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Drought, increasing costs threaten older ranchers' traditions
TUCSON, Ariz. (AP)--Cattle rancher Jon Rowley tips back the brim of his cowboy hat with a dusty, gloved hand and squints at the Arivaca sky. It's noon, and scattered gray clouds threaten to douse the Santa Lucia Ranch, where he has been rounding up calves since dawn. But the rain holds off, and before sundown Rowley, 64, and his "cowgrampses," as he affectionately calls them, will get 20 or so calves roped, branded, castrated, bug sprayed and dosed with selenium to help fight off a drought-related deficiency. In May, Rowley, his wife, two ranch hands and a farmer neighbor began processing about 270 calves --half the number the ranch supported before the drought. In August they will ride across the 39,706 acres they lease from the county, state and federal governments to round up the cattle again to ship them to market. "This isn't the kind of job you want a rodeo cowboy for. You want a cow man," said Rowley's wife, Peggy, 54, who has a University of Arizona master's degree in journalism but has been a full-time rancher since 1980. A propane flame heats the branding irons and pickups have replaced buckboard wagons, but the Santa Lucia spring roundup is very much an old-school endeavor. Rowley's crew prefers to ride the range on horseback and immobilize calves with the tried-and-true rope and knee to the neck. They identify their cattle solely by the lazy double-2 brand seared into the animals' hips, not with computer chips embedded under their skin. They bring the horses in modern trailers behind sport utility vehicles but once they reach open range, the pace slows to the meandering gait of a quarter horse. The Rowleys use the old ways because hay is cheaper than gas, and because the old ways work. "We don't do things the way they used to be done because we think like antiques," said Rowley, who has a UA bachelor's degree in journalism. The Rowleys' ranch hands are both older than 60. They might sit a little stiffer in the saddle than they did a few decades ago, but they still rope and wrestle calves with ease. These are not old men; they are old cowboys. Last year, a horse fell on Jose Aguirre, who at 78 has worked for the Rowleys for 22 years. The doctor told him his broken foot would heal in a few weeks, but 10 days later a stir-crazy Aguirre was back at work with his boot cut down one side to accommodate the swollen ankle. "He said, 'Well, I can't walk, but I can ride.' He got on his horse, and he rode every day," Peggy Rowley said. Jon Rowley fears men like Aguirre are a dying breed and their way of life a dying tradition in Arizona. Growth and paltry rainfall mean fewer cattle on open range, and that means fewer ranch hands. It's tough to keep going when drought cuts in half the number of cattle the land can support and fear of an iffy future pushes ranch kids to other jobs or prompts them to sell out to developers when they take the reins, said Rowley, who after a few years in journalism returned to run the ranch his father worked for decades starting in the 1950s. "If the offspring don't commit to the business, that's pretty much an end game," he said. In May 2005, the Rowleys sold 9,574 acres of their land--all but 500 acres--to Pima County for $18.5 million. Taxpayers funded the purchase in a 2004 bond election as part of the Sonoran Desert Conservation Plan, which aims to protect some of the county's stretches of open space. The deal gives the Rowleys the right to use the land for 10 years and an option to renew the cost-free lease for another 10 years. The Rowleys sold to keep the land intact, to shelter it from developers who might break it into thousands of half-acre shards crisscrossed with paved roads and dotted with private swimming pools. They could have made much more money, Jon Rowley said. "We had significant offers from large developers. We could have put up about 2,300 homes. We would rather have our legacy be this instead of 2,300 rooftops," he said. The couple scoffs at folks who say ranching rapes the land. They are saving it, not killing it, Rowley said. "If you want to see raping of the land, go and look at what the illegal aliens are doing," he said. It is not unusual to see groups of 20 or 30 people--likely illegal immigrants heading north from the Mexican border 25 miles to the south, Rowley said. Cows often eat trash the immigrants leave behind. Jon Rowley concedes that land near Redington Pass between the Santa Catalina and Rincon mountains might be at risk from overgrazing because there just isn't enough room for cattle. But that's not the case for his land, he maintains. The Rowleys rotate acreage for grazing, and they move watering holes around regularly to prevent cattle from gathering too much in one spot. The land would have been dead long ago, if the Rowleys style of ranching could kill it, Peggy Rowley said. "We always say we grow grass and cattle. If we overgraze, we're cutting our own throat," she said. Jon Rowley doesn't feel pressured by environmentalists. Long-standing differences among the government, environmentalists and cattle ranchers are beginning to narrow, he said. "Everybody is beginning to walk a mile in everybody else's shoes," he said. Peggy Rowley is a member of the Common Ground Roundtable, a nonprofit group of environmentalists, ranchers and researchers looking for ways to halt the disappearance of the state's vast but shrinking stretches of open land. Jon Rowley served on the Ranch Preservation Committee when Pima County was developing its Sonoran Desert Conservation Plan, under which his land was bought. Such links among scientists, government and the ranch community are helping cool a debate that has at times flared to white hot, he said. In the end, drought, age and the increasing cost of doing business may drive the Rowleys out of ranching. But for now they will continue to saddle up and ride out across the scrub desert they love. "It's not quittin' time, yet," Peggy Rowley said. "Nobody wants to retire." A 7 Date: 6/8/07
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