A promise made with nature

Sid Goodloe, long concerned with land management, has now turned to the tactic of a conservation easement. With it, he hopes to protect his beloved ranch from major development for generations to come.

THE SERIES: CHANGE ON THE RANGE
Thursday, Dec. 2: Traditional ranchers, new pressures
Friday, Dec. 3: Restoring pastures, finding added values
Saturday, Dec. 4: Preserving land, nurturing a future

Michael J. Gallegos/Tribune

On an early morning ride, Sid Goodloe stops to wipe smoke from his eyes as he checks on a 22-acre controlled burn on his ranch near Capitan in south-central New Mexico. Goodloe pioneered holistic land management practices in the state, including the burning of wooded areas to reduce strains on the watershed. "We've been brainwashed to think all fires are bad and all trees are good," he says. "I've fought that damn Smokey Bear for 35 years."

By Carrie Seidman
Tribune Reporter

CAPITAN, N.M. - From the second-story porch of the elaborate log home he built with his own hands in the mid-'90s, Sid Goodloe looks down to a valley of wildflowers and native grasses. Nothing hinders his view of the Capitan Mountain Wilderness in the distance but a plume of smoke from a week-old wildfire.

The fire, which has alarmed city dwellers hearing of its rapid growth, is a pleasing sight to Goodloe, who believes periodic timber burns are crucial for a healthy landscape.

"A prophet is never appreciated in his own country," chuckles the owner of the Carrizo Valley Ranch, whose clear, blue eyes, full head of white hair and fit physique almost make you believe his claim of "not 60 yet."

Goodloe seemed like a heretic - or worse, to a rancher, an environmentalist - when he became the first in the state to put holistic land management practices, including controlled burns, into effect. That was in 1970, long before anyone in the ranching industry in New Mexico gave much consideration to working with nature.

Now, more than 30 years later, looking at the land that has prospered under his touch, Goodloe is suspect once again. This time it is for donating that same land to a trust to avoid the likelihood of his years of work being dismantled in the future.

"A guy like me is just nuts to do it," he says, "but I want to protect this property."

B.W. Cox checks a water tank as he makes the rounds through his ranch near Magdalena in Socorro County. Cox has placed 500,000 feet of pipeline in the past 15 years on the 32,000-acre ranch. The pipelines will supply water to the seven developed sites Cox is selling to generate income; most of the ranch will be placed under a conservation easement.

About six years ago, Goodloe had a conversation with his accountant about passing the ranch on to his children. (He has four, and his second wife, Cheryl, has five.) The accountant asked: "Do you have any concept of what they'll have to pay in inheritance taxes?" Goodloe admitted he didn't.

"I was shocked when he told me," he says of the six-figure price tag. "I knew they'd have to sell."

So, joining forces with two neighboring ranches, Goodloe took advantage of a common environmentalist tool, a conservation easement, to protect his 3,500 acres for generations to come.

PHOTO GALLERY Click here to view Michael J. Gallegos' photo gallery from the Change on the Range series.

A permanent deed restriction, an easement limits development but retains a rancher's ownership rights. In the short term, the rancher receives a tax write-off, and his benefactors avoid heavy estate taxes. In the future, the property can be handed down or even sold - but the easement protections remain with the land in perpetuity.

Easements have been around for decades but only gained prominence (and sometimes shady use by Easterners looking for write-offs) after 1976, when Congress made them tax-deductible.

Today, held by a government agency, environmental group or nonprofit land trust, they are one of the foremost tools in the fight to keep agricultural land from being developed for residences, businesses or recreational sites.

"The main reason we're doing it," Goodloe says, "is because I want my grandkids and great-grandkids to be able to raise their children in the ranching atmosphere, to protect the opportunity to raise children where they will develop a dependability, a work ethic, an ability to improvise and solve problems, and a love and respect for the land.

"They don't develop that in baggy pants at the mall."

Sid Goodloe gets ready to check some cattle on horseback. A knee replacement a year ago kept him out of the saddle only temporarily. "It was a mixed blessing," says his wife, Cheryl, of the surgery. "Now I can't keep up with him."

Goodloe might be willing to discuss his demise - something essential to setting up an easement, although it's a subject most older ranchers avoid like city streets - but he is not willing to leave much to chance.

So instead of placing his easement with an established organization - or worse, to his mind, a government agency - he and several like-minded friends formed their own nonprofit organization. With the creation of the Southern Rockies Agricultural Land Trust, Goodloe has been able to spell out what will, and will not, be allowed on the land.

His conservation easement, now in the final stages, is written to protect the values he worked so hard to re-establish after arriving in New Mexico in the late '50s. Back then, the land he now owns had nearly been destroyed by homesteaders, overgrazing and a policy of fire suppression that had trees choking out native grasslands.

"It didn't take a rocket scientist to see everything was wrong," Goodloe says, remembering how he stood in the very spot where surveyor's notes from 1880 said there were no trees, and instead he saw "a solid canopy; I couldn't even see the sky."

But even as he reclaimed the land - using ecologically friendly grazing practices and eradicating trees to balance the watershed - development pressure in Lincoln County continued to grow.

By 1990, the county had $1.8 million in construction permits; 10 years later, the number was $18.9 million. The encroachment meant a consequent rise in land value, from about $200 an acre to, in some areas near Ruidoso, nearly $4,000 an acre. Traditionally land-rich, cash-poor ranchers began to sell out - or go under.

B.W. Cox's dog, Lacy, keeps watch from the front seat of the pickup on daily rounds of Cox's ranch. Because of the cumulative effect of a number of wrecks on horseback, Cox quit riding about a year ago. "I don't do the horses anymore, and that makes me so mad," the 67-year-old rancher says.

"My worst day is when a ranch family calls to tell me they have to sell," says Claire Swanger, president of the New Mexico Land Conservancy, a Santa Fe land trust that offers outreach to ranchers trying to retain their land.

It's a problem farmers in the East encountered decades ago and one the federal government began to address. Two years ago, Congress expanded the Farm and Ranch Protection Program to offer matching funds to state, tribal or local governments or organizations purchasing conservation easements. Through 2003, the program has protected more than 300,000 acres in 42 states.

Although a few applications are pending, New Mexico has not, as yet, been able to take full advantage of the funding because the program requires matching funds from the state, a land trust or the landowner. Since the state has no program set up to purchase a rancher's development rights, few are able to afford the cash outlay.

"The efforts in New Mexico are just getting under way," admits Seth Fiedler of the state Natural Resource Conservation Service, which serves as liaison for the federal program.

Goodloe says he was forced to forgo receiving any payment because, he says, neither the cattle industry nor the state are trying to help ranchers, as they have in other states.

Colorado, which experienced development pressures early and hard, established a trust fund in 1992 to reimburse ranchers for development rights. Since its first grants in 1994, Great Outdoor Colorado has helped to conserve more than 161,000 acres of agricultural land.

"I'm donating mine because there's no money here to buy it," Goodloe says.

He will receive a tax credit ("which I don't need," he adds) under a state law that went into effect in 2003. That will be more than eaten up by the $5,000 he has to pay the land trust to monitor the easement. Both he and Cheryl admit it's unlikely many others would be willing to do the same.

"New Mexico has been getting left in the dust on this deal," she says. "The longer it's put off, the less ranchland you're going to have."

Checking a rain gauge, Sid Goodloe - his dog, Dusty, by his side - is pleased with the moisture left by an overnight storm. After more than 40 years of working to improve the health of his land, Goodloe is placing his entire ranch near Capitan under a conservation easement to protect it from future development.

Swanger says New Mexico's efforts to establish a purchase program are more recent simply because "we're younger at this, and we're a poorer state."

"Our development situation is 20 years behind Colorado's," Swanger says. "But there's huge progress being made here right now."

Last year, the New Mexico Legislature passed a memorial requesting a study of establishing a publicly financed program. Swanger anticipates a bill will be introduced in January, when the next Legislature convenes.

Another factor that has hindered progress, observers say, has been a high degree of suspicion about easements from traditionalists in the cattle industry. Many ranchers erroneously assume the easements involve government interference and would allow people access to their land. Moreover, because the future administration of such easements is as yet unproven, phrases like "protected in perpetuity" act as a red flag for some.

The New Mexico Cattlegrowers' Association, based in Albuquerque, has declined to take an official position on easements, Executive Director Caren Cowen says.

"It's a tool a private owner can use, and we've tried to promote people being educated about it before they make a decision," she says. "But from a personal standpoint, it's difficult to see how anyone can plan into perpetuity."

But Cheryl Goodloe maintains creating an easement is better than doing nothing. And if it means giving up millions - as in the case of the Goodloes' ranch - so be it.

"It may not be perfect, but it's the best tool we have right now," she says. "And if some child doesn't get his million dollars down the line, well, that's just too bad."

What's more important, her husband says, is what's always been paramount to him - the survival of the land itself.

"I get a lot of gratification from seeing this land respond," he says, gazing to the nearby mountains. "And the whole point is, I spent 45 years developing this land into a sustainable, holistic property. What good is all that if, when I die, it all changes?

"If I don't protect it, I've wasted my time."

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