Clashes of Culture

Just as I was leaving, a young game warden pulled up to my house.

Inside his truck cab sat a laptop with a land ownership map on the screen.

He asked if I were Lisa Graham.

His question confused me.

Property maps list Lisa Schmidt as the owner.

Next, he asked if I live here by myself.

That question seemed invasive, confusing me even more.

Throughout his hour-long visit, he would ask that same question repeatedly.

I certainly am not the only rancher in the area who lives alone.

He never clarified why he kept asking whether I was alone here.

Next, he asked if someone had been shooting on state land that borders my private land.

Now I knew why he was here.

One afternoon about a week before, while I was at a meeting, my daughter, Abby, heard shots being fired in the pasture next to our house.

When she investigated, she found a man who had parked his truck in the ditch, climbed over my fence, set up targets and was firing a pistol at them.

My sheep were grazing in the same pasture.

Abby introduced herself and noted that the man had not asked permission to shoot on our property.

The man said he thought the land is owned by the state of Montana.

He was right on that point. I lease a strip of state land that abuts the county road.

Montana state law allows him to climb over my fence and recreate on state lands.

The law does not allow him to shoot a gun toward my livestock.

The law doesn’t require it, but neighborly common sense would encourage him to find a far better target practice location, one where livestock are not present and a residence is not nearby.

I described the incident to the game warden, noting that I was proud of my 18-year-old daughter for solving an issue that endangered my livestock.

The game warden, who grew up in Montana but not around agriculture, asked if I leased the state land.

I suspect he already knew the answer. My fence surrounds the parcel, and he has access to state land information.

Then the game warden said the man, a new resident in Pondera County who had recently moved from forested and densely-populated Flathead County, called him to report the incident.

That reaction seemed excessive.

Finally, after asking yet again if I live alone, the game warden mentioned that he was reluctant to drive through my closed gate.

He asked if I keep it closed all the time.

Yet more confusion.

Of course, I do. Many ranchers usually keep their gates closed.

“It keeps my livestock in and riff-raff out,” I told him.

Before he left, the game warden suggested I call him to handle any future public land issues.

That won’t happen.

I told him that it would take him at least an hour to arrive, and then only if I could actually contact him, so I would handle any future people who climbed over my fence.

Most of this clash of cultures comes from a lack of understanding.

At some point, I should have explained state land leases, rights and responsibilities to Abby, but I know she would have protected my sheep from a shooter no matter where the bullets originated.

The new Pondera County resident could have asked for permission to shoot at targets on my ranch. I support responsible gun ownership so I would try to accommodate him.

The game warden could have educated himself on ranching culture before attempting to calm a situation that never was elevated.

As the game warden left, I felt as if my home had been invaded.

Twice.