One Man's Memories Part 2

"Fifty years ago much of the rolling prairie grasslands remained intact, impossible to irrigate because of the topography. Today only the steepest of hills and gullies remain untouched, thanks to the advent of the pivot irrigation sprinklers crawling over the mostly barren landscape where woodlands and native prairie used to be. It is true a few wildlife species have achieved some benefit from modern farming technology and the abundance of grain. Migrating waterfowl and cranes feed on the grain left from the harvest that fuels their migration to the far north. And with most predators, like coyotes and cougars, having been killed off, wild turkeys and white-tailed deer have become more prevalent. However, many species have been devastated. Formerly abundant, cottontails, prairie chickens, and sharp-tailed grouse have nearly disappeared. In the alfalfa field where I counted 123 jackrabbits as a child one summer night, I haven't seen a jackrabbit in more than thirty years.

"My fondest childhood memories were those summers spent on Ned Martin's place east of Maxwell, Nebraska, and on the Schneider farm near the Platte River where we still have our cabin. The Martins, although they grew some crops, liked the idea of being more rancher than farmer. They ran cattle in the short native prairie grasses of the Nebraska Sandhills. Back then the morning sounds of early spring were enriched by the crisp, sharp calls ofmeadowlarks and song sparrows. The prairie-scented air, which was always cool, made one breathe deeply. Leaving their leks, or dancing grounds, flocks of low-flying prairie chickens and sharp-tailed grouse flew over the valleys in search of morning feed.

"The sight of cattle in those days, spread out over the vast grassland, seemed healthy and good. From time to time cowboys herded the cattle to greener pastures and in winter moved them to areas where they would be fed from haystacks of prairie grass or alfalfa. Their meat was lean and flavorful. Ned Martin showed me the right way to cook a steak, from beef he had raised. Under a large cast-iron frying pan Ned turned the propane burner on high, took a twenty-ounce hand-cut sirloin from the refrigerator, heavily salted it on both sides, flopped it into the pan, counted to five, flipped it over and after another five seconds it was ready to eat. I was impressed.

"It's been nearly three weeks since I was on my stomach eye-to-eye with the herd of corn-fed Nebraska prime. The sign read 'No Trespassing—Bio Secure Area.' I didn't know if the sign was for my protection or the cattle's. I was careful not to trespass an inch past the fence. Here in the Heartland it is not just loss of habitat that is responsible for species decline but the amount of chemical fertilizer and herbicide and pesticide poisons put on the fields to create bumper yields of corn. The same corn that feeds the cattle in the feedlots. Industrialized farming has forced many family farms to go the way of the jackrabbits. Ned, too, is gone, but I shall never forget his respect for animals and the land on which he raised them."

One Man's Memories Part 1

By photographer Tom Mangelsen, who grew up on the prairies of Nebraska.

"From a twelve-year-old's perspective, Ned Martin was a giant of a man, over six feet tall with bright blue eyes; always in overalls and a sweat-stained and wrinkled straw cowboy hat covering his balding head. The hat seemed almost as permanent as his smile.

"In the corner of his mouth there was always a toothpick, ready for the next steak I suppose. Nearly everything we ate was raised on Ned's ranch, mostly hogs, chickens,and cattle. Ned was a proud and gentle soul who cared about his livestock. He often named his favorite animals. They were more to him than just another dollar or another pork chop. The chickens ran free. The henhouse had kerosene lamps that provided a measure of warmth on colder nights. The barn was full of horses and milk cows. Mostly, Ned's animals had space; they had a life beyond being fattened for the market. Ned also loved having wildlife around his place. He left brushy hedgerows and woodlots for pheasants, rabbits, and deer. Red-tailed hawks sat in the cottonwoods. He saw no need to have the tidiest ranch in the neighborhood and most of Ned's neighbors felt the same way. There was plenty of room for both wildlife and livestock.

The scene in front of me now is a far cry from what I remember. Wading knee-deep in a quagmire of olive brown excrement and mud, the herd inches forward. They stretch their necks toward the prone stranger's camera lens, nostrils flaring, with curious black liquid eyes nearly the size of baseballs. For the first time in my life I have come face-to-face with all those hamburgers and T-bones I have eaten and suddenly feel ill. The feedlot is huge, a mile square. The closest cattle are Black Angus, but beyond them are several thousand white-faced Herefords, some standing on the drier mounds that have been pushed up into small hills by bulldozers, the majority wading in the muck. Earlier in March it had rained and snowed for days and I imagine the scene—far more miserable. Fortunately it has been warm and windy the past week. Even with the wind at my back, the acrid smell is barely tolerable. Wet and mildewed, the grain next to the feedlot had been ground up with cornstalks into a silage mash smelling of molasses. Not a woodlot or brushy hedgerow is in sight, and only an occasional cottonwood. This feedlot is one of the largest of a dozen or so in the area, a few miles west of Grand Island, Nebraska, bordering the old ordinance plant where bombs and munitions were stored during World War II. This location was chosen because it is in the center of America, far from any shore.

"So how did it happen, this scene before me of cattle knee-deep in their own waste? Grain storage elevators overflowing and mountains of government-subsidized surplus corn piled on the ground?