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Bulldozer Diplomacy

By David Feela

Found in: | Inside | Politics |

I'd decided to take a hike on our land south of town, a narrow strip an acre wide and 11 acres deep. Pam said she'd come along, she needed the break. I was glad, I needed the company. In the 18 years we lived together on this property we'd done literally nothing with the bulk of acreage except wear a footpath around its perimeter. The land was home to birds, deer, skunks, rabbits, dogs, mountain lions, feral cats, juniper, pinion, a few cottonwoods along the irrigation canal, and sage - acres of sage, most of it waist high and thick as a picket fence.

I couldn't help thinking of Moses when we came upon the spot where the usual sage suddenly parted like the Red Sea. Of course, in the desert Southwest there isn't enough water for such a miracle, but a path as wide as a bulldozer had been gouged out of our property. As we stepped into the clearing we saw dozer tracks pressed into the dirt. I scratched my head.

"I'm no Sherlock" Pam said, "but I think we should follow them."

So follow the tracks we did, and they weren't difficult to follow. Even if I'd been a private detective from the Clovis point era, I'd have likened our quest to stalking a dinosaur. The tracks took us out to the gravel county road and looped back toward a neighbor's land that bordered a section along our western property line. We walked up the driveway and knocked on the door.

"Yeah?"

"I thought you might be able to explain to us why you had a bulldozer on our property," I said.

"Who told you I had anything to do with a bulldozer?" Obviously, the man was still trying to bulldoze us.

I pointed toward the road. "Nobody told us anything, but we followed tracks, ending at your driveway."

"Who are you?" he asked, changing his line of inquiry.

"We're your neighbors, the people who own the property to the east."

"Nobody owns that," he declared. "It's BLM property."

"Actually, if it were BLM property, the public owns it and it would still be illegal to bulldoze public land."

"Well, I'm a member of the public." He flashed us a toothy smile.

"Well, we're the property owners," I shot back. "And nice to meet you," I added, just to counterpoint an awkward situation.

I could hear his steel treads beginning to seize. Then he ran out of diesel and just gave up, admitted to his mischief, and claimed he really didn't know, that he worried about not having a back gate on his property. We said we understood (although we didn't) and asked him to fill his gouge (hopefully with grey matter) and repair the ruined fence (wishing, of course, he could replace the sage). He agreed to everything and we shook hands.

He also agreed to nothing, for I'm as certain today as I was so many years ago that if he had the chance, he'd do it again. The idea that land remains in the public trust gives him permission to abuse it, according to his ilk, and that includes the right to dig pots and artifacts, shoot bullets through signs, dump garbage into arroyos, and toss litter - including beer cans and bottles - out the windows of moving vehicles. He is privileged to live in America where land is preserved in his name, but all he thinks is that he is privileged.

As we walked back home we promised ourselves to scout our property line more often, to keep a closer eye on the public.

"You know," I said to Pam, "now that we've been designated BLM, I don't see why we should be paying property taxes."

She looked at me and smiled, then she took my hand and we continued along our hiking trail until we reached the house. Along the way we didn't see any other hikers, which is good, because I've been thinking about implementing a user-fee program for the neighbor's kids, just in case they want a piece of this public land experience.

David Feela digs in his own dirt now that spring has arrived, still wondering what will come up next.