Wyoming backs Utah's big public lands grab
Plus: The Saga of the Silver Bullet, Chapter 308,458 (miles, that is)
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A couple weeks ago I wrote here and for Writers on the Range about how many Western Republicans are losing their historically characteristic trait: courageous independence. It seems they are trading their party-fluid pragmatism in for a MAGA-hued extremism and loyalty to the national party, which is to say to Donald J. Trump and a right-wing ideology.Â
I illustrated this shift with the example of Wyoming Gov. Mark Gordon, a lifelong Republican and one-time staunch Teddy Roosevelt conservationist who has slid rightward over the course of his career. Now he has gone even further into the MAGA mire, joining Utah in its quixotic quest to seize control of all âunappropriatedâ public lands â or BLM lands not managed as national monuments or other reserves â in their respective states. And a couple dozen Wyoming lawmakers want to go even further, according to WyoFile, and are considering trying to seize all federal lands, including national parks and monuments and wilderness areas. Â
The quest to transfer public land â i.e. the land belonging to all Americans â to states has dragged on for decades. It was a core tenet of the Sagebrush Rebellion in the â70s and â80s and of the Wise Use Movement in the â90s. The land-transfer proponents werenât shy about their motives: They wanted to relax regulations to make it easier for corporate interests to mine, log, and drill and they wanted the ability to sell the lands outright to the corporations.Â
In the past, however, none but the most extreme right-wing politicians would publicly advocate for land transfers, and it was anathema in places like Wyoming or Montana, where the hook and bullet crowd would revolt if their leaders tried this kind of land grab, since itâs generally seen as a prelude to privatization. But in our new political reality even the most outlandish and extreme policies, bigoted rhetoric, and even threats donât seem to sway voters from sticking with their party.Â
Land transfer supporters often argue that the lands would still be public, itâs just that theyâd be managed by the state, not the federal, government â at least until theyâre sold off and privatized. But in much of the West, state land isnât really public in the same way that most federal land is. In Colorado, for example, state trust land technically is not open to the public. Utah and Arizona can and often do sell state trust lands to developers to raise funds. Phoenixâs sprawl has occurred largely on privatized state trust lands. And an oft-visited state land parcel on Comb Ridge in southeastern Utah, for example, was sold off in the run up to the Bears Ears National Monument designation. The owners could fence off this inholding or build a lodge there if they pleased.Â
Last week, Wyoming, Idaho, Alaska, and the Arizona legislature (not the Democratic governor or her administration) filed an amicus brief in the U.S. Supreme Court in support of Utahâs lawsuit. It relies on some of the same, logically challenged arguments forwarded by Utah. For example:
It claims that the presence of federal land within these states harms them because âthe federal government sets the rules and regulations, which now comprise a separate federal criminal code over which local land users have no more say than citizens from Boston or Honolulu.âÂ
Well, yeah! Thatâs because folks from Boston and Honolulu are equal owners of the land in question, as it should be. The implication is that locals are harmed if they donât have absolute control over the land in their midst. But what about private land? Are those locals not equally harmed when a hedge fund manager from Manhattan or a Silicon Valley tech bro comes in and purchases a 10,000-acre ranch in Wyoming or Idaho? Â
âUnappropriated lands cannot be taxed, so States must either hike taxes on their citizens or beg Congress for money to make up the shortfall and fund essential services.â
Itâs true that states or counties cannot levy a property tax on federal lands, but that is offset to a degree by a federal program called PILT, or payments in lieu of taxes. During the last fiscal year, the PILT program paid Wyoming $37 million; Utah $49 million; and Idaho $41 million. If the land was transferred to the state it would generate zero property taxes (or PILT payments), which would give the state incentive to sell it off and privatize it so the land could be taxed.Â
â⌠And the revenue States and local governments could generate from unappropriated lands through grazing fees, mineral leases, or timber sales now goes to the U.S. Treasury instead.âÂ
Oil and gas and coal royalty and lease revenues from federal land do, indeed, go to the U.S. treasury. Then about half of them go right back to the states. In fiscal year 2023, the Interior Departmentâs Office of Natural Resources Revenue disbursed $2.93 billion to New Mexico; $833 million to Wyoming; $124 million to Utah; and $45 million to Alaska.
Federal grazing fee revenues are split between the BLM, which then uses them for rangeland âimprovementsâ that benefit livestock operators, and the respective state and local governments. The BLM typically brings in about $16 million per year from public land grazing fees; it then spends more than $108 million on rangeland management, which amounts to an $92 million subsidy for public land livestock operators. If that land were transferred, the states would either have to raise grazing fees significantly, forgo rangeland management, or spend a lot of taxpayer dollars. The expense would likely push the states to sell the land.Â
Plus, states can levy taxes on coal or oil and gas production on federal lands, on the corporations drilling or mining on federal lands, and on the drillersâ or minersâ equipment. Wyoming has brought in so much revenue from federal land fossil fuel production that it doesnât need an individual income tax. New Mexico has had massive budget surpluses in recent years, largely due to tax revenues from oil and gas drilling on federal lands.Â
The statesâ main legal argument is that the presence of unappropriated federal land in their midst robs them of their sovereignty. If they had this sovereignty, they argue, then Idahoâs governor and/or state lawmakers would kill the proposed Lava Ridge wind facility in the southern part of that state, for example, and Wyomingâs leaders would similarly axe the BLMâs proposed Rock Springs resource management plan (which restricts energy development, including renewables like wind and solar). They also argue that the states should have the power of eminent domain over all land in the state, including the federal land theyâre looking to transfer, so that they can forcefully clear the way for transmission lines or highways or pipelines or other infrastructure. Iâm old enough to remember when conservatives were foes of eminent domain.Â
When Wyoming and Utah and all other states joined the Union, they acknowledged the presence of federal land and agreed to let it remain that way. This condition was written into the state constitutions: âThe people inhabiting this state do agree and declare that they forever disclaim all right and title to the unappropriated public lands lying within the boundaries thereof âŚâ
So, when these state officials pursue this land grab, they are not only acting against their constituentsâ interests, but also against their own state constitutions. Hopefully even the current Supreme Court will see that and relegate this lawsuit to where it belongs: the trash can.Â
The saga of the Silver Bullet: Chapter 308,458
I know, most of you probably donât want to read about my car. But there is a very high-stakes election coming up and weâre all a bit tense and I think everyone could use a bit of Schadenfreude â at my expense â so here goes:Â
The Silver Bullet is my trusty automotive companion and the Land Deskâs official reporting vehicle: a metallic-gray-hued 1989 Nissan Sentra sedan that has covered more than 308,000 miles, nearly all of it on the highways and byways of the Four Corners Country. It almost didnât make it to 308,001, and it was all my fault.Â
My mom purchased the car almost new in the early 1990s, when it was a run-of-the-mill sedan, and then sold it to me in 2013, another in a long line of old, beat-up vehicles that I have owned, and the automotive descendant of Romeo the Rambler (1967 station wagon) and Carlos the Corona (Toyota, circa 1973). At first I thought it would just be my toodle-around-town vehicle for when Wendy was using our ârealâ car for her commute.
But then I realized Iâd need a vehicle of my own for escaping into the sandstone and sage. Since I couldnât afford a real mechanic, I fixed the busted muffler and broken signal light lenses and replaced the old spark plugs and wires and distributor cap and fuel filter on my own. I cleaned the heck out of the interior (which included painstakingly removing the deteriorating plastic âtintâ on the rear windows) and added a nice seat cover.
And I became attached. Who wouldnât? The olâ Nissanâs got zip, it gets over 40 MPG on the highway, itâs relatively easy to work on thanks to a lack of computerized components, and parts are cheap (four new tires, installed = $300). Plus, to drive an old and diminutive car like this one is pushing back against American hyper-consumerism and the national fetish for larger and larger automobiles. People look down at me from the cabs of their shiny gas-guzzling monstrosity with disdain or even pity â until I tell them how little it costs to fill the tank or for me to repair what might otherwise be a very expensive problem. Then Iâm pretty sure I detect a trace of envy just before they âroll coalâ in my general direction.
Yes, Iâve relied on professional mechanics a few times, like when Wendy made me get the AC fixed or when it needed a new wheel-bearing and CV axle in the heat of summer when I just couldnât bear to lie under the car bloodying knuckles while attempting to un-seize rusty nuts in a pool of my own sweat. On two occasions I took the Bullet to the garage for vexing problems in the fuel system; both times I came away from the befuddled mechanic a few-hundred bucks lighter, with new but unnecessary parts, and a still-broken car. Thatâs when I would go to my friend Chris M., an automotive-savant who properly diagnoses and fixes the problem, even if it requires dismantling the entire car and takes several days. The Silver Bullet would have been scrapped years ago if it weren't for Chris. Â
Anyway, this fall the Silver Bullet was running real smoothly, seemingly in need of no more than some new rubber and an oil change. I had no doubt it would get me to the Ute Mountain Ute Tribeâs rally and spiritual walk to protest the White Mesa uranium mill, from where I would continue on to Paonia, Colorado, where I was due to watch my sisterâs chickens and dogs. Still, as I often do before making a longer drive, I opened the hood to look at and listen to the engine as it warmed up, just to make sure everything was okay â a sort of manual check engine light, if you will. This time, the âlightâ flashed on in the form of an ominous clickety-clack that seemed to emanate from the water pump, the sure sign the thing was getting close to failing.Â
If I were a smarter and more prudent person, I would have shut off the engine, cancelled my trip, and went in search of a new water pump. I am not that smart. Iâm also plagued with a sense of denial when it comes to medical and mechanical issues: If this sharp pain is still ripping through my chest next week, maybe Iâll go get it looked at. Or, I bet the car just needs to warm up; Iâll go to Cortez and check on it there.Â
The drive was spectacular, with deep oranges and reds lighting up the lower slopes of the La Platas and the lowland cottonwoods taking on their seasonal shade of neon yellow. The political signs were out, too, but with more balance than I had expected. Four years ago, Trump signs were ubiquitous in rural western Colorado. This year there seemed to be an even number of Harris and Trump signs, even in Montezuma County, and the Trump signs were noticeably absent from many a thicket of placards for local and state Republican candidates. Iâm not sure what this means, but it seems to bode well.Â
When I opened the hood in the Cortez City Market parking lot, the water pump wasnât clicking anymore. Okay, maybe a little, but that sound was always there, right? It is an old car after all. So I drove onward, with my stereo going full blast, through McElmo Canyon and to the White Mesa Community Center, where I pulled in between two large cars (all cars are larger than the Bullet), which provided a soundboard against which all the clicks and clacks of my car were amplified. I didnât even need to raise the hood this time: It was not only much louder, but it had also graduated into a more or less steady grinding sound.Â
Denial was no longer a viable strategy. As I photographed the rally and the walk, I came up with a plan: Iâd leave the event early, push through to Montrose, where Iâd scour auto parts stores for a water pump, and then continue my journey to Paonia and replace the thing there. I made it through Blanding and over Recapture Dam, and as I was zipping up the big hill out of Recapture Creek a high-pitched whine emanated from the engine compartment, followed by a thud-snap. Lights flashed red on the dash. I didnât dare stop â not yet. Better to keep on driving toward Monticello, where surely thereâd be a mechanic or auto parts store.Â
As many of you will have surmised, the water pump seized up and shredded the belt, which also turns the alternator. Coolant was no longer circulating through the engine and my battery wasnât charging. I watched warily as the temperature gauge inched toward the red, and at the top of each hill I threw it into neutral and coasted down, hoping that would keep overheating at bay. By some miracle I reached Monticello without the engine exploding and parked in the shade in front of a Napa Auto Parts store an hour before closing time.Â
My spirits rose when I walked through the front door: The place was big and cavernous and dark and musty, an indication theyâd have parts for an old car like mine: âWhat are my chances of finding a water pump for a 1989 Nissan Sentra,â I asked the burly guy behind the counter, an involuntary drawl creeping into my voice.Â
To my disappointment, he didnât amble into the back and pluck the piece off the shelf. He clicked some buttons on a computer, instead.Â
âNope. Napa donât even have them, so we couldnât even order one.âÂ
âOh, well ⌠is there a mechanic in town?â
âClosed for the weekend. Maybe heâll be back in on Tuesday.âÂ
âHow about a belt for that car?â I asked, thinking I could do a temporary fix on the pump with a hammer and some duct tape.Â
âNope. We could order you one, though. It might get here on Monday. Maybe not.â
I stepped back outside into the unseasonably hot October day and weighed my options. I could stay in Monticello and order some parts and wait. But where? Hotels arenât as cheap as they used to be, even in Monticello, and getting the car to a campsite on public land would be doable, but getting it back out might not be. Maybe Phil Lyman would help a guy in distress? Ha. Ha. I could hitch a ride somewhere, but that would mean leaving my car, which contained pretty much all of my belongings, on Monticelloâs main drag.Â
Or I could just keep on driving.Â
I closed the hood and trunk and climbed in, surprised to hear the starter engage and the engine fire up, despite the dead alternator, and vowed then and there to get to Cortez, even if it meant multiple stops to let the engine cool down.
It used to be called Highway 666, but that scared Christians and, besides, people kept stealing the signs, so they changed it to 491. Itâs a wide two-lane in most places and rolls over the bean and sunflower fields of the Great Sage Plain. My hands gripped the wheel as I tried to drive fast enough not to be a hazard, but slow enough to keep the motor from blowing up, aiming all the while at the phallic beacon of the grain elevator outside Dove Creek. The temperature gauge crept upwards, but I kept it below the red zone, finally allowing myself to breathe as I entered the Dove Creek speed trap. I stopped and bought more water and a bunch of ice, which I piled up on the engine. From there, I knew, it was pretty much all downhill to Cortez, so after an hour or so of cooling the engine I set off again, looking to make it at least to Cahone or Pleasant View, where I had a friend who could maybe help me out.Â
But to my amazement, the temperature needle was in safe territory when I went through Cahone and then Pleasant View and even through Yellowjacket. As I passed the turnoff to Lewis I made a decision: I would turn left, get to Mancos, ice off the engine, and then continue on to Durango.Â
And so, that olâ Hubris had seduced me once again into doing something stupid.Â
See, Highway 491 was fast and downhill, which is good for keeping the engine cool. Highway 184, not so much. Maybe if I would have stopped at Roundup and cooled the engine, it would have been okay. But no. I pushed on, passing Dolores and cruising along Summit Ridge with the needle inching dangerously close to the red. I just need to get passed Summit Reservoir, I thought, then itâs downhill into Mancos. But thereâs an up-gradient first, and as I ascended, smoke started issuing from the hood and the tailpipe, the carâs power waned, and the temperature gauge plummeted downward, as if a rubber band had snapped. Desperately I searched for the first pull-off, which happened to be for Summit Reservoir; I was literally within a quarter mile of the downhill.Â
I shut off the ignition and popped the hood. There was a sizzling sound and the sweet yet rancid smell of burning antifreeze and rubber â the spark plug wires had melted onto the engine block. I went to the trunk and grabbed ice and water and dumped them on the engine, creating a billowing cloud of steam. I may have sobbed a bit, my tears hissing as they hit the hot metal under the hood. But I found some comfort in the realization that I had escaped the Monticello-Dove Creek vortex, and had made it to within rescue distance of Durango. I texted my friend Steve: âUmmm, I think I could use that tow, if possible.âÂ
Steve showed up in his truck with a tow rope less than an hour later. He briefed me on the protocol: Keep the tension on the rope to stop it from unlatching, even if it means riding the brakes, and donât crash into him. It sounded easy until we started rolling and I realized the brakes didnât really work, given that the engine was kaput and all. We made it to Mancos and turned, joining a steady stream of 70-mph-traffic on a stretch of highway that has seen two fatal car crashes in the past couple of weeks. Those were among the most harrowing 45 minutes of my life. Little did I know that being towed along a major highway is a full-on adrenaline sport, on a par with BASE jumping and free-solo climbing.Â
With the Silver Bullet back in Durango, I went about replacing the water pump ($9), the belt ($6), the thermostat, the coolant sender unit, and the melted spark plug wires and spark plugs. It looked pretty spiffy under the hood after it was all back together again, but when I took it for a test drive it seemed my worst fears had been realized. It drove okay, but something was clearly askew: the temperature gauge behaved erratically and the cooling system didnât appear to be kicking in properly, even when the car was hot. Surely I had done some sort of permanent damage by stubbornly pressing on with a non-functioning cooling system. Damned you, Hubris! Indeed, when I took it in for an oil change and a radiator check, the mechanic delivered a preliminary and heartbreaking diagnosis: A blown head gasket.Â
In other words, a $2,000-plus repair or a very involved, over-my-head DYI endeavor that very well may end with my car reduced to a heap of parts that Iâm unable to put back together again. I fell into a deep depression. My car was not only on its death bed, but I had driven it there with my pathological independence, my stubbornness, and my stupidity. Iâm ashamed to admit it, but I even glanced furtively at the used car listings and briefly lusted after a 1969 Cadillac El Dorado.
But hereâs the weird thing. After leaving the oil change place, the mortal prognosis weighing heavily on my mind and heart, I went up to the Bridge to Nowhere, continued up the new Farmington Hill, and drove across Florida Mesa, turning off at Sunnyside and dropping back down toward the Animas River. Itâs a lovely place, Sunnyside Mesa, with ample land for crops, springs emanating from the hillside, and giant views of the San Juan Mountains. It became clear again why my great-grandfather chose to settle here back in 1911. I drove slowly past their old house, marveling at how much and so little had changed. I crossed the river and headed back toward town via La Posta Road.Â
The car ran as smoothly and powerfully as ever, the temperature gauge behaved as it should, and when I got back to Durango the coolant level was still on full. It must be a fluke, I thought. A few days later I drove it again, this time out to the Dryside, accelerating up hills in a low gear to really push the engine. It performed beautifully. The next morning, when I went to add some head gasket sealant to the radiator, I was foiled: There wasnât any room for it, because the radiator was still topped off. The car no longer exhibited any of the telltale symptoms of a blown gasket.
Admittedly Iâm still a little leery, and realize it could all go wrong any time. But still, I feel hopeful enough to embark on another journey across the Great Sage Plain as soon as I finish this dispatch. Maybe it was a faulty diagnosis, resulting from the fact that, like an idiot, I hadnât topped off the coolant after doing all that work on the car, making the mechanic think it had leaked a half gallon of antifreeze in just a few days (and I was too embarrassed to tell him about my mistake). Or maybe the Silver Bullet just magically healed itself. I guess Iâll never know, and thatâs okay. All that matters is the Silver Bullet rides again.Â
ÂĄViva la Bala de Plata!
If all the tree huggers hadnât push the elimination of junk yards, you could have picked up a used engine with less than 100,000 miles for $500. A case of beer and some friends could put you back on the road looking for at least another 200,000 miles in the silver bullet. BTW, I would be one of those friends helping you swap engines.
As for the politics... Makes me see red! I'd like to get all those politicians and have them run barefoot over Cactus Mesa! Eminent domain, state sovereignty, unappropriated lands..what a load!