I know this is a little old, but is a very good read...
Cattleman pioneers river crusade
Mulkey’s efforts reshape Lemhi’s landscape and laws LEMHI — From the seat of his hay wagon, Bruce Mulkey stared toward the riverside willows, deep in the musing that comes with mind-numbing ranch chores.
It was a perfect July day in 1988 — calm, hot and cloudless.
Mulkey visualized the grandparents who carved a living out of the harsh valley, and his father, who stole every free moment to chase salmon and steelhead.
It wasn’t a happy dream. The river’s historic fish stocks were nearly gone and the family ranch was struggling to survive measures created to save the fish. He watched his sons move to Montana, leaving a ranching lifestyle that couldn’t support them.
“It’s kind of sad to have a place in the family for more than 100 years and know you’re going to be the last generation to work the place,” he said. “That day I decided we had to do something about it. We had to lead.”
The results were changes that have drawn the attention of cattle ranchers and conservation groups across the arid West.
Fast-forward 15 years.
The Lemhi Valley is now a rallying point for bureaucrats, ranchers and environmentalists who agree that the future of water management — for fish and farmers — is being pioneered on the small central Idaho stream.
The successes on the Lemhi River are lengthy. Where the river once went dry, cold water gurgles uninterrupted despite the third consecutive year of drought.
Cows no longer crush streamside willows on 44 miles of critical spawning habitat. Sixty-one miles of fence now protect the river’s banks. A tributary called Canyon Creek reaches the main river for the first time in memory. Cold water now flows year-round as the result of modernized irrigation structures.
Stream banks that once eroded and covered spawning gravel with sediment have been stabilized. Thirty-four ditches have been consolidated into 20. And 12 diversion dams were replaced with fish-friendly weirs.
As a result, salmon nests or redd counts are at all-time highs, and farmers are being paid to save water for fish.
Klamath Basin biologists travel to study Lehmi´s partnerships and defuse a battle that’s been raging in southern Oregon for two years. In 2001, head gates were closed to save water for fish, and farmers lost $46 million in revenue, according to Oregon State University.
In summer, the government granted water to irrigators on the Klamath River, and the river dried up. Some 33,000 salmon died, including 23,000 wild fish.
The Idaho Cattle Association has listened to pitches about the Lemhi, seeking ways to avoid Endangered Species Act conflicts that siphon away their profits. Profit-eating regulations run the gamut from how ditches are run to how cows are grazed on public lands.
“The folks on the Lemhi are pioneers,” said Ted Cook, an endangered-species biologist for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. “They’re doing all the stuff we need to do to save fish and farmers.”
While the ending is unclear, the valley’s settlers and regulators have rewritten Idaho water law, reconfigured ditches and built state-of-the-art screens to keep fish out of ditches.
Mulkey started small. Along with fellow landowners, he approached the valley´s 250 water-right owners and lobbied on behalf of salmon. The message was simple: Let´s give a little now or lose it all later. His goal was simpler: protect the valley´s 36,000 irrigated acres while leaving water in the Lemhi River for salmon.
Some folks slammed doors but most opened them, offering coffee and a spirited debate. “Ninety percent of the people want to do the right thing,” said Bob Loucks, a retired University of Idaho extension agent. “Bruce wanted us to wear the right hat. He said, ´Let´s do the right thing and not break up the farms and ranches.´ ”
Unknowingly, Mulkey touched a nerve, as friends, neighbors and biologists jumped into action.
“People in this valley have been fighting for salmon since 1914,” said Bruce Smith, a fisheries biologist with the Salmon-Challis National Forest.
He said locals protested an Oregon decision to build a hatchery in Salmon and take eggs from there to rebuild stocks in the Beaver State. After losing that fight, they battled for the right to shoot fish-eating birds at the hatchery.
First, the Bonneville Power Administration tabbed the Lemhi as a “model watershed project.” That meant money for projects and creation of a committee of landowners and biologists to address the river´s problems.
The watershed meetings became a place to share ideas, theories and bad jokes. Biologists pitched fish projects and the ranchers gave suggestions. Ranchers voiced theories, and biologists countered with science.
The exchanges worked wonders. Biologists credit ranchers for every success, while irrigators laud biologists for being evenhanded and community-minded. Most importantly, everyone believes the timing was perfect. Ranchers, who were exploring ways to get out of business without subdividing their land, were ready to listen.
“Many of these guys are going out of business,” said Cook of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, pointing to Bureau of Labor statistics that show more farm and ranch jobs will be lost in the next 10 years than in any other sector.
“Right now, we have the opportunity to help some of them go out gracefully,” Cook said. “That, in turn, will help fish and wildlife and the remaining farmers.”
The fences are good, and modernized diversions are important, but the model watershed´s most progressive move was rewriting a section of water law.
Realizing the Lemhi still was going dry more years than not, the watershed committee and the Lemhi Irrigation District decided in 2000 to save water for fish.
Since all of the Lemhi´s water is claimed, it is impossible for willing landowners to free up water for fish. If you want to rent water to help fish, the fish have to have a water right, or the water instead will go to the next irrigator in line.
Local irrigators also needed means to handle the water trades.
So local irrigators approached the Committee of Nine, eastern Idaho´s powerful water board, and the Idaho Water Users Association for consent. The irrigation groups signed off and lent their lawyers to help rewrite a section of water law.
In 2000, the Legislature created a new water right on the Lemhi, giving farmers a place to put the water they wanted to rent out, as well as the state's first locally controlled board to handle a pool of donated water.
As a result, 11 irrigators in 2001 and 2002 leased roughly 25 cubic feet per second to the government to keep the river flowing and fish alive.
Over the two years, the Bureau of Reclamation bought the water for roughly $465,000 of taxpayer money, and the river remained wet in two consecutive drought years.
The landowners were paid $220 per acre of irrigated land taken out of production. One landowner made $440. Another made $77,000.
Due to water for fish and historic Chinook runs, biologists counted a record number of redds in the Lemhi River the last two years.
Mulkey stands next to the diversion where the river used to go dry. Most days, he´s proud of the accomplishments, but today he is in a black mood.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which once handled only ocean issues but now is in charge of inland salmon decisions, is flexing its muscles. New experts are on the ground, and decisions that seem inarguably pro-fish are getting mired in federal red tape generated by far-off offices. Moving a creek away from a feedlot or putting a fish screen on a ditch is no longer simple.
The model watershed project will continue to build fences and retool diversions. In the meantime, some folks are proposing to build a dam on Timber Creek, a Lemhi tributary.
The water would be used only for fish, overcoming the need for renting water. Others are trying to retool the massive salmon bureaucracy to make it easier to implement changes promptly.
“We’re trying to shape our own destiny instead of having the government cram it down our throats,” Mulkey said.
Edition Date: 12-15-2002
Cattleman pioneers river crusade
Mulkey’s efforts reshape Lemhi’s landscape and laws LEMHI — From the seat of his hay wagon, Bruce Mulkey stared toward the riverside willows, deep in the musing that comes with mind-numbing ranch chores.
It was a perfect July day in 1988 — calm, hot and cloudless.
Mulkey visualized the grandparents who carved a living out of the harsh valley, and his father, who stole every free moment to chase salmon and steelhead.
It wasn’t a happy dream. The river’s historic fish stocks were nearly gone and the family ranch was struggling to survive measures created to save the fish. He watched his sons move to Montana, leaving a ranching lifestyle that couldn’t support them.
“It’s kind of sad to have a place in the family for more than 100 years and know you’re going to be the last generation to work the place,” he said. “That day I decided we had to do something about it. We had to lead.”
The results were changes that have drawn the attention of cattle ranchers and conservation groups across the arid West.
Fast-forward 15 years.
The Lemhi Valley is now a rallying point for bureaucrats, ranchers and environmentalists who agree that the future of water management — for fish and farmers — is being pioneered on the small central Idaho stream.
The successes on the Lemhi River are lengthy. Where the river once went dry, cold water gurgles uninterrupted despite the third consecutive year of drought.
Cows no longer crush streamside willows on 44 miles of critical spawning habitat. Sixty-one miles of fence now protect the river’s banks. A tributary called Canyon Creek reaches the main river for the first time in memory. Cold water now flows year-round as the result of modernized irrigation structures.
Stream banks that once eroded and covered spawning gravel with sediment have been stabilized. Thirty-four ditches have been consolidated into 20. And 12 diversion dams were replaced with fish-friendly weirs.
As a result, salmon nests or redd counts are at all-time highs, and farmers are being paid to save water for fish.
Klamath Basin biologists travel to study Lehmi´s partnerships and defuse a battle that’s been raging in southern Oregon for two years. In 2001, head gates were closed to save water for fish, and farmers lost $46 million in revenue, according to Oregon State University.
In summer, the government granted water to irrigators on the Klamath River, and the river dried up. Some 33,000 salmon died, including 23,000 wild fish.
The Idaho Cattle Association has listened to pitches about the Lemhi, seeking ways to avoid Endangered Species Act conflicts that siphon away their profits. Profit-eating regulations run the gamut from how ditches are run to how cows are grazed on public lands.
“The folks on the Lemhi are pioneers,” said Ted Cook, an endangered-species biologist for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. “They’re doing all the stuff we need to do to save fish and farmers.”
While the ending is unclear, the valley’s settlers and regulators have rewritten Idaho water law, reconfigured ditches and built state-of-the-art screens to keep fish out of ditches.
Mulkey started small. Along with fellow landowners, he approached the valley´s 250 water-right owners and lobbied on behalf of salmon. The message was simple: Let´s give a little now or lose it all later. His goal was simpler: protect the valley´s 36,000 irrigated acres while leaving water in the Lemhi River for salmon.
Some folks slammed doors but most opened them, offering coffee and a spirited debate. “Ninety percent of the people want to do the right thing,” said Bob Loucks, a retired University of Idaho extension agent. “Bruce wanted us to wear the right hat. He said, ´Let´s do the right thing and not break up the farms and ranches.´ ”
Unknowingly, Mulkey touched a nerve, as friends, neighbors and biologists jumped into action.
“People in this valley have been fighting for salmon since 1914,” said Bruce Smith, a fisheries biologist with the Salmon-Challis National Forest.
He said locals protested an Oregon decision to build a hatchery in Salmon and take eggs from there to rebuild stocks in the Beaver State. After losing that fight, they battled for the right to shoot fish-eating birds at the hatchery.
First, the Bonneville Power Administration tabbed the Lemhi as a “model watershed project.” That meant money for projects and creation of a committee of landowners and biologists to address the river´s problems.
The watershed meetings became a place to share ideas, theories and bad jokes. Biologists pitched fish projects and the ranchers gave suggestions. Ranchers voiced theories, and biologists countered with science.
The exchanges worked wonders. Biologists credit ranchers for every success, while irrigators laud biologists for being evenhanded and community-minded. Most importantly, everyone believes the timing was perfect. Ranchers, who were exploring ways to get out of business without subdividing their land, were ready to listen.
“Many of these guys are going out of business,” said Cook of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, pointing to Bureau of Labor statistics that show more farm and ranch jobs will be lost in the next 10 years than in any other sector.
“Right now, we have the opportunity to help some of them go out gracefully,” Cook said. “That, in turn, will help fish and wildlife and the remaining farmers.”
The fences are good, and modernized diversions are important, but the model watershed´s most progressive move was rewriting a section of water law.
Realizing the Lemhi still was going dry more years than not, the watershed committee and the Lemhi Irrigation District decided in 2000 to save water for fish.
Since all of the Lemhi´s water is claimed, it is impossible for willing landowners to free up water for fish. If you want to rent water to help fish, the fish have to have a water right, or the water instead will go to the next irrigator in line.
Local irrigators also needed means to handle the water trades.
So local irrigators approached the Committee of Nine, eastern Idaho´s powerful water board, and the Idaho Water Users Association for consent. The irrigation groups signed off and lent their lawyers to help rewrite a section of water law.
In 2000, the Legislature created a new water right on the Lemhi, giving farmers a place to put the water they wanted to rent out, as well as the state's first locally controlled board to handle a pool of donated water.
As a result, 11 irrigators in 2001 and 2002 leased roughly 25 cubic feet per second to the government to keep the river flowing and fish alive.
Over the two years, the Bureau of Reclamation bought the water for roughly $465,000 of taxpayer money, and the river remained wet in two consecutive drought years.
The landowners were paid $220 per acre of irrigated land taken out of production. One landowner made $440. Another made $77,000.
Due to water for fish and historic Chinook runs, biologists counted a record number of redds in the Lemhi River the last two years.
Mulkey stands next to the diversion where the river used to go dry. Most days, he´s proud of the accomplishments, but today he is in a black mood.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which once handled only ocean issues but now is in charge of inland salmon decisions, is flexing its muscles. New experts are on the ground, and decisions that seem inarguably pro-fish are getting mired in federal red tape generated by far-off offices. Moving a creek away from a feedlot or putting a fish screen on a ditch is no longer simple.
The model watershed project will continue to build fences and retool diversions. In the meantime, some folks are proposing to build a dam on Timber Creek, a Lemhi tributary.
The water would be used only for fish, overcoming the need for renting water. Others are trying to retool the massive salmon bureaucracy to make it easier to implement changes promptly.
“We’re trying to shape our own destiny instead of having the government cram it down our throats,” Mulkey said.
Edition Date: 12-15-2002
