, NGPC, to Fred Orr, area manager, Bureau of Reclamation.

“Selected Environmental Issues Concerning Merritt Reservoir and Dam Title Transfer Proposal”

July 2, 2003

article in Omaha World Herald by Paul Hammel

“Fisherman not biting on Merritt  transfer”

http://www.omaha.com/index.php?u_np=0&u_pg=36&u_sid=785879

July 2, 2003

meeting between Rex Amack, Nebraska Game and Parks

Commission, and Harlan Welch, Ainsworth Irrigation District

July 3, 2003

meeting with Sen. Chuck Hagel and group from the Bureau of

Reclamation, Ainsworth Irrigation District, and Nebraska Game and Parks Commission.

July 3, 2003

Omaha World Herald article,

“Hagel surveys Merritt Dam on Title Transfer Proposal from Ainsworth Irrigation District”

“A title transfer of federal facilities could have economic, recreational, and environmental impact on Cherry and Brown counties. All of these interests must be balanced”, Hagel said.

July 8, 2003

article in Lincoln Journal Star

“Sen. Chuck Hagel met with state and local officials Thursday to discuss proposal to transfer ownership of Merritt Dam…”

“Area farmer Steve Bartak, who supports the idea…said transfer of ownership would insulate his operation from environmental extremists who could block access to the water in the future…”

Oct. 27, 2003

Environmental Assessment begun by Ecosystems Research  Institute.

2006

Ainsworth Irrigation District water service contract is up.

compiled by deaddrift.com

kd bay, senior editor

THE CASE FOR A COURSE – Personal Notes

Prologue

When NASA was preparing for the Apollo Project, they did some astronaut training on a Navajo Indian Reservation in Arizona. One day, a Navajo elder and his son were herding sheep and came across the space crew. The old man, who spoke only Navajo, asked a question, which his son translated. “What are these guys in the big suits doing?” A member of the crew said they were practicing for their trip to the Moon. The old man got all excited and asked if he could send a message to the Moon with the astronauts. Recognizing a promotional opportunity for the spin-doctors, the NASA folks found a tape recorder. After the old man recorded his message, they asked the son to translate it. He refused. So the NASA reps brought the tape to the reservation where the rest of the tribe listened and laughed but refused to translate the elder’s message to the Moon. Finally, the NASA crew called in an official government translator. He reported that the Moon message said: “Watch out for these *censored* , they have come to steal your land.”

It is necessary to make the prefatory comment that several of my more durable friends are nationally-recognized leaders in the principles governing preservation of the few remaining places of special beauty. They know the Ranch and love it just the way it is … as do I. They disapprove of changing anything, especially anything that could possibly impose more people … as do I. But after 18 years of studying its landscapes — both natural and political — there looms an unavoidable decision about how the land’s interests might best be preserved beyond my brief tenure as its steward. The private-public-partnership of land conservation envisioned by Aldo Leopold is unquestionably under assault, and too much is at stake here to fail to recognize the pathetic record of our ever-changing leadership in honoring the treaties of prior administrations. The notes that follow touch upon the rationale for departing from the trusting optimism of my counselors.

Lay of the land, 1986-2003

“Snake River Home sites” was the prior owner’s platted and approved development of a 47 lot residential subdivision on the northerly canyon rim of the Ranch. Over a dozen beautiful sites had been sold for token sums barely sufficient to cover his quarterly interest payments on cattle loans gone sour. Sales were usually closed with his verbal assurance that the new buyer would have few restrictions to the pursuit of any and all sporting opportunities. Covenants were purposely brief and vague. Plans presented to his bankers called for the remaining canyon edges to be dotted with an additional 210 residential lots, RV hook-ups to annually accommodate 18,000 user-days, tent campsites to accommodate 2,250 overnights, 210 fishing and hunting memberships, 240 daily fishing permits to anyone, and 7,200 horse rental hours. A bulldozer mercilessly gouged ill-conceived roadways into the canyon at four different places and then connected them in order to make access unencumbered to all, including the cattle which had already grazed the uplands flat. Fencing was placed everywhere, but none to keep bovines off of the fragile river banks. During this time — the nadir of the1980’s land crisis — computer models of what might be paid for such land (in order to achieve cash-flow) called for less than $40 per acre, and there were few likely takers at that. Especially absent from any bidding were those very governmental agencies which should have been most interested in the property. The patience of Providence had been sufficiently tested and, at almost the last moment, a change in ownership in 1986 halted the thoughtless process in play.

The uplands were rested for several years. Critters that had so thoroughly demolished the river banks were excluded from the riparian zone. Roads were groomed and allowed to heal, which stopped the washing of sands into the stream bed, which then improved trout spawning. Lots that had been sold were repurchased, access was regulated, management policies were implemented, and the ways and means of Nature were allowed to return. The land’s interface with mankind began anew with only the expectation of considerate and appreciative behavior by those who entered in. The inherent beauty and majesty of the place were quick to return when the heavy hand of commercial man was tempered.

Up jumped the Devil

Not surprisingly, those who had previously shunned this neighborhood because of its bleak economic potential began to see opportunities anew. Adjacent ranchers capitalized on the burgeoning  reputation of the world-class wild trout fishery by entering into leases with a multitude of “sportsmen”, mainly bait fishermen, when they themselves failed to even understand the concept of ‘catch and release’. A bordering public agency whose function is to rent “school lands’ for agricultural purposes — and which has absolutely no expertise in recreational matters — carved special fishing leases out of its corners which touch the river; it has also begun trying to acquire and /or trade adjoining lands in an effort to become a player in a game of land chess designed to eventually generate bidding by wealthy urbanites. Similar interest has mounted from big city outdoors enthusiasts who want free and open access to everything, and who somehow see themselves above asking for permission from landowners, hoping instead to have gates opened for them by legislators. Their champion is the Game and Parks Commission, an entity sometimes more likely to respond policy-wise to elected officials than to its own biologists, and one which episodically displays outright contempt for landowner’s rights.  And a more visible evidence of the mounting assault on the land and its primacy is the once pristine Niobrara River as over 30,000 annual users and abusers flock to this recently-designated “wild and scenic” waterway; their water fights, boom boxes, and hormonally-driven outbursts echo throughout the valley – a corridor which some public agency, either State or Federal, will undoubtedly try to expand in the future to accommodate even more cellophane, sunken cans, cigarette butts, and bodily emissions. Political appointees and bureaucrats simply have little concern for the land’s fragility, or for the impact upon it by temporary occupants with extractive motives. And not one of these publicans would balk at having his name placed on a State Park on land that was donated by someone else.

The problem, therefore, is that the better a given piece of land is maintained, and the less it is sullied, the more attractive it then becomes to a public which increasingly clamors for the opportunity to trammel where ever and whenever it pleases. In Nebraska, the inordinate imbalance between urban and rural interests and influences poses jeopardy to the future sanctity of private lands. In attempts to satisfy their urban constituencies, some politicos have devised legislative bills purporting to “protect” private streams, while at the same time requiring “two points for public access”! It is as though the landowner who brought about the desirability is suddenly the problem, when, in fact, the real problem is a failure to understand that what land most needs is to be protected from man in all his forms–embodied in the thoughtless public. And while it has never been my intent to ban all others, or to create an exclusive playground, there is an obvious reality — based in truly understanding the fragility of the place — that it cannot withstand public assault, nor can it be properly managed by agencies charged with pleasing the public. Were this canyon opened to today’s public the essence to which it has been restored would promptly unravel.

So, as the individual momentarily charged with looking after this little piece of heaven and its sustainable future, it is not difficult to identify that from which the land most needs to be defended – the agents of public agencies. Fences and signage backed by responsible law enforcement can keep John Q. Public at bay, but a whole new approach is required to hold off those connected to the lawmaking and policy-changing businesses.

Evolution of a strategy

Three distinct but interrelated things need to be accomplished to insulate the place from being taken by any of those entities most likely to make future incursions.

First, there must be more voices on behalf of the land than just that of “a retired surgeon”; the politics of envy are easy to conjure, and one man perceived as privileged can be easily targeted for resentment. Others who see the land as I do need to be brought in to some level of participation or shared stewardship in order that they also speak to the issues if and when such becomes necessary. Affording them an element of ownership is probably necessary to engender a wholehearted defense, but this creates a somewhat ugly paradox: to keep people off of this fragile place, some have to be brought on. Yet better to invite a limited and selected few, and to get their buy-in to the principles up front, than being overrun later by weekend recreationalists from around the world who believe that freedom is them determining their own momentary standards.

Secondly, there must be creation of value because if and when any property is taken for a ‘public purpose’, just compensation to the owner is constitutionally required. At present the economic potential of this area is only beginning to become appreciated, and there are insufficient comparables to adequately judge its true worth. Were a ‘taking’ to occur tomorrow, “fair market value” would probably be closer to rangeland prices than to realistic numbers, which simply makes it too attractive for potential acquisition. Another reason that value creation becomes a necessary tactic now is to put the property out of reach of momentarily-stressed governmental budgets.

Finally, and most importantly, there must be genuine protection afforded to the property, which, if done properly, will take away the purported reason, i.e. “protection”, that always “justifies” the taking of a special place. Measures need to unequivocally be implemented which exceed those available to government, including even ‘wilderness’ designation, in order to honestly say that everything that might be done to protect the property is being done. And this needs to be cemented in a sound legal format which, if challenged, would be unassailable. The vehicle appears to be a carefully crafted Conservation Easement through a Land Trust which works creatively with landowners committed to continuing private stewardship — not a Land Trust that does pre-acquisition for government. The fundamental and overriding purpose is to assure that there is never a return to what was happening up until 1986.

Why Golf?

The intended residential subdivision that started this whole discussion could be the thread to tie the foregoing strategy together. Ill-conceived as that project was, it is now key to establishing a value basis which can be both achieved and foregone, in a sense, within the Conservation Easement. But a void remains in balancing the property with a high-value, sustaining function. If some people are destined to reside here, at least on a part time basis, what is the compelling draw? A one-of-a-kind world-class landscape that harbors a blue ribbon trout fishery, in and of itself, has already caused much of the pressure we seek to escape, so something else needs to enable satisfaction of the strategy. Hunting, hiking, and horsing are not unique to the neighborhood. Ranching today is an increasingly expensive lifestyle as agriculture goes from one crisis year to the next. The land yearns for a higher and better use than extraction, for a use that creates value and one which can accommodate people without running contrary to conservation objectives.

Anyone with a love of golf is immediately smitten with the deliciousness of this part of the prairie. The essence of golf – sand, wind, and tall grasses – has already been brought into focus with the superb Mullen facility (Sand Hills Golf Club) – deservedly rated the #1 Modern Course (of all built since 1960). It has been followed quickly by excellent courses at Gothenburg (Wild Horse), and Pierre (Sutton Bay), and another 36-hole project is newly-scheduled on the Dismal River just 6 miles west (upstream) from the SHGC. With the present hazards of international travel not likely to abate, this heartland of the U.S. (perceived to be safe) will likely be the recipient of links-style players who otherwise have traditionally visited the British Isles. The growing number of outstanding courses in this region can only serve as a magnet for a budding industry that might well become the economic anchor for what is now the poorest, yet most unspoiled, part of America. The amenities of the surrounding environs afford a welcome diversity for those seeking outdoor opportunity in the cleanest of air and the freshest of waters in a region on its way to becoming a network of great courses – perhaps the ‘Prairie Trail’?—as the concept of “remote destination” golf unfolds. The 60 mile drive from the SHGC to the Ranch over scenic Highway 97 often encounters no other traveler, and carries through a pristinely dramatic landscape in which a potentially fantastic golf hole cries out wherever one looks. And it all comes together at the Snake River canyon.

The world does not need another mediocre golf course, and what exists here is capable of delivering the best ever. Golf’s impact on this relatively fragile prairie environment will be far less than most customary agricultural applications. The incredible character of the land will allow holes to be discovered and routed within the natural upland landscapes of the dunes and the canyon’s rim. Principles of ‘minimalist design’ will utilize the readily evident work that Nature has already done, rather than trying to copy Her with heavy machinery; letting a golf course ‘happen’ is very different than forcing one upon unwilling terrain. The opportunity is at hand to prove that “conservation golf” is not necessarily an oxymoron (Clark Stevens, AIA, 2002).

Complementary features

In addition to its extraordinary vistas, the Snake River’s canyon serves as home to an exceptional wild Rainbow and Brown Trout fishery in the 12 mile tailrace segment from Merritt Reservoir’s outflow to its confluence with the Niobrara River. Natural reproduction provides large numbers of healthy, acrobatic trout, including a record 20# Brown. Limited access for fly-fishing will be offered to golf club members on a fee and guided basis to assure compliance with prescribed practices; the golf complex would thereby share in supporting the ‘river keeper’ function.

And although the Ranch itself is managed as a sanctuary, there are superb hunting and fishing opportunities on near-by McKelvie National Forest, Valentine National Wildlife Refuge Lakes, and Merritt Reservoir. Merritt offers sugar sand beaches and has the finest water quality of any man-made impoundment in the USA, being the recipient of springs, seeps, and sand-filtered runoff over ranchlands that have never felt the plow or an application of chemicals. In addition to sailing and water sports, it is a world-class fishery for walleye, muskellunge, bass, perch, catfish, and pan fish. It is also the base for the annual international gathering of astronomers and stargazers; the night sky here is the most free of light pollution in the continental USA east of the Rockies.

A few miles upstream is Snake Falls, Nebraska’s largest natural waterfall, which flows over the cap rock that characterizes the region’s unique geology. There are many interesting paleontologic, archeological, and historic sites on the Ranch as well. And several miles downstream (north) is the Niobrara River, famous as one of the best canoeing waters on the continent. It courses through the Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge where native bison and elk roam freely with prairie dogs, burrowing owls, and other fauna of the prairie. Bird-watching is outstanding. The ‘Cowboy Trail’ offers an improved hiking and biking pathway which traverses the scenic northern Sand Hills.

Valentine — 16 miles from the Ranch — is at the intersection of two major national highways, and offers full services, including a museum, a hospital, an outstanding Western store, many good restaurants and motels (with an aggregate room capacity of 365), a 9-hole public golf course, and an airport with 4700 feet of concrete (and upgrades in process); Valentine’s population and altitude are about the same at 2800. Its per capita taxable retail sales typically lead the region. The Rosebud Casino is 9 miles north at the border. Valentine’s environs are steadily transforming into the Jackson Hole of Nebraska.

Back to the Ranch — natural features

The upland site that evokes an almost visceral urge to tee it up is east of the canyon at the southerly part of the Ranch, and is characterized by two distinctive land forms:

First, the high dunes offer dramatic contour and ‘choppiness’, a local term describing pronounced elevation changes punctuated with blowouts and an occasional lone well-weathered Ponderosa Pine or Eastern Red Cedar. The prevailing wind is out of the northwest, which orients the dunes from southwest to northeast; on the lee side there are long valleys, or interdunal areas. In the trough of this terrain is a continual sense of isolation and aloneness which gives way to instant revelation on the crests. It is through this region that the entryway to the clubhouse will be located – a winding tunnel with only open sky above that gives no hint of anything until it brims on a breathtaking exposition of the Snake River Canyon.

Next is a transitional area between the dunes and the canyon which is much more subtle, its rolling contours softened by decades of grazing critters and an ancient floodplain. It, too, has lone specimen trees and natural scrapes of open sand but is mainly characterized by lush prairie grasses dotted with yucca. A prominent feature is the century-old wagon trail – formerly from Fort Sidney (Nebraska) to Fort Pierre (South Dakota)– that courses along the east side of the valley, paralleling the river 50 to150 yards upland from the canyon’s edge. This trail runs alongside of what used to be the town of Burge, site of a few homes, a post office, and a one room schoolhouse (relocated a mile east when the highway to Merritt was completed in about 1964); Burge (now the Ranch headquarters) is a long-abandoned way-stop that served the overnight needs of those journeying from big ranches to the south to and from Valentine for provisions. The trail’s only remaining legacy is deep ruts filled with Little Bluestem, a bunchy red grass that is successional on injured native prairie. This historic feature will be incorporated into the course design as a meandering hazard, and to escape its misery will be akin to exiting the deepest of pot bunkers. As a curious sidebar, part of this gentle area was under water some 6,000 years ago as the newly-forming Snake River backed up from the southerly rim of the Niobrara canyon (2 miles to the north) prior to that rim finally being breached. Because true links have been water-covered at some point in their history, this ground technically qualifies.

And at the edge of the transitional area, the rim of the canyon offers awesome vistas not unlike the westerly views from Torrey Pines or Pebble Beach, except with a depth and ruggedness that speaks louder than does the level horizon of the Pacific Ocean. The canyon’s ledges are every bit as definitive a barrier as is seashore, but give a view into the basement of time created by this 6,000 year-old river cutting through 10,000,000 year-old cap rock. The mystery of history blurs into curiosity as shadowy forms move over streambed fossils in emerald waters 500 feet below.

The shape of things to come

The setting and available land, coupled with an abundance of natural avenues and corridors, suggest that even a dunderhead might come up with 18 pretty good holes that route reasonably. But surgery taught me quickly that the essence of wisdom is in knowing what you don’t know, and what you don’t do well. What is readily apparent, however, is that the best golf complex in God’s creation may be hidden here, and that an extraordinarily mature appreciation of the game and its architecture is required to unwrap the package. But some other things merit mention:

Golf here will be for golf itself, in its finest tradition, and not as a centerpiece/hook for a residential development around its edges. Every effort will assure that players see no man-made contrivances from any vantage point (the home sites mentioned at the outset are distant and invisible to this area). Natural elements of the opposite canyon rim and a broad buffer of surrounding ground will remain unblemished.

Separate courses –one ‘along the rim’ and another ‘in the dunes’ –will capture the challenge and essence offered by each differing landscape. Although it would be ideal if one course could incorporate elements of both, the distance between these landforms would shortchange the potential of each. Consideration will be given to complementing the course on the rim with a Par 3 track in the dunes, or vice versa, or a Par 3 just anyway. Yet the first course to be built will be along the rim because this is where the uniqueness lies; to be known initially only by a dunes course would suggest a ‘knock-off’ of the fabulous Sand Hills G.C.

Placement of the clubhouse and lodging will have a major impact upon the design process as well. An incredible site on a peninsula of canyon rim affords drop-dead vistas up and down canyon: it is as beautiful and dramatic a point as any in the country, and flows perfectly for the projected amenities. Arriving and departing vehicles would not come into the view of players and the uninvited could not access the heart of a property whose interests are best served by fewest intruders.

Limitation on the collective number of rounds played in a day will assure that the individual experience is unhurried and free of those in a hurry. Views will be deliberately designed into the routing to invite an appreciative glance. And while a private club is envisioned, play would initially include designated days in which players with membership elsewhere could be admitted with a call or letter from their home professional. Provisions for youth golf and Evans Scholarships are intended.

Lastly, there are some residual considerations about the environmental impact of a golf project here. The ‘traditional’ upland use, i.e. cattle grazing, will cease, enabling removal of the extensive fencing required by the prior Savory intensive rotational method. This, in turn, will enhance wildlife habitat applicable to pronghorn, and to prairie nesting of Audubon Watch-Listed species such as the long-billed curlew, dickcissel, ferruginous hawk, and prairie chicken – all of which would simply add to the prolific populations of mule and whitetail deer, and to over 150 species of birds, including eagles and osprey, which already negotiate life within the Ranch. All overhead power lines will be buried, profoundly benefiting esthetics. And the sole potential for golf to be contrary to the land is if any part of it – whether chemicals or people – spills toward the canyon. For 18 years a sponge-like vegetative buffer has matured by allowing the canyon’s walls and borders to ‘go natural’. Future control of drainage will be assured initially by the designer and continuingly by the superintendent; control of ‘people’ will be assured by non-negotiable rules, covenants, and the conservation easement. The USGA’s ‘Audubon Cooperative Sanctuary Program for Golf Courses’ will be pursued, and overall compliance with environmental concerns will be ascertained in the unfolding process by a commitment to do so, which is simply inherent in being the arbiter between golf and the land.

And the final beauty is that should golf ever cease to be one of man’s passions, this land will revert overnight to what it is now and, on its own, suck back within itself any hint that we have ever even been here. A few flagsticks, however, might wave above the sand for a decade or so until they take burial alongside other artifacts and fossils that once had momentary purpose and life here as well.

Bottom line

It’s exciting that the preservation of a primal river could occur because of a modern golf course that doesn’t come near it.

Cleve Trimble

(Author’s views do not necessarily represent deaddrift.com or it’s affiliates)

Notes from the East Verdigre Creek

by kd bay

ah huh.
shirt sleeve weather with one day snowing and blowing and raining sideways.
comfy cheap motel with plenty heat plenty hot water.
good camping arranged by june w., dd trip planner, accommodations and reservations her specialty.
almost completely empty motel just for dd tucked in the corner unit for maximum wind protection in the loading and unloading zone.
maximum security at all times.

and the fishin, well wayne, the fishin was, how can i say it, how can i frame the scene, explain the mechanics of perfection in fly fishing.
flawless. a study in trout solutions,
big ones lil ones medium ones some here some there
some in that riffle some in that pool and some at my feet
and some on that turn and some in that bend and some under that sweeper tree some over the rocks some under the rocks some around the rocks some in the runs some at the end of the runs some at the edges of the runs and some deep in the pools some at the front of the pools some rising some huggin bottom some out of nowhere some when i wasn’t lookin some when i just let my line hang out around me some near some real far 50 foot casts with a lil bullethead bugger some ya can see some that are just invisible but tickin on your fly some slammed the fly hard some just inhaled lightly some jumped really high many many times some took a parachute adams floatin high n saucy some hit the adams when it swept under at the end of the swing and when i twitched it some hit it bam some jumped up in the air and came down on the fly slam,

one the largest for me did that and broke off 6 lb. tippit wham
and some on and some off quick short tussle then gone off the barbless hook some chased the one i had hooked and followed it to shore trying to take the
bugger out of the mouth of the hooked
some twirled dervish on the line some silently curled to hand for quick release and skitter disappear
some fooled me good some, not many, i fooled
sometimes we both got fooled and i think i enjoyed them the most
some ignored me, maybe one or two
all were healthy fat n happy verdigre wild rainbows n browns

shining clean water silver shadows leaping
droplets sparkling blue sky
trout dancing….

kd bay

Fall Bass In The Hidden Valley

By Steve Westphal

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

It was an upcoming weekend with a doubtful weather forecast, myself and a close friend, who hadn’t had the fly rod in his hands for several months, were ready to go fishing. We knew we were daring the meteorologist, but that didn’t matter. It was time to go- and we weren’t going to let the weather stop us. We were going to fish our little gem in north central Nebraska and see if the trout would cooperate.

Well…..the water was as low as I’ve ever seen it and we had no idea what was in store for us. Surprisingly a few undercut banks held some trout. Average trout and a couple that were 16 inches or so cooperated the first day which was washed in sunshine. We knew it wouldn’t hold and it didn’t. The next day the rains came and persisted, more or less, for the next three days.

I got an education that day in our secret little place among the oak trees that I will never forget.

We were having a snack when we noticed a ruckus in one of the three ponds on the place. Some very large bass were hearding minnows and small panfish into a corner and methodically charging them and filling their gullets. It happened every few minutes and created some pretty impressive wakes when they moved. My friend had been fishing for trout with our favorite baby woolly buggers that he ties and have proven effective for me on trout everywhere I fish.  He kept it on and moved over to the pond and started catching bass everywhere. Soon, he moved into the corner and waited for the big bass to charge their lunch. I was pretty sure that the little baby bugger wouldn’t get their attention while they were working fresh baitfish.

Boy, was I wrong!

As soon as the bass started to charge the baitfish, he dropped the bugger in the middle and the biggest bass in the bunch, probably a 6 to 7 pounder, grabbed it with fury. I was standing right there and couldn’t believe it. My partner uses fairly stout tippet, at least 6 pound, but, that wasn’t nearly strong enough. The big bass made a run or two the shook his head and broke off. We were so excited we stopped fishing just to discuss it. I just didn’t think that these bass would fool around with a trout fly while eating fish that were five times the size of this little offering.

I guess I was wrong.

Everything was a bit anticlimactic after that short episode. We went back to fishing but didn’t experience anything like that again the next day or so. I got an education that day in our secret little place among the oak trees that I will never forget.

Steve Westphal