East(ern) Meets West(ern)

“Information on Pawnee was nonexistent, and when people were asked for information about Pawnee the closest answer we got was, ‘No, I don't think there are any of them left. You can still find Sioux reservations up in the Dakotas, though.’”

Oh, Colorado! It’s only here that you can drop into a burger shack and overhear the following conversation:

"How’s your Navajo?"

"Passable. Yours?"

"Not worth a damn. I can palaver a little Sioux when I have to, though."

Then the conversation degenerates into desultory remarks about courses for the Fall Semester, the tight job market and how rough it’s going to be after graduation and the onset of the real world.

You chew a few more chews on your tofu burger, then casually glance over your shoulder at the people having the above conversation. Neither is under fifty.

Oh, Colorado! Where the biker stops pedaling in the middle of a busy intersection and shouts to a pedestrian friend on the other side of the street. The onrushing pickups and 4x4’s don’t even honk, and after a few seconds one of them even stops and enters the conversation.

Oh, Colorado! Where you stop in at Starbucks and find a five-foot, balding youngster in a silver shirt howling misfingered acoustic offkey crossover John Denver country blues, and the counter help invites you to enjoy your coffee in the shop. "Misery loves company," she says with a grin.

Oh, Colorado! Where Americans from the flat-as-a-frying-pan Midwest and fire of summer Texas are drawn by the cool air and spectacular scenery, thus fueling construction of crackerjack-box residential subdivisions that spoil the very natural beauty that attracted them in the first place.

Fermata joined the annual convention of the American Birding Association from June 29 to July 2 in Fort Collins, and came away with a profound sense of the need for this state to put together a coherent tourism strategy for one of its most important natural habitats–the prairie grasslands. Highlights from the conference were not necessarily those on the official schedule. One memorable moment occurred when, upon entering the Holiday Inn, we were met by Jim in his white patent leather cowboy boots, birder’s vest and perpetual grin.

"Hey, there," he said. "Been showing this around and wanted you to have a look." He held out a rolled up sheet of newspaper and carefully unfurled it. I noted that the date on the paper was 1997. "Cain’t nobody get this one."

We looked on as he pulled out a little baggie with a flattened, very dead bird with one empty eye socket in it. The bird was still soggy and wet from its recent defrosting, a process it seemed to have gone through quite a few times over the years. Thankfully it didn’t smell. "What’s your call?" he asked.

Ted pulled the dead bird out of the bag and looked closely at it. "Where’d you find it?"

"Schoolyard here in Colorado. But I’ll give you a hint: it winters down your way."

"Yellow Rail."

Jim lit up with pleasure. "You’re the first one to get it!" Then he carefully repacked and rerolled the corporeal quiz, and wandered off. This is how you know you’re among the hardcore; among people who not only take an interest in dead birds but who stow them in their freezers and thaw them for annual conventions. It brought back childhood memories of a freezer filled with dead birds, and the freaked-out reactions of friends who opened the door for ice cubes and found themselves in an avian mortuary. "Uh, my Dad, he, uh, likes birds…" It didn’t very sound convincing then, either. Yes, we were at the annual conference of the ABA.

You didn’t need highly developed powers of observation to see that the people gathered for the convention were highly diverse–in many cases polar opposites–yet drawn together by certain common interests and goals. The most symbolic avian event for the conference occurred during our visit to the Pawnee National Grasslands. As the bus pulled over near a bridge in order to get a look at a Say’s Phoebe, we witnessed an Eastern Kingbird and Western Kingbird sparring in the air, and then settling down to sit side by side on the same strand of bob war. "Never," our leader Mark Janos said, "seen that before." The East met the West, and it was good. Sort of.

There were other firsts, as this was my first ABA conference. I’d never heard a Pete Dunne dinner speech. I’d never seen a person deliver birdwatching poetry from a podium, and in free verse at that. I’d never seen such a profound concentration of knowledge about birds and love of the outdoors in one place before.

I’d never seen the Pawnee National Grasslands.

Fort Collins sits on the edge of the prairie just as it abuts the foothills of the Rockies. Although Fort Collins is a well-trodden gateway to world-renowned recreation sites in Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park, the prairies due east of the city are virtually unknown to nature tourists. This struck us as odd, because the best views of the Rockies are from the prairie. For scope of scenic viewing and nature photography, the panoramic vistas afforded from the prairie are far superior to anything you’ll see once you’re inside the Rockies.

The drive out to Pawnee National Grasslands is a primer on American history and plains economics. I observed to the Nebraskan sitting next to me that there appeared to be some wind.

"Son," he said, "in these parts that ain’t called wind."

"Oh," I said. "What is, then?"

"Well, we start off with a breeze. A breeze is what you get when you hitch a logging chain to a tree trunk and it stands out straight."

"I see."

"A strong breeze is what you get when the tree the logging chain is hitched to is blowed over on its side."

"Oh."

"A wind is what you get when the first three inches of topsoil is stripped off."

"Ah." We took another look at the non-wind outside. "And what do you call a strong wind?"

"A strong wind? Hell, son, that’s what you call moving to Californy."

In his laconic humor lay much of the history behind the Pawnee National Grasslands. When the Dust Bowl finally drove the impoverished plains farmers off their land for good, the federal government bought the farms that were in receivership and cobbled together almost 200,000 acres of prairie land. Since the plots were bought up piecemeal, the national grassland is interspersed with private farms and rangeland. This archetypal shortgrass prairie consists primarily of Blue Grama and Buffalo Grass, mixed with Saltbush and Wild Alfalfa. The nesting cover for many of the prairie’s birds is provided by Red Three-awn, a relatively longer grass that is soft, top-heavy, and bends down to provide natural shelter. Prairie root systems are intricate and tough; some reach as deep as six or seven feet underground, and the stolens of the Buffalo Grass are soldered together in places by slow-growing lichen formations that aid in water retention.

Pawnee is one of the largest national grasslands, though it is dwarfed by the million acres of North Dakota’s Sheyenne National Grassland. The problem with Pawnee has nothing to do with its desirability as a world-class nature destination. We saw Mountain Plover, Black-tailed Prairie Dog towns, Pronghorn Antelope, Black-tailed Jackrabbits, Short-horned Lizards, Grasshopper Sparrows and McCown’s Larkspurs, brilliantly patterned darner dragonflies and a host of avifauna that would satisfy all but the most jaded of birdwatchers.

Compared to what’s available in the "world renowned" alpine areas of Estes and Rocky Mountain National Park, the grasslands are incomparably rich and graced with charismatic fauna that simply reach out and arrest your senses. We got up-close views of Ferruginous Hawks as they snacked on prairie dogs like potato chips, and dime-a-dozen birds such as Western Kingbird and Lark Bunting that are nonetheless beautiful, easy to identify, and much more of a natural thrill than the comparatively empty trails leading up to the peaks of Estes Park. It may not be p.c., but in comparison the Rockies are a bore. The montane hike up to Round Mountain netted nothing but Robins, a Western Wood Peewee, an Orchard Oriole, two Black-capped Chickadees and an Abert’s Squirrel. One day at Pawnee, plus a trip to a small reservoir netted almost 80 species.

And unlike the Rockies, which are snowbound for much of the year, the prairie has several distinct and exciting seasons for nature tourism. Despite the excellent birding we enjoyed in early July, even better birding could have been had a month before or a month later.

Yet the appeal of the plains can be taken even beyond their biodiversity. These grasslands, and the Great Plains that they are–or were–characteristic of, remain one of the great stories of natural and human history on this continent. As Walter Prescott Webb pointed out, the nature of this vast grassland sea confronted settlers with an environment that exceeded anything they had ever before imagined, much less encountered. Their desperate search for something familiar to connect this strange world to manifests itself even today in the misnomers that the pioneers slapped onto plains animals, and the plains themselves. Hardly a desert by any definition, the original appellation of this area was The Great American Desert. Prairie dogs that are hardly canine. Antelope that are a distinct genus of ungulate. Burrowing Owls that don’t burrow. Turkey Buzzards that are vultures, Sparrow Hawks that are falcons, and Prairie-Chickens that are grouses.

Even the geology of this area is a charismatic and fascinating tale. Riverbeds along the pre-dammed Platte were cyclically scoured clean by the thundering explosions of ice floes during the spring thaw, the west-to-east weather systems created sandy soil conditions east of the Divide and gave rise to some of the most fertile soil on earth–these and countless other tales of wind, water, fire, frost and earth provide an intensely dramatic backdrop against which the shortgrass prairie of Pawnee has evolved.

From the perspective of someone who wants to experience nature in Colorado, the prairies beat the Rockies hands down. As a marketing concept, the problem with the word "grassland" is that it’s only exciting as a concept if grass is something you smoke. "Prairie" sounds flat and boring, even though the ecological reality is that grasslands support a much more dynamic viewing experience for nature-watchers than snowbound alpine passes. Ask any of the birders on the ABA’s Pawnee bus tour if they found the prairie lifeless or dull.

The difference between the nature viewing experience on the praire is that, unlike the Rockies, the mind has to be engaged to appreciate its beauty. Anyone can gape and gawk at a Bighorn Sheep posing on a crag; but to appreciate the beauty of an Arroyo Bluet, a beauty that is more exquisite, more brilliant, and more arresting to the senses, you’ve first got to scale down the eye and the mind to that of the damselfly. The prairie requires close-focus; the Rockies don’t. Does that make the mountains a richer mine? Of course not.

To extend the comparison between plains and mountains, Colorado has ruined many of its most scenic montane views. Steamboat is now a touristy dump, Dillon a vacation-home morass, Aspen a revolting genuflection to the bad taste of the rich…the list is endless. The drive up Big Thompson River Canyon through Roosevelt National Forest is a travesty. It’s a national highway, no stopping or hiking allowed, and the only elevated points from which you can view the canyon look down–of course–on the highway. The roar of the Big Thompson River is drowned out by the lumbering grunts of diesel trucks and the tire whine of speeding passenger cars. What you get in the Rockies nowadays is the fake, canned, Disney version of the outdoors. On the other hand, the grasslands remain quiet, unmolested venues at which you can spend an entire day and never see another person. If you want to see a sliver of a sliver of how America once was, the prairie is the place.

Yet Fort Collins refuses to look eastward and recognize its prairie lands as a lifesaving buffer between its stupendously ugly, contagiously spreading urban sprawl. The grasslands are neither promoted, marketed, nor held up as a symbol of world-class nature tourism in Fort Collins. Myopically focused on the western mountain ranges, the city either ignores or is ignorant of its greatest natural asset. The Forest Service treats the area with its usual mixture of biological analysis and refusal to take note of economic reality–it pretends away the reality that housing subdivisions in Fort Collins will, in a decade, be slammed right up against the prairie’s edge. Farmers and ranchers are focused on how the Mountain Plover’s potential inclusion on the list of endangered species list will impact their ridiculously cheap grazing rights on the prairie. No one has asked the question that is walking around in tattered shoes begging to be asked: "Why isn’t anyone trying to energize this obviously depressed rural economy with the nature tourism goldmine of Pawnee National Grassland?"

Farmers already make deliberate efforts not to plough over nests on their land and cooperate with the Forest Service. They’ve been here for generations, like and are proud of their way of life, and have a close connection to the land. Why wouldn’t they cooperate with range restoration, with a tourism program and entry fees, especially if the entry fees went into their pockets?

When Fermata asked a prairie biologist who specializes in the area’s avian ecology what kind of research had been done on evaluating the economic value of Pawnee as a tourist destination, she stared blankly. "There’s probably a grad student somewhere who’s done that kind of research."

As Fermata is well aware, having pioneered economic impact studies of nature tourism on the Middle Platte, there probably isn’t. And even if such a report exists, no one has brought it to the attention of the Forest Service, the county or the local farmers. Rather than dickering about how many pennies should be paid per head of cattle allowed to graze the prairie, farmers and land management entities should be dickering about how best to implement a full-scale tourism program that will protect the grassland from overuse, encourage farmers to let their ag land revert to prairie, and consequently bring in substantial tourism revenues. They should be wondering how to quickly create the conservation ethic needed to aggressively protect this pristine area from the assault on its borders that expanding Fort Collins is already in the process of mounting.

The tourist material for Pawnee available at the campgrounds is adequate–if you manage to make it to the campground. The Marriot, where we stayed, and the Holiday Inn, where the convention convened, had a plethora of brochures for all kinds of tourist traps and montane adventures. Information on Pawnee was nonexistent, and when people were asked for information about Pawnee the closest answer we got was, "No, I don’t think there are any of them left. You can still find Sioux reservations up in the Dakotas, though."

Fermata had a special reason to attend this meeting of the American Birding Association: Ted Eubanks, our founder and CEO, was the recipient of the association’s first-ever conservation award for his pioneering work on birding economics and his development of the Great Texas Coastal Birding Trail. The American Birding Association has for years struggled with the issue of conservation and how it, as an organization, should deal with ecology.

As anyone who’s spent time around hardcore listers knows, conservation is a poor third cousin to the main goal of toting up bird species. The fact that birds cannot be toted if they don’t have habitat to live in has long stared the ABA in the face as an uncomfortable reminder that you can’t do the activity of birding if there aren’t any birds. On the other hand, most birders do have a conservation ethic, and the link between habitat and the existence of birds is so commonsensical that most birders accept it axiomatically for the truth that it is.

The Association forged ahead in its commitment to conservation by sponsoring the attendance of Ana Agreda, an Ecuadoran birder who has worked for the last two years with Earthwatch and has been accepted to the ornithology program at the University of Missouri. Much of the breakthrough in the American Birding Association’s open commitment to conservation is owed to the leadership of its current president, Dick Payne, and its executive director, Paul Green. Both, along with Birding editor Paul Baicich, are strong supporters of Fermata’s philosophy–that rural revitalization can be done through nature tourism programs that in turn are based on a conservation ethic.

At the conference we also confirmed anecdotally what our research has demonstrated with statistics: that the Great Texas Birding Coastal Birding Trail is nationally known among birders, and visited by significant numbers of them. As appreciative as we were for the recognition that Fermata received for its pioneering work in conservation through nature tourism, we are even prouder of the fact that our theories about the economic impact of birding have been proven in countless rural communities along the trail. Colorado is in obvious need of a similar project.

After we finished birding Pawnee, we returned to the Fort Collins drag. To get there we passed through subdivisions named "Vista View," monikers dreamed up by people who either don’t know Spanish or, what’s worse, don’t understand the grammatical concept of a redundancy. These subdivision names come from the same original thinkers who brought you "Lago Vista"–and there’s one in every American suburban community situated near a lake, usually nestled up against a similar subdivision called "Lake View."

Beside a wetland outside Fort Collins, jammed up against the fresh fake originality of a new subdivision, we saw several spectacular Yellow-headed Blackbirds minding their harems in the tall grass. If that sight doesn’t make you pause and feel something, then nothing ever will. Why haven’t Fort Collins and the surrounding rural community taken that feel, made it into a coherent nature tourism program, and run with it? We’ve seen it for ourselves, and we know that the real Rocky Mountain high, if you get your kicks from nature, is on the prairie.

July 1, 2000
Pawnee Grasslands, CO
by Seth Davidson

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