Lytle Denny, a member of the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes, learned the intricate tapestry of the high-desert landscape in southeastern Idaho from a young age, discerning the precise habitats of blue, ruffed, sharp-tailed, and greater sage grouse during cherished family hunting excursions across ancestral lands. While his father pursued larger game like deer and elk, Denny developed a profound affinity for grouse, observing their behaviors and the subtle shifts in their environment. These communal hunts were a delicate dance with nature; Denny would move silently through the silver-green sagebrush, anticipating the sudden, powerful wingbeats of a flushed bird, a signal that often also revealed the presence of deer or other mammals. This symbiotic relationship between hunter and hunted, and between species, was a foundational lesson in the interconnectedness of his homeland.

However, as Denny matured, a troubling trend emerged: the once-plentiful greater sage grouse, distinctive chicken-sized birds with their striking white chest feathers and sunbeam-shaped brown tails, grew increasingly scarce. These birds held immense cultural significance for the Shoshone-Bannock people, woven into their songs, dances, stories, and serving as a traditional food source. The decline extended beyond grouse, encompassing ground squirrels and mule deer, reflecting a broader ecological degradation. Denny observed the encroaching footprint of agriculture, with more farms replacing vital sagebrush near the reservation, and a noticeable increase in cattle grazing. These pressures, coupled with escalating drought and more frequent, intense wildfires, painted a grim picture of environmental decline.

The direct conflict between sage grouse and cattle became particularly apparent to Denny during his late teens, solidifying his resolve to pursue a career in fish and wildlife biology. He witnessed the disruption of the sage grouse’s remarkable spring mating ritual, where males gather on open communal grounds known as leks. Here, they perform one of North America’s most spectacular displays: gulping air to inflate brilliant yellow chest sacs, strutting with stiffened wings that produce loud swishing sounds, and emitting inimitable popping calls. Yet, this ancient spectacle was increasingly disturbed by livestock grazing; Denny even saw ranchers drive ATVs onto active leks to distribute salt licks for their herds. Sharp-tailed grouse persisted, but the more sensitive sage grouse retreated. This stark reality fueled Denny’s questioning: "Why are we letting this happen?" he recalled, articulating a deep-seated value for the land’s intrinsic plant and animal life, unburdened by commercial livestock interests. Today, at 46, Lytle Denny serves as the deputy executive director of the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes’ Natural Resources Division, no longer hunting sage grouse but cherishing every rare sighting as a poignant reminder of their imperiled status.

The plight of the greater sage grouse stands as a stark indicator of ecosystem health across the vast, high-desert sagebrush steppe of the American West. This immense landscape, stretching across Nevada, Idaho, Oregon, Utah, and beyond, constitutes the ancestral territory of Indigenous peoples like the Shoshone-Bannock and the Burns Paiute Tribe. Since 1965, sage grouse populations across the West have plummeted by a staggering 80%, with the Great Basin experiencing the most severe declines. Once numbering an estimated 16 million birds across 13 states and three Canadian provinces before non-Native settlement in the mid-1800s, only about 350,000 remain today, according to the International Union for Conservation of Nature. More than half of their original habitat has vanished, sacrificed to agricultural expansion, cattle pastures, invasive grasses, mining operations, and oil and gas extraction.

The Bureau of Land Management (BLM), the primary federal agency overseeing the majority of remaining sage grouse habitat, frequently attributes this decline to habitat loss and degradation stemming from drought, wildfire, and invasive grasses. However, federal officials often conspicuously omit livestock grazing—the most extensive commercial land use by acreage in the West—as a primary underlying factor. Powerful ranching interests, often concentrated among large corporations such as the multinational conglomerate J.R. Simplot Co., which supplies potatoes to fast-food giants, exert significant influence over federal land-management policies. This influence persists despite the fact that cattle grazing on public lands contributes less than 2% of the nation’s beef supply, leaving nearly all remaining sage grouse habitat open to grazing.

Indigenous communities, like the Shoshone-Bannock and Burns Paiute Tribes, alongside non-Native advocacy organizations such as the Western Watersheds Project, increasingly demand a critical reevaluation of extensive public-lands grazing. They argue that this practice not only imperils sage grouse but threatens the entire sagebrush steppe ecosystem and its myriad significant species, including mule deer, jackrabbits, and the sagebrush itself. Diane Teeman, a Burns Paiute tribal elder and former manager of the tribe’s Culture and Heritage Department, challenges the settler-colonial notion that the sagebrush steppe is inherently "cattle country," asserting unequivocally, "Cows are an invasive species." Teeman warns that current grazing practices inflict "permanent damage to a lot of things here," highlighting a fundamental clash of values and land-use philosophies.

The threat posed by grazing intensified under recent administrations. A July policy change rescinded a BLM requirement to prioritize environmental reviews of grazing in critical at-risk species areas, including those vital for sage grouse. Further, an October plan from the U.S. departments of Interior and Agriculture advocated for expanding grazing acreage on BLM and Forest Service lands. By December, the BLM finalized new sage grouse management plans for several Western states, including Idaho, Nevada, and Wyoming, which significantly eased restrictions on oil, gas, and mining, and controversially lifted a previous requirement for ranchers in Idaho, California, and Nevada to maintain grasses at least seven inches tall to protect grouse nests from predators.

In contrast, the Burns Paiute and Shoshone-Bannock tribes are actively demonstrating alternative land management strategies that prioritize ecosystem health. The Burns Paiute Tribe has drastically reduced the number of cattle allowed to graze on tribal lands, while the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes are reassessing herd sizes on reservation lands. These efforts show promising results, illustrating the ecological benefits of restricting cattle, particularly for native wildlife like sage grouse. However, extending such practices to broader public lands necessitates dismantling generations of deeply entrenched beliefs about grazing’s rightful place in the West. As Denny observes, cattle are inextricably woven into the very fabric of Western colonial identity; challenging this paradigm "is to go straight against settler-colonial values." Ultimately, he contends, "That’s the real battle—whose values are getting precedence over whose."

The sagebrush steppe, often overlooked in its subtle beauty, is not a landscape of towering forests but a nuanced, pastel-green expanse. Juniper trees grow sparingly, offering sparse shade for mule deer, while the fragrant sagebrush itself rarely exceeds five feet. The true diversity of this ecosystem thrives closer to the ground, where vibrant yellow hawksbeard and purple sagebrush mariposa lilies punctuate the understory, interspersed with the crucial biological soil crusts. These minuscule crusts, a complex matrix of lichens, mosses, green algae, and cyanobacteria, are fundamental to the ecosystem’s health, acting as organic armor that retains moisture, cycles vital nutrients, and prevents the invasion of non-native plants. When these delicate crusts are fractured, the entire plant community can unravel. As Teeman emphasizes, "There is a delicate balance."

In a healthy high-desert environment, soil crusts carpet the ground in resilient clumps, with sagebrush growing scattered and native bunchgrasses filling the spaces between. Sage grouse find refuge under the modest canopy, laying their speckled eggs in ground nests concealed by tall grasses that offer protection from predators like ravens and coyotes. Abundant wildflowers support a thriving insect population, providing critical food for adult grouse and their chicks. However, generations of extensive cattle grazing have profoundly altered this once-robust landscape. Herds compact the fragile soils, transforming soft, absorbent ground into hard, dry surfaces that can no longer retain moisture, thereby exacerbating drought conditions and fueling the destructive wildfire cycle. Boone Kauffman, an Oregon State University ecologist, vividly contrasts the two: "You walk across a grazed area, and it’s like walking on a parking lot. In an ungrazed area, it’s like walking on a marshmallow."

Beyond compaction, cattle are primary vectors for the spread of invasive cheatgrass, which aggressively outcompetes native grasses and paints entire hillsides a distinctive maroon in spring. Sage grouse and most other wildlife actively avoid areas heavily infested with cheatgrass. This invasive species, introduced in the late 1800s, is readily transported by livestock, with seeds clinging to hooves and hides. When these hooves then break up the fragile soil crusts in already overgrazed and depleted areas, they create ideal conditions for cheatgrass germination. Furthermore, cattle indiscriminately devour native bunchgrasses, removing the vital cover that protects sage grouse nests from predators. They congregate near precious water sources, trampling streambanks and consuming wildflowers, willows, and aspens, effectively destroying riparian areas that normally function as critical desert oases, supporting a rich diversity of plant and animal life. Roger Rosentreter, a retired BLM Idaho state botanist, laments, "Every riparian area in the West has been hammered." Additional hazards for grouse include water troughs designed for cattle, where birds can drown, and barbed-wire fences that cause injuries or even decapitation. Insecticides used to protect forage for cattle also inadvertently eliminate grasshoppers and crickets, essential food sources for sage grouse chicks. Rosentreter grimly concludes, "Those cumulative effects of grazing are sealing the coffin on so many of our native wildlife."

Ranching’s dominance over the American West commenced in the mid-1800s, driven by federal westward-expansion policies and the forced displacement of Indigenous peoples. This era saw cattle barons establish vast ranching empires on tribal lands. Hundreds of thousands of cattle grazed the tall bunchgrasses of the sagebrush steppe, a landscape that newcomers and government officials rebranded as "the range," a term that evolved into "rangeland" and is now widely used. While some rangeland scientists, like Karen Launchbaugh of the University of Idaho, consider it an ecological term, others, including geography professor Nathan Sayre of the University of California, Berkeley, argue its inherently colonial nature, noting that "rangelands are inescapably implicated in the conquest and settlement of North America."

The field of rangeland science itself developed in close association with the livestock industry. By the early 1900s, rampant overgrazing had decimated native vegetation across the West, prompting ranchers to seek assistance. A 1934 U.S. Department of Agriculture report revealed that only 16% of public rangeland remained in good condition. USDA scientists began researching non-native grasses and forage crops suitable for the high desert, and universities across the West established range-management programs to support the struggling livestock industry. This research, heavily subsidized by the federal government, laid the groundwork for many of the laws and policies that continue to govern Western rangelands. A cornerstone of these early management programs involved seeding depleted lands with non-native crested wheatgrass, favored by ranchers for its palatability to livestock and resilience to heavy grazing. The federal government further intensified this transformation by eradicating sagebrush across several million acres in Idaho, Oregon, Montana, Colorado, Nevada, California, Utah, and Wyoming, using herbicides and then seeding the ground with crested wheatgrass, turning vast silver-green landscapes into golden monocultures. This dramatically boosted grazing capacity, with one 1954 USDA report noting an 800% increase in Elko, Nevada, alone.

Although rangeland science has evolved in recent years to incorporate a greater understanding of ecological needs, its foundational principles often remain rooted in livestock economics. For instance, Oregon State University’s rangeland science extension center in Burns explicitly states its mission is to "help maintain a robust and sustainable cattle industry in Oregon." Both Rosentreter and Kauffman attest to the difficulty of securing funding for studies that investigate the ecological impacts of grazing. Kauffman recounted how, after publishing two studies in 2022 that found public land grazing degraded ecosystems, local cattle industry leaders called for his removal from Oregon State University. "There’s a real pressure, and probably unprecedented pressure at the moment, on state and federally funded scientists to not go against the cattle industry," he observed.

The livestock industry’s influence extends to direct funding of rangeland science. A June 2025 report by the U.S. Geological Survey and the University of Idaho’s Rangeland Center, which concluded that livestock grazing on federal land in Idaho did not negatively impact sage grouse nesting success, received significant in-kind donations of equipment—including trucks, ATVs, and laptops—from ranching advocacy groups such as the Public Lands Council and Idaho Cattle Association. In March 2024, prior to the report’s official publication, these groups released a statement urging the BLM to integrate its findings into new sage grouse management plans, which the agency subsequently did in December. While BLM press secretary Brian Hires stated the agency "does not rely solely on any single publication" for habitat management, he declined to comment on whether industry pressure influenced the report’s inclusion. Kaitlynn Glover, an executive director of government affairs for both industry groups, claimed on RFD-TV that the report scientifically validated ranchers’ long-held belief that grazing enhances landscape health and sustains sage grouse populations.

Today, over 200 million acres—a staggering 85%—of Western public lands are grazed by livestock, predominantly beef cattle. Industry leaders frequently advocate that ranchers are integral to sage grouse conservation, citing the shared need for open land. Tom Sharp, a prominent Oregon rancher, coined the widely adopted tagline: "What’s good for the bird is good for the herd." Some scientists, like Skyler Vold, a sage grouse biologist at the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife, echo this sentiment, stating, "Generally, we think of livestock grazing as being very compatible with sage grouse conservation." The BLM, through its press secretary Hires, maintains that "Well-managed livestock grazing is not considered a threat to greater sage-grouse habitat or survival."

However, the definition of "well-managed" grazing remains contentious. Erik Molvar, executive director of the Western Watersheds Project, a nonprofit focused on grazing’s ecological impact, challenges this assertion: "There is so little well-managed livestock grazing in the American West, I don’t even know why we’re talking about it." Land managers and scientists categorize grazing levels as light, moderate, or heavy based on the percentage of vegetation consumed annually on a BLM grazing allotment. Accurately measuring this across vast federal allotments, some spanning over 250,000 acres, presents a significant challenge. Molvar notes that the BLM often relies on "ocular assessments"—essentially visual estimations—which he dismisses as "a wild guess" in scientific terms. The BLM counters that it "employs multiple data collection and assessment methods," with the specific method depending on factors including "the resources available."

The BLM typically permits cattle to consume 50% of native plants annually on most federal allotments and 60% of non-native species like crested wheatgrass. Yet, a widely cited 1999 paper, still considered relevant by scientists like Rosentreter, concluded that a 50% utilization rate only qualifies as "moderate" and sustainable in areas with higher precipitation, such as the Southern pine forests of Georgia. In arid ecosystems like the sagebrush steppe, this level of consumption actively degrades the land. The study defined moderate grazing in dry regions as 35% to 45% of vegetation. To genuinely improve rangeland conditions in these environments, cattle would need to consume even less—a mere 30% to 35% of vegetation, approximately 40% less than current BLM allowances. Notably, the recent University of Idaho study, supported by ranching interests, which concluded that grazing did not harm sage grouse, observed an average plant consumption of only 22%—a level classified as light grazing and rarely practiced by ranchers on public land.

Research from Oregon State University’s extension center in Burns suggests that targeted grazing can help reduce invasive grasses. However, this method requires ranchers to confine cattle to small, fenced pastures and move them frequently, a practice common on private land but logistically challenging on vast public allotments. Mark Salvo, program director for the Oregon Natural Desert Association, acknowledges that "Sometimes the research is pointing to or identifying tools that are, under our current system, almost impossible to implement." Austin Smith, natural resources director for the Confederated Tribes of the Warm Springs in central Oregon, explains that for grazing to effectively reduce invasive grasses, it must be meticulously managed. His tribe leases land to local ranchers, allowing cattle to graze invasive grasses in early spring, but then promptly removes them "with enough time for these other plants to come in and grow." On BLM lands, he laments, "they just hammer the heck out of it."

While science indicates grazing can both harm and potentially aid sage grouse habitat, the critical factor is "how it’s managed," according to Nada Wolff Culver, former principal deputy director of the BLM during the Biden administration. For decades, however, the BLM has been chronically understaffed to adequately manage its extensive grazing allotments. Data obtained by the nonprofit watchdog Public Employees for Environmental Responsibility (PEER) reveals that 56.7 million acres—approximately 37%—of federal grazing allotments failed to meet BLM land-health standards between 1997 and 2023, primarily due to livestock grazing. A 2023 federal lawsuit by PEER and the Western Watersheds Project alleged that the agency had failed to conduct environmental reviews for nearly two-thirds of its grazing permits. "I think it’s a failed system," states Diane Teeman, the Burns Paiute tribal elder, reflecting a widespread frustration.

In southeastern Oregon, wildlife biologists Collin Williams and Matthew Hanneman, who are non-Native but work for the Burns Paiute Tribe, illustrate the potential for change. One April dawn, stepping out in camouflage rubber boots, Williams noted the unusual dryness of the ground, contrasting with the typical mud-bogging conditions caused by snowmelt. Despite recent heavy snowpack that had flooded parts of the tribe’s reservation, this spring offered hope for sage grouse, as abundant water years in the arid high desert typically lead to a profusion of wildflowers and insects vital for grouse and their chicks. From a vantage point on BLM land east of Burns, Williams and Hanneman tallied sage grouse on their leks, observing around 60 males performing their characteristic spherical strutting dances in the near-freezing air, their white and brown feathers a striking contrast against the beige bunchgrasses.

Burns Paiute Tribe biologists have monitored sage grouse populations in the area since the early 2000s, collaborating with the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. These leks are located roughly five miles from Jonesboro, a tribally owned property and former ranch where some sage grouse spend their summers. In 2000, the tribe reacquired these 6,385 acres of unceded ancestral lands, along with an additional 1,760-acre property called Logan Valley. Tribal officials have since dedicated efforts to restoring both properties for wildlife, including grouse, mule deer, and elk, while also providing tribal members access for traditional hunting and gathering. Teeman emphasizes the Paiute approach to ecosystem stewardship: "We don’t just consider the management of things in terms of their value to us… The management is really about how to give everything its due rights and personhood, as opposed to how BLM or any of the other Western-oriented management systems work where everything is a resource."

Before the tribe’s acquisition of Jonesboro, the property had endured decades of livestock grazing, leading to widespread weed infestations that choked out native vegetation. Federal fire-suppression policies and overgrazing had also contributed to the proliferation of juniper trees. Since reacquiring the land, the tribe has embarked on a comprehensive restoration program that offers a powerful model for federal lands. In the early 2000s, some fencing was removed. Tribal staff, including Williams and Hanneman, have overseen projects to cut junipers, clearing essential open space for grouse, which instinctively avoid forested areas. They have also actively planted native species such as sagebrush, yarrow, rabbitbrush, and buckwheat. The most labor-intensive work, however, has been weed removal, employing a combination of mowing, burning, herbicide application, and carefully managed grazing to combat cheatgrass and medusahead.

The Jonesboro site came with 21,242 acres of BLM allotments and 4,154 acres of state grazing allotments overseen by the Oregon Department of State Lands. The tribe subleases these permits to local ranchers for some income, but beef production is not its primary objective. "Our focus is definitely wildlife and wildlife conservation," Williams asserts. Grazing is strategically employed to target weeds and clear thatch when native grasses are dormant, but the tribe permits only one-third of the cattle allowed under its BLM permit. Williams explains that only specific areas, typically near streams or springs—critical habitats for sage grouse and other wildlife—are suitable for grazing. With fewer cows, native animals have access to more plants. The tribe also implements regular rest periods for Jonesboro pastures, with cattle typically grazing in small, 40- to 60-acre fenced pastures for ten days before being removed. On larger federal pastures subleased to local ranchers (3,000 to 13,000 acres), the tribe mandates animal removal after one to two months. These concerted efforts are gradually transforming the property, with photographic evidence from tribal biologists between 2007 and 2018 showing a visibly greener landscape, increasing riparian vegetation reclaiming abandoned roads, and a resurgence of native bunchgrasses.

In southeastern Idaho, the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes, under Lytle Denny’s leadership, are also evaluating strategies to reduce grazing’s impact. Their Natural Resources Division is undertaking a comprehensive study of 320,000 acres of rangeland on the Fort Hall Indian Reservation to reassess appropriate cattle numbers. While much of the reservation is grazed, only a third of the animals belong to tribal members, many of whom come from ranching families. Approximately 20,500 acres of the reservation’s rangelands are already designated as off-limits to grazing, and the tribes own an additional 33,000 acres of conservation land where grazing is prohibited, according to Preston Buckskin, the tribes’ land-use director. They are also considering barring cattle from certain sage grouse mating sites. Buckskin acknowledges the inherent tension in finding a balance between traditional tribal values of conservation and the economic realities of ranching that sustain some families. The tribes’ Office of Public Affairs emphasizes that while grazing’s impact on sage grouse habitat is significant, "effective conservation outcomes depend on collaboration among producers, land managers, and tribes rather than placing responsibility on any single group."

As a potential compromise, the tribal land-use department is exploring a program that would compensate landowners for ceasing grazing operations. Non-Native conservation organizations, like the Western Watersheds Project, have advocated for similar approaches on federal lands for years. Most recently, Democratic Representatives Adam Smith, Jared Huffman, and Eleanor Holmes Norton reintroduced legislation that would enable ranchers to relinquish their grazing privileges in exchange for buyouts funded by private individuals or groups. Additionally, the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes are developing a new land-use plan that would reclassify certain areas on the reservation, shifting them from "rangelands" to "wildlands," thereby ensuring that the land is primarily valued for its wildlife and tribal hunting opportunities. "Words shape expectations," Denny notes, explaining that "‘Rangeland’ implies that the land is for livestock. It carries a meaning imposed by a different way of thinking. I prefer the term ‘sagebrush steppe.’"

The transformative power of removing grazing is perhaps best exemplified by the Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge in southern Oregon. In the early 1990s, the refuge was severely overgrazed. When then-manager Barry Reiswig made the controversial decision to prohibit cattle, he faced intense local opposition, characterized in a 2019 documentary, Rewilding a Mountain, as the "epitome of evil." Reiswig recalled the immense pressure to "compromise, to kind of look the other way" regarding grazing’s impact. Yet, a landscape subjected to 120 years of grazing began to heal remarkably quickly. Within 12 years, aspen populations increased by 64% and wildflowers by 68%. A 2015 study by Forest Service and Oregon State University researchers found that bare soil decreased by 90% in 23 years, while rushes and willows quadrupled. Today, Hart Mountain is one of the largest ungrazed areas in the Great Basin and a crucial sage grouse breeding ground, with females and their chicks frequently observed foraging in wet meadows. The study concluded that "Simply removing cattle from areas may be all that is required to restore many degraded riparian areas in the American West."

The highly politicized nature of grazing often makes it difficult for scientists and federal officials to even discuss the issue, Denny laments. "We’ve got to get uncomfortable talking about the truth," he asserts, believing that tribal nations can lead this critical conversation and provide tangible models for navigating these complex challenges. "We can use our homelands as, like, ‘This is the model for how you navigate this.’" However, true progress ultimately hinges on the federal government’s willingness to fundamentally reform its deeply entrenched policies, a reality underscored by a recent incident on Burns Paiute land.

Just north of the Malheur River headwaters, within a forest clearing beneath the snow-capped Strawberry Mountains, a small population of sage grouse has unexpectedly found a summer home in a portion of Logan Valley, now tribal land. Mountain big sage, the birds’ preferred species, flourishes on a gentle slope above a nearby creek, and by mid-May of the previous year, bluebells and yellow groundsels—wildflowers favored by grouse—were blooming in the mountain meadow. The presence of these grouse remains a mystery to Hanneman, given the surrounding lodgepole and ponderosa pines, which pose significant risks from predators like Cooper’s hawks and goshawks. The closest known lek is ten miles away. To unravel their movements, the tribe secured a grant from the Oregon Wildlife Foundation for transmitters to track the grouse this summer, informing efforts to conserve their migration corridor. The tribe has already hand-cut 60 acres of pines to maintain open sagebrush habitat, a necessity stemming from over a century of federal prohibition on traditional cultural burning, which allowed trees to encroach. They also hope to reintroduce fire to the meadows.

Most of the 1,760-acre Logan Valley property has been ungrazed since the tribe reacquired it in 2000. Cattle are permitted only on a 300-acre meadow to control a non-native grass introduced by settlers for hay and forage. However, the tribe’s property borders federal land managed by the Forest Service, which allows cows to graze from June to October. Trespassing cattle have been a persistent problem due to aging fences. The tribe erects a temporary fence in late May to keep animals off its land once they return to the neighboring federal property in June. Yet, on a site visit in mid-May, Hanneman, driving a dirt road through the property, was dismayed to find a dozen black cows already present. It was two weeks early, the temporary fence not yet erected. Despite the tribe’s dedicated efforts, the cattle had broken through, a stark reminder of the ongoing struggle to protect fragile ecosystems against deeply ingrained practices and the need for federal accountability.