ranching

A Cow Rancher of the New School Transforms His Ailing Terrain To Protect the Land

Phil Knight quietly surveyed the herd of 100 cattletle jostling down the steep, rutted road, gaining momentum as they smelled the water waiting in the shaded depths of Date Creek. He'd been up since before dawn, gathering these specially bred rock-climbing cattle from the precipitous Joshua tree-studded hillsides overlooking the ranch house and outbuildings he has occupied for the past 33 years. With the help of some cowboy friends, Knight had brought the cattle safely off the mountainside and within sight of the lush green ribbon of Date Creek. But Knight, who has spent most of his life anticipating the notions of range-wild cattle, knew that once those cows hit the creek, they might well take off upstream instead of pushing across and into the corrals. Knight glanced at photographer Gary Johnson, sitting atop Big Red, a rented mule. I sat another 20 yards up the road on another mule, Sandy, watching the cattle we'd combed out of the cactus and brush.

We'd hoped to find some cow ponies for this story on a rancher who had been named Arizona's Environmentalist of the Year because of his decades-long stewardship of Date Creek. But we'd had an interesting morning because the trail mules we ended up with had never herded cattle. They weren't even neck-reined and displayed only passing interest in our suggestions. As Johnson noted, it felt like putting a bit on an anvil.

Knight observed Johnson, then turned his quarter horse away from the road. “Gary,” he called, “give me a hand.” “Sure thing,” Johnson replied, jerking the bit.

Noting the exchange, I prodded Sandy into action and then followed as they rode up and disappeared over a ridge.

I arrived on the ridge and stared at where Knight sat nonchalantly on his horse in the creek bed at the bottom of a seemingly impossible slope. Johnson's mule had already slipped and slid about halfway to the bottom. It must be easier than it looks, I concluded, foolishly, and nudged Sandy on down the cliff.

When I reached the halfway point, Knight shook his head. “You're a brave man,” he yelled.

“That's not the word I would use at this moment,” I muttered, trying to decide whether it would be worse to fall off and roll through the cholla or to be rolled on by a mule. Somehow, we all reached the bottom safely.

Knight, who shifted his attention back to the cattle, has been kicked, bitten, thrown, rolled on, and broken in a dozen places in the three decades since he'd decided to not be an engineer after all.

He'd long ago internalized the taciturn, uncomplaining demeanor of the traditional cowboy. He would feed a stranger, lend you his last dollar, or saddle a tornado to help a friend,

To Protect the Land

but he wouldn't make a big deal about little things like broken bones, mule kicks, or near-death experiences.

Besides, he was busy outthinking 100 walleyed, sharp-hoofed, just-plain-ornery cattle that would dearly love to bolt back up the mountain or down the verdant riparian corridor Knight has spent much of his life restoring.

And that puts Knight in the middle of a bruising and confusing battle over the future of cattle, ranchers, and wildlife across the West.

For the past century, most of the public lands in the West have been dedicated to multiple use, including preservation, recreation, grazing, logging, and mining. Since the creation of national forests at the turn of the century and the Bureau of Land Management in the 1940s, ranchers have leased millions of acres from state and federal agencies, scattering their herds of cattle across the landscape. As the stewards of the land, they have made their living from the rugged landscape for the last century to find themselves at the end of the millennium beseiged by environmental groups, encroachingdevelopers, an unsympathetic federal government, and a global economy.

Historically cattle have permanently changed many riparian areas, especially in the desert where the scattered year-round streams support a thin ribbon of greenery amidst the rocks and thorns. In part, that's because cattle love the thick green grass that grows in the floodplain and the tender young shoots of the cottonwoods and willows that line the banks. But it's mostly because cattle crave the ready access to water through the tough days of summer.

And that can dramatically alter a riparian area. Cattle, if not rotated properly among pastures, will graze off the tree shoots, break down stream banks, and continually crop the grass. The repeated grazing prevents the grass from storing energy in its roots, stripping the plants of the resources they need to sprout and grow in the spring. After a few seasons of heavy grazing, the native grasses die out and are replaced by tough, toxin-laced grasses and shrubs that the cattle won't eat.

That's exactly what happened to Date Creek in the years before Phil Knight took over. Date Creek flows mostly under-ground for much of the year, except for a three-mile stretch near Knight's ranch, where underground rock formations drive the water to the surface. Decades of summer grazing in the creek bed had devastated the vegetation. Only a scattering of mature cottonwoods provided shade. Debilitated grasses couldn't hold onto the soil, so floods had scoured the creek bed.

That didn't make much sense to Phil Knight, an engineer and geologist by training and a problem-solver by inclination. So he began experimenting, searching for experts on streams and vegetation and testing alternative grazing schedules.

He quickly decided to keep the cattle out of the riparian area during the growing season. But that meant building a watering system so he could get his herd through the summer far away from the stream.

He installed pumps and ran pipelines out several miles to his new watering holes, storing the water in the discarded shells of tanker trucks. He drilled a few wells, installed a few windmills, and established pastures where he could rotate the cattle throughout the year.

He also quit buying the Hereford breed favored by most ranchers for their abundance of meat and shifted to a carefully bred Hereford-Brahma mix. These hardy cattle produced a lot more meat per head than pure Brahmas and could climb better and subsist on less water than pure Herefords.

It all made sense. But not even Phil Knight expected to reap such results.

His new methods transformed Date Creek, restoring it to the lush, shady condition it must have been in when ancient Indian cultures harvested its bounty. Now the creek provides a linear oasis in the midst of a fascinating domain where the stately saguaros of the Sonoran Desert mingle with the bristly Joshua trees of the Mohave Desert. Thousands of cottonwoods and willows crowd the stream, and grasses line the banks, anchoring a rich loam of soil. Knight still grazes cattle in the streambed in winter, but only when the grass has gone dormant. He has noted the return of native grasses and marveled at the way the dense network of healthy roots holds the soil even during floods.

He has already introduced wild turkeys, which have done well in the restored riparian areas. Soon after neighboring rancher John Murphy approached the Arizona Department of Game and Fish and suggested reintroducing beavers into Date Creek on his Ox Ranch, Knight made the same request. Beavers are a so-called "keystone" species, whose activities dramatically affect a larger ecosystem. Their dams slow stream flows, increase groundwater recharge, and create many new niches for wildlife. But beavers also eat trees, so they could not survive on streams denuded by cattle grazing.

However, when Knight's cattle management resulted in a dramatic increase in trees along the stream banks, the state agreed to try reintroducing the industrious semiaquatic rodents along Date Creek on both Date Creek Ranch and the upstream Ox Ranch.

Two beavers were released into the stream in 1993. They quickly built four dams and a lodge and set to work gnawing on willows and cottonwoods. At least four beavers now live in the stream, and their shallow, mossy ponds host red winged blackbirds, great blue herons, vermilion flycatchers, raccoons, bobcats, deer, javelinas, mountain lions, and other species. The ponds also encourage the growth of grasses and brush that help sustain the cattle when they're allowed into the creek bottom during winter.

Knight, like many ranchers across Arizona and the West, has demonstrated that by adopting new pasture-rotation methods, cattle, family ranches, and environmentalism have become compatible.

Ironically, he's shown the value of good management just when economics, environmental shifts, and federal policy seem to be driving many ranchers out of business. Often the debate centers on the terrible damage uncontrolled grazing can do to the besieged riparian areas, which remain essential to most desert birds and animals.

Proposed increases in grazing fees and other restrictions may force many ranchers out of business and into the arms of developers.

In fact, Knight barely ekes out a living from the 350 to 400 head of cattle he runs on his sprawling ranch. He actually makes more money on his organic peach and apple orchard. Every year in the summer and fall, hundreds of people drive up from Phoenix, take the dirt road turnoff to Date Creek Ranch, and spend a pleasant afternoon wandering among the fruit trees and picking their fill.

"We're losing the family ranches," Knight lamented. "These are the people who have to keep it as good as it was, or maybe bet-ter. Otherwise, they're going to be out of business. But it's hard for a lot of folks to try new ways of doing things. So much of the time, each side is trying to make the other side out to be the enemy. But when you get together, you find out they're all nice people after all. In the end, we all want the same thing: to protect the land."

That's why saving a whole stream and a small forest gives him such deep satisfaction.

Gary Johnson and I convinced Knight to head upstream among the cottonwoods after we finished rounding up the cattle. He agreed readily enough. After all, we'd provided wonderful comic relief for his crew of cowboys. And we'd also provided some marginal assistance, including one delirious moment when I found myself leading about 20 cattle down off a ridge. But mostly we mule riders simply made the cowboys appreciate their quarter horses more while providing them with a three-year supply of tinhorn rider jokes.

Knight himself seemed transformed by the cool filtered light beneath the cotton-woods. He stretched his lanky kinked and knitted bones out on a grassy bank and pulled off his battered straw hat, savoring the pause in the 12-hour day of a modern rancher.

Knight couldn't brag about himself if he were trying to talk his way past Saint Peter. It goes against his grain. But he almost glowed with pride over his creek. He stooped to point out this grass or that; knew individual trees; and could list all of the best views, and pools, and clearings.

Brightly colored birds flitted through the trees: a vermilion flycatcher drenched in red, a brilliant cardinal, and a glowing yellow oriole. These tropical migrants cross whole continents, leaving their sanctuaries in Mexico and South America to strike out across the desert searching for just such a shaded oasis, where the leaves rustle in the wind and the water murmurs over the rocks.

Just upstream, beavers shaped saplings, fitted them into their check dams, and continued creating the ponds filled with sedges and reeds that would sustain the deer and the javelinas and the frogs and the fish and the ducks.

We sat wordlessly beside the stream as dusk seeped soundlessly around the great boles of the trees, the damp, sweet-scented earth, and the glimmering riffles of the water.

And as I studied Phil Knight's angular profile, I decided that it's much more satisfying to belong to a piece of land than to own it.

Author's Note: The Date Creek Ranch fall apple harvest will be open to the public from 6 A.M. to 3 P.M. weekends in September and into October while supplies last. To get there, take U.S. Route 93 northwest from Wickenburg to Milepost 177.5. Turn right at the Date Creek Ranch sign and follow the dirt road until it ends. For more information, call (520) 776-8877 or (520) 684-1073.