A FIGHT THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

People do things regardless of the consequences to others.

Janice Anne Wheeler Oct 4

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If you prefer, listen to my voice up there:

Friend and fellow writer Elizabeth Beggins asked a question that led to some serious contemplation about history repeating itself on any number of scales, in any number of places, about David and Goliath, right and wrong. She saw this photo of my little Colorado farmhouse and wondered if I knew who now resided in those hallowed walls. I most certainly do. And it was a fight. A fight that changed everything.

We’re delving into a life farthest from the water, fifteen years of high desert.

In my mind, that little farmhouse represents politics, greed, and power, people doing things regardless of the consequences to others.

My view encompassed farmland, adobe hills, and then the magnificent 14,000foot peaks of the San Juan Mountain range. This photo is elevated, but you get the gist. Spectacular, even over the backs of my adversary’s Black Angus Cattle.

Jokingly the property was christened The Ranch—a crooked-floored rambler on one acre with no record of even when it was built, 30s or 40s maybe, with two out-buildings and a log cabin, the only remaining part of Fort Crawford, an 1870s military outpost to ‘control’ Native Americans, in particular the Uncompahgre Ute.

Purchased in 2000, the whole vision was a beautiful challenge (NOTHING like owning a wooden boat, mind you…). My partner (at the time) and I started a catering business while running local golf course concessions, added a clawfoot tub bathroom to the cabin for use as a historic guesthouse. I eluded to some of this history last week; when I got organic gardening figured out my acre fed most of the people in that region at one time or another, from the Cattlemen’s annual dinner (oh yes, I fed them) to wedding receptions in those gorgeous mountains. The garage held a commercial kitchen; there were beehives and a greenhouse, grape vines, a chicken coop, flowerbeds overflowing with hollyhocks and everything else I could grow while I experimented with llamas, goats, lambs and a raccoon. I was thrilled to tell people that I had grown the vegetables on their plate. (This was before it was trendy! Before businesses charged prohibitive prices for farm to table.)

That partner didn’t last, and on a sunny day in February of 2013 I was wandering, as I’m prone to do, to the west end of our mile-long dirt single lane. There was a sign flapping there, tied to a cattle gate. An omen, of sorts, as it turned out. A call to action. I proceeded to research the foreign terminology, the meaning, the threat it seemed to be. The threat was real. 180 trucks a day, dump, concrete, asphalt and tractor trailer, the dust, the noise, the property value impacts, the life impacts.

My neighbor was asking for commentary on a gravel pit with concrete and asphalt plants on my peaceful road. Asking whom, I thought, since the sign was designated a ‘Public Notice’ but located in a spot only a handful would ever see, facing the field and not the road. I found it by luck and I don’t believe in luck.

The landslide had begun.

I gradually understood that the rancher didn’t care how his plans damaged the lives of people who were already there. His family reportedly acquired hundreds of acres after the resident Uncompahgre Ute tribe were driven from their homelands; Natives resided here for thousands of years. His land (and most of Western Colorado) was ‘given’ to the Utes in 1868, an agreement rescinded just twelve years later when the natives were relegated to the barren lands of Utah. Some, I imagine, never saw the official notice. Some stayed and fought. I’ll wager none wanted to leave. (Let me be very clear that I am not comparing what happened to me with the magnitude of what happened to the Ute.)

I almost didn’t see that Notice, almost didn’t have the opportunity to fight it, but I had Albert Stowell to guide me. With the incredible assistance of that motivating neighbor/developer/genius/friend, I began to oppose and expose their gravel pit plan. I became the proverbial thorn, and they did not hide their scorn.

A few of my neighbors joined forces after I stuffed notices in every mailbox I could find. We wrote the newspapers, organized local meetings, enlisted the controversial survival of the Gunnison Sage Grouse, spoke at City Council meetings, engaged at our County Commissioner level. I even went to Colorado’s capitol Denver to request denial. Most folks told me I was going to lose, lose business, lose friends, lose my home’s value, and to what end?

We prevailed. I can still hear the utter, stunned silence when the permit application was denied by the County on October 7, 2013. That gravel pit was the only one in the history of Colorado that was not granted a permit. I was grateful for the caution of David White and Gary Ellis, Montrose County Commissioners, along with an act of God which you may never find recorded. The system worked. We all have rights.

I demonstrated that the wealthy would not always be able to simply crush their opponents, and I can assure you it came as a tremendous surprise.

ONE PERSON CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

We stopped a multi-hundred-million dollar endeavor with a few hundred flyers, letters to the editor, grit, communication and passion. We convinced people that what those wealthy ranchers were asking to do wasn’t right. It was right for them but it wasn’t right for everyone. People took sides. It was big sparring. It was important.

The victory was short-lived. My opponents changed tack and in January of 2014 there was a knock on my frosty farmhouse door. As I think they knew it would be, their proposal was an offer that I could not logically refuse, a price far above the current property value. They were reapplying for the permit with concerns addressed; chances were good it would be granted. I knew that to be true. Their contract also required that I cease and desist my public opposition. Our fight cost them a substantial amount but just a drop in the bucket compared to the profitability of their 105-year venture. A year delay for them was negligible; their actions changed the trajectory of my life.

The email I wrote to my fellow anti-gravel pit activists was one of hardest I have ever constructed. Most did not reply; those who cared about me supported the gut-wrenching decision to leave my home. It was hard to take their money after all was said and done. Hard to call it a victory, although I still think it was.

The rancher’s son-in-law, his representative, the operator and part-owner of the Uncompahgre Pit, as it was deemed, has been residing in my little farmhouse with his family since I relocated. He was my most vocal, condescending adversary.

The following year, for an assortment of reasons, I sold my business and left Colorado permanently. That move was something I absolutely could never have foreseen. My keyboard rocks gently with the motion of the sea beneath me as I write this, and I could never have foreseen that, either.

Until next week, keep standing up for what you believe is right, even if there’s chaos, wouldjya? ~J

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The talented Elizabeth Beggins writes some seriously wry contemplative commentary.

Chicken Scratch by Elizabeth Beggins Exploring what it means to be alive, rooted in reality, and inspired by curiosity.

Here’s my last week’s gem as referred above.

VOLUNTARY SWEATSHOP Janice Anne Wheeler   ·   Sep 27 Read full story

© 2026 Janice Anne Wheeler
HOME IS WHERE WE DROP THE ANCHOR., Annapolis, Maryland, USA
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