LEMHI - From the seat of his hay wagon, Bruce Mulkey stared toward the riverside willows, deep in the musing that comes with mind-numbing ranch chores.
It was a perfect July day in 1988: calm, hot and cloudless.
Mulkey visualized his ancestors, the grandparents who carved a living out of the harsh valley, and his father, who stole every free moment to chase salmon and steelhead.
It wasn't a happy dream. The river's historic fish stocks were near gone and the family ranch was struggling to survive measures created to save the fish.
A thoughtful, slow-talking man, Mulkey wrestled with the irony of his life: His family's two passions - fish and farming - were competing in a slow, deadly battle with no winners.
Worse yet, the irony was personal. Because fish and ranching couldn't seem to coexist, Mulkey watched hopelessly as his two sons moved to Montana, leaving a ranching life-style that couldn't support them.
"It's kind of sad to have a place in the family for more than 100 years and know you're going to be the last generation to work the place," he said.
Hay fell, the sun beat down and the sad plight of his life filled Mulkey's mind. "That day I decided we had to do something about it," he said. "We had to lead."
It was a streamside epiphany that changed the valley and has drawn the attention of cattle ranchers and conservation groups across the arid West.
Fast-forward 15 years.
The Lemhi Valley has become the rallying point for bureaucrats, ranchers and environmentalists who agree the future of water management - both for fish and farmers - is being pioneered on the small central Idaho stream.
The successes on the Lemhi River are lengthy. Where the river once went dry, cold water gurgles uninterrupted despite the third consecutive year of drought.
Cows no longer crush streamside willows on 44 miles of critical spawning habitat. Sixty-one miles of fence now protect the river's banks.
A tributary called Canyon Creek reaches the main river for the first time in memory. Cold water now flows year-round as the result of modernized irrigation structures.
Streambanks that once eroded and covered spawning gravel with sediment have been stabilized.
Thirty-four ditches have been consolidated into 20. And 12 diversion dams were replaced with fish-friendly weirs.
As a result, salmon spawning redd counts are at all-time highs, and farmers are being paid to save water for fish.
"The Lemhi is the premier example of how to handle fish and water issues," said Greg Schildwachter, a policy adviser for Idaho's Office of Species Conservation. "We're all watching to see how it goes."
That's no hyperbole.
Klamath Basin biologists have traveled to the valley to study the Lemhi's partnerships and defuse the nasty battle that's been raging in southern Oregon for two years. In 2001, headgates were closed to save water for fish, and farmers lost $46 million in revenue, according to Oregon State University.
This summer, the government granted water to irrigators on the Klamath River, and the river dried up. Roughly 33,000 salmon died, including 23,000 wild fish. Nobody's happy, and there's no hope in sight.
Also watching the progress on the Lemhi River is the Greater Yellowstone Coalition and Trout Unlimited, hoping new wrinkles in water law can be copied on the Henry's Fork, where wintertime flows are too low for anglers who want more fish.
Groups such as the Idaho Cattle Association have listened to pitches about the Lemhi, looking for ways to avoid Endangered Species Act conflicts that siphon away their profits. Profit-eating regulations run the gamut from how ditches are run to how cows are grazed on public lands.
"The folks on the Lemhi are pioneers," said Ted Cook, an endangered-species biologist for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. "They're doing all the stuff we need to do to save fish and farmers."
It's no accident. This success story is rooted in the valley's rich salmon heritage, government pragmatism and the right personalities in the right jobs at the right time.
Though the ending is in doubt, the Lemhi Valley's settlers and regulators have rewritten Idaho water law, reconfigured ditches and built state-of-the-art screens to keep fish out of ditches.
A few good men
Mulkey started small.
Along with fellow landowners Ralph Swift, Don Olson, RJ Smith and Lynn Herbst, Mulkey approached the valley's 250 water-right owners and lobbied on behalf of salmon. The message was simple: Let's give a little now or lose it all later. His goal was simpler: protect the valley's 36,000 irrigated acres while leaving water in the Lemhi River for salmon.
Some doors slammed, but most people opened them, offered coffee and started a spirited debate.
"Ninety percent of the people want to do the right thing," said Bob Loucks, a retired University of Idaho extension agent. "Bruce wanted us to wear the right hat. He said, 'Let's do the right thing and not break up the farms and ranches.' "
Unknowingly, Mulkey tou-ched a nerve. People - friends, neighbors and biologists - jumped into action and approached biologists with offers to help.
"People in this valley have been fighting for salmon since 1914," said Bruce Smith, a fisheries biologist with the Sal-mon-Challis National Forest.
He said, for example, locals protested an Oregon decision to build a hatchery in Salmon and take eggs from there to rebuild stocks in the Beaver State. After losing that fight, they made the best of it and battled for the right to shoot fish-eating birds at the hatchery. "They did whatever it took. Salmon are in the blood," Smith said.
Mulkey's movement benefited at every turn.
First, the Bonneville Power Administration tabbed the Lemhi as a "model watershed project." That meant money for projects and the creation of a committee of landowners and biologists to address the river's problems together. The watershed meetings became a place to share ideas, theories and bad jokes.
"It became neutral grounds," said John Folsom, head of the watershed project. "You have to have neutral ground so people can express themselves without being beat up."
At the watershed meetings, biologists pitched fish projects, and the ranchers were able to give suggestions. Ranchers voiced theories, and biologists countered with science.
"The model watershed's greatest accomplishment is changing attitudes," said Mike Larkin, a state fisheries biologist in Salmon. "People now know they can make a living and help fish. They know those goals aren't mutually exclusive."
For the first time, everybody got to know one another face to face.
It worked wonders. Biologists, for example, credit ranchers for every success.
"You couldn't find another community so willing to try new things," said Jude Trapani, a fish biologist for the Bureau of Land Management. "This is an example of how things should be done worldwide."
Irrigators, on the other hand, laud the biologists for being even-handed and community-minded.
"The bureaucrats here aren't heavy-handed," said RJ Smith, chairman of the Lemhi Irrigation District and member of the model watershed committee. "We hear horror stories from other places and count ourselves lucky."
Most importantly, though, everybody believes the timing was perfect. Ranchers, who were exploring ways to get out of business without subdividing their land, were ready to listen.
"Many of these guys are going out of business," said Cook of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, pointing to Bureau of Labor statistics that show more farm and ranch jobs will be lost in the next 10 years than in any other sector.
"Right now, we have the opportunity to help some of them go out gracefully," Cook said. "That, in turn, will help fish and wildlife and the remaining farmers."
A change in laws
The fences are good, and modernized diversions are important, but the model watershed's most progressive move was rewriting a section of water law.
Realizing the Lemhi still was going dry more years than not, the watershed committee and the Lemhi Irrigation District decided in 2000 to save water for fish, which is much easier said than done.
Since all of the Lemhi's water is claimed, it is impossible for willing landowners to free up water for fish. Simply put, if you want to rent water to help fish, the fish have to have a water right, or the water instead will go to the next irrigator in line.
Local irrigators also needed a mechanism to handle the water trades.
Facing those problems, local irrigators approached the Committee of Nine, eastern Idaho's powerful water board, and the Idaho Water Users Association for consent. The irrigation groups signed off and lent their lawyers to help rewrite a section of water law.
With the heavyweights on board, the Legislature in 2000 created a new water right on the Lemhi, giving farmers a place to put the water they wanted to rent out for the cause. It also created the state's first locally controlled board to handle a pool of donated water.
As a result of the changes in state law, 11 irrigators in 2001 and 2002 leased roughly 25 cubic feet per second to the government to keep the river flowing and fish alive.
Over the two years, the Bureau of Reclamation bought the water for roughly $465,000 of taxpayer money, and the river remained wet in two consecutive drought years.
The landowners were paid $220 per acre of irrigated land taken out of production. One landowner made $440. Another made $77,000.
Because of the water for fish and historic chinook runs, biologists counted a record number of spawning beds in the Lemhi River the last two years.
"So far, the extra water has helped significantly," Cook said. "Our reaction to the project is don't let us get in the way."
The future
As fall turns to winter, Mulkey stands next to the diversion where the river used to go dry. Most days, he's proud of his work and the neighbors, ranchers and biologists who made it a reality. But today he is in a black mood.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which used to handle only ocean issues but is now in charge of inland salmon decisions, is flexing its muscles. New experts are on the ground, and decisions that seem inarguably pro-fish are getting mired in federal red tape generated by far-off offices.
Moving a creek away from a feedlot or putting a fish screen on a ditch are no longer simple matters.
"They act like God," Mulkey said. "It's just so hard. I guess we'll just continue working."
The model watershed project will continue to build fences and retool diversions. And they are looking for new solutions.
Some folks are proposing to build a dam on Timber Creek, a Lemhi tributary. The water would be used only for fish, overcoming the need for renting water. Others are trying to retool the massive salmon bureaucracy to make it easier to implement changes in a timely manner.
"We're trying to shape our own destiny instead of having the government cram it down our throats," Mulkey said.
He gazes at the river, lost in thought. Maybe he's thinking of his father. Maybe it's fish. And maybe it's both.
"We've got to keep trying. Landowners are the key. We're going to stumble and make mistakes, but it is better to make mistakes and some progress than do nothing."
Outdoor editor Rob Thornberry can be reached at 542-6795,
or via e-mail at rthornberry@idahonews.com.
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