Sunday, November 30, 2008

Alone with the Wild Rio Grande

From San Antonio Express News Travel Section
BIG BEND NATIONAL PARK — What makes this place special is the opportunity to get away from everything — people, cars and all those annoying signs of civilization. The best way to do that is floating the Rio Grande, so we signed up for a two-day trip through Santa Elena Canyon.

From the moment we launched until our emergence the next day from the far end of the canyon, we had the world to ourselves.

Daily life is an assault on the senses: constant noise, bright lights around the clock, mingled scents of car exhaust and humanity, a never-ending, exhausting input. The wilderness, by contrast, has a subtle, delicate touch. In our evening campsite, the fading sun bathed a cliff backdrop with gold, then a full moon rising from behind rendered it satiny black. We listened to the murmuring chatter of water flowing over rock and an occasional rustle of grass in the wind. The air had a fresh scent, and the cold tingled on my cheeks.

Lying in my tent later, I watched a bright pinpoint of moon dimly visible through the nylon as it tracked across the sky, a kind of reassuring cosmic night light. No other lights were visible, from one horizon to the other. No artificial sounds intruded. The night was quiet, dark and peaceful. That is why I seek out this kind of place.

We started on Wednesday morning, putting in at a small park just outside Lajitas, where the bank is a gentle slope and the waterway wide. The river is too low for rafts, so we use canoes; our family of five gets three. I pair up with my youngest daughter, Bridget, while Holley and her brother Collin go together, and my husband, Corey, takes his own. We load the boats with dry bags holding our clothes and sleeping bags, two-man tents and chairs. The four guides each take individual canoes piled well over the gunwales with gear — tables, ice chests, containers of water, their personal stuff and who knows what else.
Bundled up against the cold of late November, we slip into the gentle current, listening to instructions from Jack, our fearless and experienced leader. The river carries us along at a pretty smart clip, and a little paddling adds to the speed. It's been more than three decades since I rode in a canoe, kayaks being my preference, and Bridget has never been in one, so we zig and zag quite a bit. But the sun is out in a blue sky, tall grasses undulate on the shore and mountains rise in the distance. One side of the river is Mexico, a fact that lends a touch of the exotic to the trip (as part of post-9/11 rules that have drastically changed life along both sides of this stretch of river, passports will be required for these outings starting in June 2009).

At the first series of rapids, which are fairly gentle and unthreatening, Jack leads and everyone follows. There are more daunting sets later on, but our skill improves and no one tips. The thick cane grass and salt cedar on the shores — both, unfortunately, invasive species — are alive with birds, and cliff overhangs are sometimes dotted with swallow's nests.

We pull up on a sandy Mexican beach for lunch, resting or wandering off into the brush to answer the call of nature while Erin, Jack and the other guides, Tim and Wayne, unload gear and set up tables. A snack table of fruit and cookies keeps us satisfied until lunch is ready: cold cuts, hearty bread, a wide assortment of condiments, pickles, sliced cucumber, lettuce and orange slices. We perch on rocks, canoes or sandy ridges on the shore to eat. A rock-skipping contest breaks out while lunch is packed away, then we return to our boats.

The mountains grow closer and larger over the course of the afternoon, the rapids a bit more challenging — more than one canoe ends up crashing through overhanging reeds on the outside curve of the current — until we reach the campsite at the mouth of Santa Elena. The late afternoon sun bathes its cliffs in a warm glow, and we clamber over rocks and around cactus to get a good look straight into the canyon. The narrow passage, high straight walls on either side, curves out of sight, but it is exciting to look in and anticipate going through the next day.

On previous visits to Big Bend, we've walked a short trail into the other end, but the river slashed through the limestone layers of a massive mesa uplift for some 10 miles, so we've barely had a glimpse of the canyon. We'll be in it an entire day tomorrow.

When the sun comes up and we emerge from our tents, coffee is ready and, shortly after that, breakfast tacos. We take down tents, stuff everything back in the dry bags and gather around to admire and photograph a large tarantula Erin spotted on the rocks. Today I pair up with Holley, Bridget goes with her dad, and, with a day of experience under his belt, Collin paddles solo.

We glide into the shadows of the 1,000-foot cliffs rising on each side. Canyon wrens dart through the ribbon of blue sky above. Today's rapids are more serious, and we line the boats through some of them, walking on the rocky shore and holding onto a rope tied to the front. Just before the famous Rock Slide Rapid, which can become a class IV at some water levels, everyone pulls up while Jack scouts out conditions. We line the boats to a rocky wash and are sent one by one through boulders the size of 18 wheelers. Holley and I end up going through backward, but at least we don't tip.

Here and there, caves yawn on the canyon walls, which come as close to each other as 30 feet in some places and top out at an impressive 1,500 feet. We stop for lunch beneath a cliff the color of wet sand, with four large cave openings tantalizingly just out of reach. Tim leads us up a slope to the entrance of Fern Canyon, where we must maneuver around a deep, opal-shaded pool and scramble over rocks. Water seeps from a wall covered in ferns. The kids follow a thin stream upward until the way is too narrow to continue. Tim and Jack have run this river probably hundreds of times and have seen its high waters rearrange rocks, gravel and shorelines, and Tim tells us the mouth of Fern Canyon looked very different the last time he was here.

All four guides have a wealth of experience leading different types of outings all over the country; they currently live in Terlingua in various arrangements from a tent to a refurbished miner's shack. A spartan living, I can see, is a small price to pay for the privilege of spending many of their days on the river. Back at the shore, tables are up and lunch waiting on a grassy area overlooking our canoes, and we dig in, appetites fueled by the cold and the paddling.

A few hours later, we see other people for the first time since yesterday morning, paddling, astonishingly, upstream (these “boomerang” trips allow paddlers to see some of the canyon without spending the night). The mouth of Santa Elena looms in the distance, then there are tiny people scrambling around on the left shore, and I recognize the trail in the national park. Everything looks different from this on-the-water perspective.

We emerge from the canyon, the left side of the river suddenly wide open as the river makes a sharp right to follow the cliff along the front of the mesa. About a mile farther is our take-out point. We've come 22 miles.

The trucks and crew are waiting and load us up in short order. Everyone is tired, my back feels a little sore; I have a crick in my neck from gawking at the canyon walls, and a blister on one finger. But I think instead of the giant snowball moon rising over the cliff, water swirling against a rock wall that has been growing taller for centuries. Up ahead are more canyons, including the 126-mile designated Wild and Scenic River area, so remote that you travel at least six or seven days before there is any place to take out.

Now that would be an adventure.

Austin writer Melissa Gaskill first visited Big Bend National Park at the age of 3. She frequently writes about nature and the outdoors and enjoys getting off the beaten path.

Hill Country Road Trip

Growing up in the Houston area, where the land is mostly flat, I looked forward to regular family trips to visit relatives in the famed Texas Hill Country to the west. Once we reached Austin, the road began to rise and fall, and around every curve, new sights greeted me: a blue lake, fields of wildflowers, splashing water running beneath a bridge, rugged granite slopes.
Now I'm a mom, and I've raised my three kids on the doorstep to the Hill Country. Ever since they were babies (they're now in their teens), we've made frequent jaunts to explore this beautiful region, which lies west of Austin and south of Waco. I recently took my daughters, Holley and Bridget, and Bridget's friend Jordan to revisit old favorites and try a few new adventures.

A Cool Swimming Hole

Setting off from Austin, it's not long before we're whizzing through the Hill Country along State Highway 29. We're headed for Burnet, where we've booked a cabin at Inks Lake State Park (see Road Trip Resources for all contact information). We could pick up supplies for a cookout on the cabin's grill, but since we're feeling lazy, we opt for burgers on the deck at Storm's Drive-In. Then it's on to Inks, where, first thing, we stash our stuff and don swimsuits to hit the water.

The lake is mere feet from the door of many of the cabins, but the best spot for swimming is Devil's Waterhole. This thumb of water at the far end of the park is surrounded by a jumble of granite boulders that are perfect launchpads for leaps into the deep water (if you have little ones, go early in the day; hotdoggers take over in late afternoon). We also love to rent kayaks at the Park Store (doubles are good with small kids) and paddle toward the Waterhole, scanning the shoreline for turtles and herons. Later, the girls watch the nearly tame white-tailed deer out for their evening meal. We cap the day with a cozy campfire before hitting the sack.
A Cave and a Climb

At Longhorn Cavern State Park, a short and scenic drive down Park Road 4, my kids know the tour almost by heart. Tops on their list are the lights-out experience (for 10 seconds, we're plunged into total darkness) and the tales of outlaws using the place as a hideout. With the cave an un-Texas-like 68 degrees year-round, the hour-plus tour is always a nice respite. For lunch, we head to the city of Llano, famous for barbecue. A fun alternative is Stonewall's Pizza on the quaint town square, where they hand-toss the dough and kids can write on the walls.
After our meal, a climb up Enchanted Rock is a welcome workout, and a memorable experience to boot. The drive to the rock from Llano offers tantalizing glimpses of the 640-acre granite dome rising high above its surroundings. It's one of the nation's largest batholiths (an underground rock formation uncovered by erosion). We've learned that by zigzagging on the steep parts and taking our time, we can summit the dome even with little kids. The reward: a jaw-dropping view of the Hill Country. I whip out granola bars, water, and a camera, and we savor our victory.

From here, we head to Fredericksburg, a community that bears the stamp of its German founders in its stone architecture and its expansive main street, which the town fathers made wide enough to accommodate the maneuvers of their ox-drawn carts. The town has many family-friendly hotels; this trip, we opt for the 1940s-style charm of the Peach Tree Inn and Suites. A dip in the pool refreshes us for a few hours of perusing the shops along Main Street. First stop is usually the Clear River Pecan Company for one of 37 flavors of homemade ice cream. Between bites, such oddities as a rack of wacky sunglasses and a singing Elvis vending machine amuse the girls. This is peach country, so peach honey butter is a must-purchase.

When the budget's blown, it's time for dinner at Fredericksburg Brewing Company. Yes, the giant copper tanks hold gallons of beer, but the atmosphere is family friendly and the menu ranges from Tex-Mex to German. After dinner, it's off for an 11-mile drive to a Hill Country-esque nature sighting at the Old Tunnel Wildlife Management Area: around dusk from May through October, 3 million bats fly from the mouth of an abandoned tunnel to hoover up insects.
Touring the Treetops

A lovely morning drive takes us to the LBJ State Park and Historic Site, where we tour the sprawling, iconic LBJ Ranch, the "Texas White House" of the 36th U.S. president, Lyndon B. Johnson. In nearby Johnson City, we hit El Rancho restaurant for lunch. It serves the state's best breakfast tacos all day (there's a full menu, but we never get past the tacos). Then we head for Krause Springs, a beautiful swimming hole where water bubbles up and cascades over a fern-covered cliff and into a wide creek. There's a rope swing, of course, and lots of shade.
Finally, since I've often (lovingly) accused my kids of acting like monkeys, I can't resist taking them to swing through the towering trees at the nearby Cypress Valley Canopy Tours. In a centuries-old cypress forest, guides help visitors fly from platform to platform on a zip line and teach them a few tidbits about the natural world along the way. Only kids age 10 and up can take the 1 1/2-hour journey, but there's a picnic and swimming area for the younger set (or ground-loving parents). When they finally take off their zip line harnesses, I promise my monkeys that someday we'll sleep in one of the canopy's treetop rooms instead of reluctantly heading home
From Family Fun Magazine

Saving Kemp's Ridley

Just before the early summer sun peeks over the Gulf of Mexico, several members of the Padre Island National Seashore staff carry a standard-issue grocery store cooler to the beach. Inside are Kemp’s ridley sea turtle hatchlings. At 11/2 to 2 inches long, the turtles are smaller than the palm of one of the gloved hands that scoop them up and carefully place them on the shore a few feet from the surf. The hatchlings immediately scurry over sand and seaweed toward the water, which at first sweeps them back up the shore. With flippers churning like tiny propellers, the turtles try again and again, finally catching a wave that carries them out to sea.

During the summer of 2007, this scene was repeated 128 times on the Texas coast. Following their release, the hatchlings swim for several days, then drift with currents to floating masses of sargassum seaweed or debris, which provide cover from predators and plenty to eat until the turtles grow large enough to navigate the open sea. In the wild, perhaps only 1 in 1,000 turtle eggs survives to adulthood. Shepherding the hatchlings safely to the water after first incubating the eggs in a specially designed lab at the seashore improves those rather dismal odds. Similar efforts protect eggs and hatchlings in Mexico.

In 1978, when the worldwide count for Kemp’s ridleys was barely 900 (not a single one of them in Texas), scientists founded the multiagency, binational Kemp’s Ridley Sea Turtle Restoration and Enhancement Project. For the next 10 years, the project collected several thousand eggs annually from the turtle’s only known nesting site, a beach in northern Mexico. Those eggs were incubated in sand from North Padre Island, where the species had nested decades earlier, and the hatchlings were released on island beaches.

The idea, says Donna Shaver, chief of the Division of Sea Turtle Science and Recovery at Padre Island National Seashore, was to imprint the turtles on the location and establish a second nesting area so the species would not literally have all its eggs on one beach. It was a long wait, but sure enough, in 1996, turtles finally returned to Padre Island to lay eggs, and the number of nests has increased each year. Today, the National Seashore is the most important Kemp’s ridley nesting area in the United States.

The drastic decline in the number of Kemp’s ridleys prior to 1978 was primarily due to two things, according to Shaver: large-scale human taking of eggs from the nesting beach in Mexico, where they are considered a delicacy, and loss of juvenile and adult turtles in fishing operations. Protecting nests in both countries and reducing the take of adults from commercial and recreational fishing through information campaigns and devices that allow turtles to escape nets have contributed to the encouraging rise in nesting turtles. But the species is still far from recovery, which is currently defined as 10,000 nests worldwide in a single season.

Drowning in shrimp nets remains the main cause of Kemp’s ridley mortality, while harvesting of eggs, slaughter for food and incidental capture by fishing operations continue. Propeller strikes, entanglement in and ingestion of marine debris, and dredging are also major threats, Shaver says.

“The current prognosis for Kemp’s ridley is encouraging. But it remains the most critically endangered sea turtle species,” stresses Patrick Burchfield, director of Brownsville’s Gladys Porter Zoo, one of the 30 organizations and businesses on both sides of the border involved in the recovery project. “We cannot relent until we have reached our objective for removing them from the endangered list. We must have the necessary safeguards and strategies in place both in the U.S. and Mexico so history does not repeat itself.”

Scientists emphasize that the public is an important part of the turtle’s recovery. Kemp’s ridleys usually come ashore to nest during the day, when wind is likely to blow away a nesting mother’s telltale tracks in the sand. Reaching 80 to 100 pounds and 2 feet in shell length, Kemp’s ridleys are the smallest and lightest sea turtles. The largest, leatherbacks, reach 4 to 6 feet in length and are 1,000 pounds-plus. When the relatively light Kemp’s ridleys come ashore to nest, they leave only faint tracks on the beach in the best of conditions. They take just 45 minutes to crawl onto the sand, bury their eggs, and return to the water. Park staff and trained volunteers monitor 80 miles of Texas beach from March through July, but beachgoers still find the majority of turtles.

Shaver also recently trained her cairn terrier, appropriately named Ridley, to sniff out turtle eggs. Last summer, beach patrollers spotted turtle tracks, and staff and volunteers searched for her nest in the deep, wind-blown sand of North Padre Island for five hours before calling in Ridley. He immediately found the nest, and the team took the eggs to safety in the lab.

People should report nesting turtles immediately, Shaver says. The public can also help protect the turtles in other ways, including driving slowly and carefully on all beaches, limiting beach lighting (which confuses hatchlings), and not intentionally harming or taking turtles (it is illegal to take home a hatchling, a nesting turtle or eggs).

“Don’t litter or throw trash in the water, especially plastic, since turtles can ingest it, and it has been linked to turtle death,” she adds. “Pick up plastic bags. Recycle. If you’re boating in an area where you see turtles, slow down and avoid collision with them. If you see turtles in the water and are fishing, try to move elsewhere so you don’t unintentionally catch one or snag one in the flipper.”

In addition to Kemp’s ridleys, four more of the world’s seven species of sea turtles are found in the Gulf of Mexico: leatherback, hawksbill, green and loggerhead turtles. All five species nest on the National Seashore now or have in the past, and all are threatened or endangered. Since the recovery project began, the worldwide high for Kemp’s ridley nests in a year has risen to 5,000. While only half the number needed to change the species’ endangered status, the trend is definitely positive.

“It’s a compelling story,” says Shaver, who since 1980 has dedicated her career to helping the turtles. “Humans caused the decline, and now humans are part of the success.”


The public is invited to certain hatchling releases, which are held at dawn at the National Seashore between June and August. Release dates are posted on the turtle hotline, (361) 949-7163, as clutches appear ready for hatching. Visitors from out of town are encouraged to call before coming to the area, and again the night before the release to make sure it is still scheduled. The turtles generally hatch during the night, and must be released soon after so they will have enough energy to swim miles out into Gulf currents, where they can feed. Sometimes hatchlings are so active that their release can’t wait until dawn. Timing a visit around projected release for several nests and spending a few days in the area is the best way to increase the odds of seeing this memorable and moving sight.

Members of the public can also volunteer to patrol the beach during nesting season, April through July. Training sessions are held in February and March at the National Seashore, and volunteers do five-hour morning or afternoon patrols of a designated area. Volunteers are asked to commit to at least one month of service, although some sign up for the entire season. Cynthia Rubio, biologist and volunteer coordinator for the sea turtle program, says, “Finding a nesting turtle is an experience of a lifetime.”

To volunteer for nest patrol, call (361) 949-8173, extension 228; to report sea turtles or nests on the beach, ask for extension 226 or 0.


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Saving the Snowbell

J. David Bamberger is on a mission to save the Texas Snowbell (Styrax platanifolius ssp. texanus), a small understory tree native to the western edge of the Texas Hill Country. About 10 years ago he bucked the odds, successfully growing the endangered plant from seed on his 5,500-acre Selah Bamberger Ranch Preserve just outside of Johnson City. Then Bamberger hit the road, driving his dusty pickup gate to gate, suggesting that fellow landowners join his efforts.

“I introduced the point that landowners could get together and prove to society that we care and can do something without government help,” Bamberger recalls. “I’m trying to teach that you should be a traditional rancher and environmentalist at the same time.” Wearing jeans and boots splattered with legitimate ranch mud, and with an earnest smile on his weathered face, Bamberger gained access to more than 100,000 acres of private land never before opened to outsiders.

Some of those acres form Ann and Bruce Hendrickson’s Choya Ranch near Campwood, Texas. The Hendricksons already had found snowbell plants on their property, but like many ranchers they worried about outside control. “You hear so many bad stories about endangered species changing the whole program someone has on their land,” says Bruce Hendrickson, noting particularly that in this part of Texas requirements for the protection of endangered birds sometimes have sidelined development plans.
Well aware of those fears, Bamberger took it slowly.

“At first, I just said I wanted to discover that there were more of these plants than people thought. Then, I went back and said that I had plants from the seeds I picked and wanted to plant them.” Some who initially were opposed to propagating snowbells for replanting have turned into cheerleaders, he says. Most of them credit their change of heart to the time and resources that Bamberger devoted to the project.

“Few people could do what he has done,” says Paula Smith, who with husband Ernest and son Carter owns Dobbs Run Ranch in Texas’ Edwards County. “He’s the first one out there along with Steven Fulton and dedicated volunteers digging the holes and figuring out the best place to put the plants.”

Colleen Gardner, assistant executive director of Selah, watched her boss gently win over landowners to approaching endangered species from a practical and economic standpoint. “He isn’t telling landowners they can’t have goats or make money on their land,” she says. “He’s saying they can have that and still have these snowbells. He speaks to people in a way that makes sense, that protects the land and considers the legitimate needs of landowners.”

The man is also living proof that one person can make a difference, says Gardner. “The greatest threat to conservation, to any social change that needs to take place today, is apathy. People say, ‘I’m just one person and can’t make a difference. I won’t even bother.’

“This ranch was the most rotten piece of real estate in the county, and now it is a showcase, an award-winning model. Now people can say, ‘This is realistic; I can do something.’ He has shown that nature can repair itself. We don’t hear that enough.”
His efforts may well be the model for future conservation as well. The government agencies charged with helping endangered species recover are understaffed and often underfunded. “Recoveries will only be possible if private landowners cooperate with the agencies and help monitor recovery plans,” says Smith.

Hendrickson agrees. “You’re working with the help of agencies, rather than
worrying about them stopping you from grazing cattle or other things,” he says. And while landowners are likely always to have a little concern about government involvement, “most take a lot of pride in having some of these plants and helping them grow.”

In fact, according to Smith, nothing in the Endangered Species Act threatens landowners who find or plant endangered plants on their property. “I think that is a complete non-risk as far as landowners are concerned,” she says. With the snowbell project, at least, landowners’ fears haven’t been realized.
Foraging by animals such as deer and goats is the major threat to the endangered snowbell. “You see a seedling one week, and it’s gone the next [if there is no protection like a cage],” says Jackie Poole, a botanist with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department who has worked with the snowbell for two decades. She believes it’s a combination of non-native ungulates, feral ungulates (such as goats) and an overabundant whitetail deer population.

Surviving colonies of snowbells have been found mostly on cliffs generally inaccessible even to nimble goats, although not to an 80-year-old rancher who has rappelling equipment and isn’t afraid to use it.
When the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service wrote a recovery plan for the snowbell in 1987, no one was collecting the seeds or raising the plants for the recovery, says Bamberger, who began visiting ranchers in the early ’90s and started collection efforts in 1997. He retained the San Antonio Botanical Garden to propagate seeds he collected, then returned the plants that grew to the properties from where the seeds came, as well as to new ranches within the same watershed.

It was hard work, sometimes taking up to six days to get all the plants in the ground at a particular site. Each snowbell was surrounded with a corral sturdy enough to protect it from predators, and most corrals are large enough that its seeds would drop inside the protective circle. “We had to carry all this equipment including materials, plants, sledgehammers, fence posts,
fertilizers and buckets a long way and sometimes down into steep canyons,” Bamberger says. The amount of work daunted even the irrepressible rancher, so he began to recruit volunteers to help.

After investing $30,000 of his own money, Bamberger also sought financial help, securing a $17,000 grant from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Foundation for fencing materials and mileage expenses for volunteers. Some landowners now provide lodging and meals or the help of ranch staff, all of which qualified for matching grants where required. Additional funds came from the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department Landowner Incentive Program, which gives private landowners funds to help with recovery of listed or rare plants and animals in their historic range. This funding carried the project through spring of 2007 and was extended to the end of January 2008, fueling the rancher’s commitment to 750 plants.
“The pure cost, not counting my labor, is more than $100 for each plant in the ground,” Bamberger says. “An executive at the Parks and Wildlife [department] said this is the least expensive recovery program he ever witnessed. When the government does it, the cost is two or three times more. I don’t think conservation and preservation will ever be done by the government. The government can lead, but we – private landowners and volunteers – have to do it.”

Seeds are now propagated in a specially built greenhouse on the ranch. Bamberger keeps meticulous records on where each seed and plant originated and every October and November returns plants to the same watershed from which the seeds came. His group has collected and replanted throughout the Nueces River watershed and around the Devils River Watershed and in November had 682 plants in the ground and protected. Roughly 80 percent of the plants have survived, and those that do not are replaced in the planting season the following year.

Now, says Gardner, they are seeking grant money to do another five-year plan. “David is going to keep going until he is physically unable to do so,” she says. “The landowner relationship is what it’s about now. People run out to check on these plants after a rain. Once you get people excited about one thing, it can carry over into others – maybe wetland habitat restoration or cedar clearing. It doesn’t stop with a few plants in the ground.”

But there is a vast difference between putting out plants cultivated in a greenhouse and plants reproducing in the wild, says Poole, who rewrote the snowbell recovery plan for the USFWS in the mid-’90s. She explains that plants cultivated in a greenhouse have received regular watering and usually fertilizer. Plants growing in the wild, however, depend on nature for water and fertilizer. The draft plan, not yet approved, calls for 10 population centers of snowbells scattered throughout its historic range, each containing a minimum of five populations, at least one of which should contain 1,000 plants. That’s a bare minimum of 10,000 snowbells.

Bamberger believes that the protected centers where the plants will grow that he is establishing and the new attitude of landowners will help carry his work into the future.
“My idea is to accomplish species preservation through incentives rather than regulation and legislation. Instead of saying, ‘You can’t do this or that,’ say, ‘If you’ll develop x number of snowbells, there’s a reward.’ Use a reward instead of
a fine.”

Gardner worries about the strings attached to federal money. “It is difficult to develop relationships with landowners when you bring in all the rules. They are afraid they’ll be told they can’t put a fence somewhere, for example. A lot of it is just education, and that takes time. There may be more the feds could learn from landowners than vice versa, when it comes to practical conservation. These people have been living on that land for generations and probably know more than anyone.”
Rancher Hendrickson, for example, works hard to control the deer population on his 5,000 acres. “Deer can destroy native vegetation, particularly young oaks and favored brush. We’ve lowered our deer numbers to about one-third of what they were when we bought the place, and we’re seeing some native plants coming back. With overgrazing you end up with mostly cedar, no young oaks, no young redbuds. Goats are also very destructive to the young, good trees, and proper rotational cattle grazing can be beneficial. Loss of diverse, native vegetation, and not just the snowbell, is a real concern throughout the Hill Country.”

Bamberger has created a good model, supporters say. “The snowbell project could serve as a model for other conservation efforts, where federal and state agencies and private landowners work together,” says Smith, the Edwards County rancher. “We need to work together to prevent the complete defragmentation of the Hill Country and loss of valuable habitat.

“David said looking for snowbells is just like being a kid on Christmas morning,” she adds. “He has infused the entire project with his enthusiasm, his interest in the plants and determination that it is possible to work toward the goal of [removing the plant from the endangered species list]. I certainly hope this is a trend.”

As he loads the pickup with seedlings, fencing and tools and heads down another dirt road through the middle of nowhere, David Bamberger hopes so, too.

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