In the 1960s, revolutions in Indian country were political,
and the media swarmed in to cover
sit-ins, demonstrations and fiery speeches. When the sit-ins and
occasional violence ended, the media left and people on the
reservations found little had changed.
Indian country is in the midst of a 1990s-style revolution, one
that is likely to have a lasting impact. When this revolution ends
some time in the next century, Indian lands will no longer be
controlled by the Bureau of Indian Affairs or the non-Indian
farmers, ranchers, loggers and miners who lease land on
Reservations will be economically
sovereign, as self-sufficient and independent as any community can
be in a global economy.
This story of the
transformation of Indian country was written by staff writer Greg
Hanscom after visits to reservations and interviews with people
across the West and in Washington, D.C.
on the Fort Hall Reservation in Idaho, but it could as easily have
opened on a score of other Indian nations.
FORT HALL, Idaho - The councilman's voice
drones through the microphone, echoing off walls lined with nickel
slots and joker poker games. The Shoshone and Bannock people file
into the bingo hall slowly, some wearing tight jeans and cowboy
hats, others sporting baggy gangsta pants and T-shirts rolled up at
the sleeves. Children chase each other through the aisles as
parents settle into seats for the tribes' annual meeting in
A hand shoots up in the crowd, and a woman
stands. "This is not a council meeting," she yells, asking the
elected official at the microphone to have a seat. "This is the
people's time to talk."
The people have plenty
to say. When the meeting closes 10 hours later, they have voted to
fire the chairman of the tribal business council and the editor of
the Sho-Ban News, the reservation newspaper, and asked the tribal
council to oust three local staff members of the federal Bureau of
Indian Affairs. The votes are only recommendations and the council
will make the final decisions later this summer. But a storm is
brewing on the Fort Hall Reservation.
One of the
forces behind the tumult is Ernestine Werelus, a 69-year-old
Shoshone woman who grew up raising cattle and quarter horses along
the Snake River west of town. She left the reservation for 30 years
to work as a dentist with the Indian Health Service. She returned
to Fort Hall four years ago to retire.
Werelus found here wouldn't let her rest. Mormon potato farmers and
the Bureau of Indian Affairs were holding down the 4,500 Sho-Bans,
she says. While an acre of prime potato land off the reservation
was going for $150 to $200 per year, the Bureau was renting out
Indian land for as low as $50. On a reservation of a half-million
acres, that amounted to millions of dollars lost each year - money
that should have gone to people whose unemployment rate swings from
20 to 50 percent with the seasons, and who are lucky to make $8 an
Werelus decided to act. She pulled
together volunteers to run a nonprofit called the Fort Hall
Landowners Alliance, to teach people how to gain control of their
land. With the permission of the landowners, she bypassed the
bureau officials who had been negotiating the leases, and started
driving hard deals with farmers who rent land on the reservation.
She and her team appealed leases they thought
Now, two years later, the alliance has
300 members, and a sample of 19 leases it helped negotiate shows
yearly rates jumping from between $55 and $80 per acre to as high
as $130. Over the five-year life of the sample leases, landowners
will earn $4.7 million, almost twice what they would have made
under their old leases.
tribe said, "Your lease rates are too high," "''''says Werelus. -
'You're going to run off these farmers." "''''And in fact, a few
farmers have backed out of deals, leaving land fallow, but the rest
have agreed to pay more.
The alliance's success
has been a boost for the Sho-Bans. It also helped convince those
attending the annual meeting that they want several bureau
officials out of Fort Hall.
The changes at Fort
Hall are important of themselves. A group of Indians in Idaho is
moving step-by-step to take back control of their land. But Fort
Hall is also important because it is not unique. Across the West,
Indian people are in the early stages of a long-term
This is not a revolution that
attracts headlines, like the sit-ins and confrontations of the
1960s. Rather than armed takeovers and battle cries, this
revolution is made up of soil surveys, changes in the laws
governing land inheritance, the control of capital and negotiations
over leases. The revolution is both political and economic, and it
promises to change the face of Indian country.
legacy of abuse
Between the Fort Hall tribal
office building, where the Landowners Alliance does business, and
the railroad tracks that carry trainloads of potatoes off the
reservation, stands a low, mustard-yellow building. The structure
is the headquarters of the local Bureau of Indian Affairs, the
agency that critics say has stood between the Sho-Bans and their
land for over a century.
try and inform them (landowners) as much as we can" about leasing
land on the reservation, says the bureau's senior soil scientist
Norman Bird. "We have an open door policy."
Sho-Bans and other bureau staffers say Bird, a non-Indian and a
Mormon from Blackfoot, Idaho, and other officials hold the door
open for farmers, but not for Indians. They charge that the bureau
has deprived Sho-Bans of millions of dollars by leasing Indian land
for bargain-basement prices. They also charge that the agency has
permitted farmers whose leases have expired to continue to farm,
and allowed others to sublease land for more than they are paying
its Indian owners.
It is no secret that the
bureau has also allowed farmers to pass sweetheart deals on to
their children and friends. Some land on Fort Hall is being worked
by the third generation of the same non-Indian
"I've had farmers
say to me, "It's not your land. It belongs to the federal
government," "''''says Ernestine Werelus. "Some of these people
think the land belongs to them."
bureau staffers who see the problems, too, but they will only speak
anonymously. "We're supposed to get the best price for their
ground," says one agency official. "But we're not doing it. We're
looking out for the farmers and the Mormon church."
As an example, he points to a 10-year lease on
3000 acres of potato land on the reservation. The original lease,
signed with non-Indian farmer Chris Thompson in 1990 for $60 per
acre each year, came up for review in 1994. A second farmer, Chris
Drakos, offered the bureau $130 per acre for the land, apparently
thinking the agency could drop its lease with Chris Thompson. But
the bureau stuck with Thompson, raising the rate to just $70 an
"It was a fair price" in
1990, says Thompson, who acknowledges Drakos made a higher offer.
But Thompson says his lease still had five years to run. Drakos
refused to comment on the lease, but bureau officials say the $130
offer never existed. "Chris Drakos did not submit a bid," says
Superintendent Eric LaPointe. "There was no lease to be had."
But the anonymous agency staffer says the
bureau knew it could get $130 for the land, and by refusing to
raise the lease rate to reflect the land's value, the bureau lost
landowners almost $1 million. "That's one farm. The people and the
tribe are getting screwed out of millions and millions and
millions," he says. "Every one of these Indians should be living
high on the hog. They shouldn't be living in shacks."
In another instance, he points to a potato
storage facility Chris Thompson leases for $3,000 a year. Thompson
subleases the facility to another farmer, Dick Watt, pulling in up
to $16,500 that should go to the Indians who own the land. Thompson
says the profits go to maintaining the facilities, and that the
bureau approved the sublease 15 years ago. Bureau Superintendent
LaPointe says he can find no such approval in his
These and other problems have been
pointed out numerous times by landowners and bureau officials, but
reports have generally been "shoved under the blankets," according
Eric LaPointe says that the bureau
is doing all it can with limited resources. "I've got three staff
members to cover a half-million acres, and Congress says that's
enough," he says. "We rely on the tribe's staff to report abuses to
us. We're just the referee."
The real problem,
says the bureau's Norman Bird, is that farmers are reluctant to get
into business in Indian country. "When (critics) say there's just a
whole horde of people over here just waiting for the next bid,"
says Bird, "we just haven't seen that."
former Fort Hall superintendent Dennis Whiteman, the bureau updated
its soil and crop yield information for the first time in three
decades, so that farmers who had no experience with the land could
make informed bids. The bureau also began advertising leases in
local newspapers and farm stores. Last year, the agency started a
new bidding process, and rent prices are rising.
But the alliance's ability to get more money for leases seems to
show that the bureau could be doing more. "People are willing to
pay good money for the land out here," says another agency staffer.
"Even the (non-Indian farmers') hired help is driving new pick-ups.
The Indians say, "They're getting rich on our land and the Indians
are just barely scraping the bottom of the bowl."
"Yeah, I am driving a
new truck. I am doing pretty well," says Garth VanOrden, a 23-year
veteran of Fort Hall spud farming, as he wheels his pickup through
fields of spring wheat and potatoes. But farming is no way to get
rich, he adds.
As the spokesman for the Fort
Hall Lease Holders, a group of 50 non-Indian farmers who work on
the reservation, VanOrden is seen by many Indian landowners as the
voice of the enemy. "Their mindset right now is, "you're screwing
us, you're screwing us," "''''he says. "Sometimes I feel like I
have to apologize for Columbus."
acknowledges that there are farmers who abuse the system, but he
says Indians need to realize that farming on the reservation is
more expensive and time-consuming than it is elsewhere. Land on the
reservation is not always equipped with irrigation systems provided
on private land, and Indian land is usually owned by more than one
individual. "When I lease land off the reservation, I'm dealing
with one person," he says. "On the reservation, I'm dealing with
tracts of land with over 100 owners."
VanOrden puts $44,000 into a new center-pivot irrigation system, he
and his bank need to know he will be able to use it for 20 years.
But multiple owners and five-year leases lead to uncertainty. The
tribes require the farmers to rotate potatoes with wheat at least
every other year to keep the soil healthy, he says. That means that
in a five-year lease, VanOrden may only have two years of spuds,
his money-making crop.
it's so tough, why am I out here? It's good productive land and
we've learned how to farm it," he says. "To be honest with you,
it's the only thing I know how to do, and I have a shitload of
money invested in it.
the landowner's best interest to have income and it's in the
farmer's best interest to have satisfied landowners. That's just
sound business," says VanOrden. "But it goes both ways."
Still, as Sho-Bans get more involved in
managing their lands, they are going to shake things up on the
reservation, and everyone - farmers, landowners and the bureau
alike - had better be
"Change is always
scary," says VanOrden, "but in the end the result can be good. This
is the Indian people's land and at some point they need to decide
for themselves what they want from it."
The Dawes Act:
Control of the land has been
beyond the reach of many Indians for over a century, thanks in
large part to a grand plan by the federal government in the late
1800s to turn Indians into civilized landowners.
Under the original treaties and agreements signed with the federal
government in the 1800s, reservations were owned communally. But
Christian reformers, led by U.S. Sen. Henry Dawes of Massachusetts,
saw the reservation system as racial segregation that reduced
Indians to paupers. Their answer was to dissolve the reservations
and distribute land to individual Indians. Private ownership, they
reasoned, would also ensure Indians a place of their own, safe from
encroachment by homesteaders and miners, who continuously tried to
move in on Indian lands.
you will prepare the Indian to take care of himself upon this land
that is allotted, you will find the solution to the whole
question," Dawes told a gathering of the liberal Christian group
Friends of the Indians in 1886. "He shall have a home and be a
citizen of the United States, shall be one of us."
His centerpiece was the 1887 General Allotment
Act, or the "Dawes Act," that authorized the president to survey
Indian lands and assign farm plots to individual Indians. Married
couples received a quarter-section, or 160 acres, single adults got
80 acres, and children 40 acres.
But instead of
bringing Native Americans into contact with the land, the law drove
them away from it. When reservations were divided, government
agents gave some Indians land that could never be irrigated, much
less farmed. Family members might be allotted tracts on opposite
ends of reservations.
Once each Indian was given
an allotment, the Interior secretary bought "surplus' reservation
land - sometimes the most desirable land on the reservation - and
opened it to non-Indian homesteaders or railroad companies. The
practice led to "land runs," where white settlers lined up at
reservation boundaries to wait for the official gunshot signifying
the opening of new territory for settlement.
Accompanying the settlers' hunger for land was the fact that not
all Indians wanted to be farmers. Within four years of the Dawes
Act, the Department of the Interior, which held Indian land in
trust, was leasing allotted lands to non-Indians. Over the years,
many Indians sold their allotments to non-Indians. Others were
cheated out of their land, creating islands of private "fee" land
within reservation boundaries.
commissioner of Indian affairs under President Franklin Roosevelt,
ended the allotment system by convincing Congress to pass the
Indian Reorganization Act of 1934. But much damage had already been
done. When Congress passed the Dawes Act in 1887, there had been
138 million acres of Indian land in the United States. By 1934,
that number had plummeted 65 percent, to 48 million
A promise dissolves
The erosion of Indian land ownership didn't stop with the end of
the allotment system. Because Native Americans had no written
wills, the Dawes Act set up inheritance codes. When the owner of a
piece of land died, the Bureau of Indian Affairs kept the land
physically intact, but divided it on paper by giving each heir an
"undivided" interest in it.
rules were the undoing of Dawes' promise of private land and a home
Indians could call their own. As Indians died and their property
was passed on, the number of owners increased exponentially. Today,
many parcels of land have hundreds of owners spread around the
country. Intermarriage between tribes means Indians often inherit
interest in land on several reservations.
each passing generation, Indian ownership in land washes out like
an arroyo in a spring flood. And as the gully between Indians and
their land widens, Indian people depend more on the Bureau of
Indian Affairs, which today acts as the trustee of the current 55
million acres of Indian land.
In order to grow
potatoes, build a home or sell an interest in fractionated land, an
individual needs permission from a majority of the others who own
interest in the land. Consensus is tough when there are only a few
owners, and nearly impossible when there are a hundred owners,
whose addresses and phone numbers are kept secret from each other
by the bureau under the Privacy
"You basically can't do
anything with Indian land without getting through a maze of federal
regulations," says Theresa Carmody, a member of the Seneca tribe
and an expert on Indian land tenure from Wagon Mound,
Critics say the system is designed to be
abused. As fractionated ownership pushes Indians farther from their
land, the bureau hears little from landowners, but plenty from the
non-Indian farmers who lease the land. Naturally, the bureau tries
to keep farmers and other lessees happy, says
"The system is not in
place to empower" Native American landowners, says Carmody, who has
worked for the National Congress of American Indians in Washington,
D.C. and the Boulder, Colo.-based Native American Rights Fund. "The
system is in place to lease."
support her charge: Non-Indians lease 70 percent of all Indian
agricultural land, according to a 1990 bureau
Because Indians are cut off from their
land, most reservations remain economic colonies, where the Bureau
of Indian Affairs manages land and resources, and non-Indians reap
One of the major problems is a lack
of access to capital. Banks are reluctant to lend money to Indians
on reservations, where clear title to land is rare, and where
repossessing property may be impossible under tribal
As a result, says John Halliday, director
of economic development for the Muckleshoot Tribe in Washington,
banks have given only 93 conventional home loans in all of Indian
country in the last 15 years. Halliday calls the situation
"organized poverty - the most violent kind of racism there is."
A groundswell of
The federal government has tried several
times to remedy fractionated ownership, but its solutions have
strengthened tribal governments at the expense of individual
landowners. One 1983 bill even declared interests of less than 2
percent of an allotment worthless, and turned them over to the
tribes. The Supreme Court later found the "2 percent rule"
But a growing community of
Native Americans is not waiting for the federal government to solve
its problems. Some, like Ernestine Werelus in Fort Hall, are
tackling the bureau head on, fighting for a voice in the way land
is managed and leased. Others are helping Indian people reduce the
number of landowners by writing wills and by buying and trading
fractionated interests. Some tribes have adopted codes that only
allow tribal members to inherit land on their reservations, while
others are pushing banks to start lending money in Indian
Scattered efforts like these have
flared up in the past, but they never caught on at the national
level. Now, the movement is spreading. Tribes are organizing,
exchanging ideas and building viable economies on Indian
reservations while trying to maintain their cultures and
One of the pioneers is Helen Sanders,
a member of the Quinault Tribe in Washington state. Sanders got
involved in the fight over Indian land in the late 1950s, when her
daughter inherited forest land. At the time, two non-Indian timber
companies controlled logging on the reservation. Indians knew they
were getting the short end of the deal, but few had the funds or
the patience to do anything about
"It was common gossip
among loggers that the Indians were getting beat out of their
timber," says Sanders.
Rather than have the
bureau sell the timber on her daughter's land, Sanders decided to
go into the logging business. It took her years to navigate the
bureaucratic obstacles, but she succeeded. With the help of a new
bureau superintendent, she convinced the federal Small Business
Administration to guarantee a start-up loan. Her daughter's land
and that first loan were enough to get her business up and running,
and from there she moved to other Quinault land. For 12 years,
Sanders worked one allotment at a time, borrowing money to pay the
lease and pull the timber off the land, and then repaying her loan
with the proceeds.
In the process, Sanders
discovered that the bureau had been selling off not just timber but
Indian land as well. She took what she had learned from her
business and put it to work for her people. With the help of the
bureau superintendent, she stopped the sales to non-Indian timber
companies, and in 1971, she sued the bureau for mismanaging the
timber resources. Twenty years later, she settled out of court for
$26 million, which went to her fellow
"It takes a lot of
footwork and a lot of determination," says Sanders, now a leading
voice for Indian lands on the national level. "Many of our people
just don't know how to fight the battle. They get two doors closed
on them and they give up."
Sanders had what
most people lack: the fortitude to force her way past a dozen
closed doors. Now, on the Umatilla Reservation in northeast Oregon,
the tribal government is trying to open some of those doors for the
It's a huge job, akin to turning an
omelet back into whole eggs. Twenty thousand people own interest in
the 1,400 allotments on the Umatilla Reservation, and most owners
belong to other tribes. Predictably, the bureau controls most of
the land and it leases 95 percent of it to non-Indian wheat
farmers. Most Indian landowners didn't even know where their
property was or who their fellow owners were.
They would have been hard pressed to find out. Records showing who
owned the land, who was leasing it, and what the land was capable
of producing were scattered everywhere: in filing cabinets and
computers of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, in tribal offices and in
the Umatilla County courthouse.
do nothing, because they knew
"We needed to get
people information," says retired Indian rancher Bill Northover. "A
lot of these people don't want to live in the projects (federally
funded housing developments). They want to build themselves a home
out there in the country (on land they own). They know that their
land is worth something, and they want to get more information
about what they own so they can get the most out of it."
In 1990, a foundation helped the tribes begin
to pull together scattered land records and to put them in a
computer database. Armed with additional money from a new casino, a
golf course and a hotel, the tribes bought a geographic information
system (GIS) computer program. Northover and the tribes' Land
Acquisition Program are putting the tribes back in the driver's
Indians who want to sell or trade
interests for a piece of land all their own can now get up-to-date
information quickly. The new computer system has also allowed the
tribes to start buying back lands that were lost to homesteading
and sales. Last year, they bought more than 7,000
"It's a very powerful
tool," says Northover. "With GIS, we can go out and get our own
data. We don't have to wait for the bureau."
Other tribes have caught on. In the Northwest, the Yakama, Warm
Springs, Coeur d'Alene and other tribes are all working on
geographic information system programs, and in the Dakotas,
reservations such as Pine Ridge are jumping on
The key to success, says Northover, is to
develop a good working relationship with the Bureau of Indian
Affairs. "The BIA is a bastard. But it's a powerful bastard and we
have to work with it."
The bureau doesn't need to have
any part in it, says CloAnn Villegas, computer systems manager for
the Salish and Kootenai Tribes on the Flathead Reservation in
Montana. The Salish and Kootenai are miles ahead of most tribes in
building a nation independent of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. They
have developed a sophisticated legal system, and fought to protect
water quality in Flathead Lake, as well as managing fishing and
bird hunting cooperatively with the state of
For years, the tribes felt that the
bureau and non-Indian farmers were managing the land without their
consent. The agency had no data on what the soil could produce or
how many cattle a piece of land could support. Officials didn't
review leases regularly, and some farmers and businesses had been
paying the same rates for 25 years.
1980s, with coffers full from timber sales and a federal contract
on a dam on Flathead Lake, the tribes decided they'd had enough of
the bureau. They used the 1975 Indian Self Determination and
Educational Assistance Act to take over management of the
irrigation canal system on the reservation. In 1990, they
contracted the bureau's real estate services, which include
agricultural, weed and mineral management, as well as leasing and
Last year, the tribes gathered up the
title records to all their land. "We backed a U-Haul up to the
Portland area office and took all of our title plans," says
Villegas, an accountant by training and "a techie by default."
Today, there are only two bureau officials left on
After eight years, three computer
programmers and $80,000, she has a remarkable new billing program
and the groundwork laid for a geographic information
Despite the achievement, the Salish and
Kootenai now realize they may have bitten off more than they can
chew. They ousted one bureaucracy but had to create
Their beefed-up staff is putting the
paperwork in order, an expensive task. At the same time, they have
less money to work with because lease rates have dropped since the
tribe took over. Says Villegas: Indians now get top priority on
leases on the reservation, even if they can't pay as much as
The tribe instead of the bureau now
compiles the environmental studies required under the National
Environmental Policy Act, a time-consuming process that has reduced
the amount of timber the tribes can
"The (bureau) was always
understaffed," says Villegas. "We've put the bodies in place. We
just need to make sure we have the money to get the job done."
Looking out for the
In South Dakota, the Rosebud Sioux are
attempting to strike a different balance between Indian empowerment
and cash flow, perhaps because the man leading the charge, Howard
Valandra, once ran a national computing
Valandra is the uncompromising
chairman of the Tribal Land Enterprise, which has survived for 55
years, with ups and downs, in the fourth poorest county in the
nation, where kids often go to school just for the free
When Valandra joined the board in 1993,
the land enterprise already had control of roughly 700,000 acres on
the Rosebud Reservation, but it wasn't getting rates much better
than the bureau would have. Valandra and his team at the enterprise
started raising lease rates. In response, farmers organized and
started using "fear tactics," he says. "They said if you drive
leases up, we're not going to lease your land."
Instead of giving in, the enterprise built up a war chest big
enough to survive without leasing any land for two years. The board
then told the farmers that if they didn't pay fair market value,
the tribe would take its land out of circulation
credit, the Small Business Administration would go broke. Anybody
who has lent a penny to anybody in Indian country would feel it,"
he says. "Individuals (farmers) who think they need to be
subsidized need to realize those days are dwindling fast."
The enterprise has been known to retaliate
against farmers who speak out against the tribe at public meetings
by raising their lease rates. It is common knowledge among farmers
on Rosebud: now if you're going to do business here, you'll do it
by the Indians' rules.
The enterprise buys
between 5,500 and 6,000 acres each year. Individuals can also trade
scattered interest in land for a parcel of tribal land where they
can build a home. And staffers are working to allow Rosebud members
who own interest on the nearby Pine Ridge reservation to trade with
Pine Ridge residents who own interest on
But the enterprise is equally firm with
its own people. When a landowner trades interest for a piece of
tribal land, the land remains in tribal ownership so it can't be
sold to non-Indians. And before a deal is final, the owner must
name a single Rosebud Sioux heir to the land to stop
Some landowner groups "look out
for the individuals," says Valandra. "We look out for the tribe."
No one solution will work for every
tribe, but a meeting held in Pendleton, Ore., in 1991 started a
collective push to address Indian land ownership on a national
level. Helen Sanders, Theresa Carmody and Bill Northover were among
150 people from 36 tribes who showed up for the first annual Indian
Land Consolidation Conference.
The ad hoc
committee that grew out of the conference, now called the Indian
Land Working Group and chaired by Howard Valandra, launched a
national crusade to give Indian people the information and
resources they need to regain control of their land. Made up of
roughly 30 representatives of tribal governments and landowners
alliances, and individual activists, the group is making waves
around Indian country.
Its annual conferences
are attended by hundreds of people, and it has a Web page,
informational videos and a several thousand-member mailing
"We've developed a
pretty strong network," says Theresa Carmody, the New Mexico Indian
activist who is now the working group's secretary/ treasurer. "If
something happens at Fort Hall, Rosebud, Quinault, we know about
In addition to its work on reservations,
the group has put a bill before Congress to address fractionated
ownership on the national level. The bill, introduced in the House
in July, would provide funds to teach people about estate planning
and assure their access to land records. It would also tear down
bureaucratic barriers by allowing landowners to sell or exchange
interest with other Indians without going through the
"The only restriction
we want is if you're going to sell, sell to another Indian," says
Carmody. "Other than that, let people buy, sell, anything they want
to do." The bill also includes a strict inheritance code for tribes
that haven't developed their own, preventing non-Indians from
inheriting Indian land.
Like a similar bill put
forth by the Interior department, the Working Group's bill would
set up an acquisition fund to buy up interest in land and
consolidate ownership. But where the government's bill would give
the Interior secretary control over the fund, the working group's
bill would provide loans to tribes and individuals and leave the
decisions to them.
It is only by putting power
back in the hands of individual Indians that Interior can bridge
the chasm that has opened between Indians and their land, says
Theresa Carmody. "As Indian landowners become more knowledgeable,
they're going to demand that they can get
"We see it happening
gradually. The road is long and there are still some real barriers
out there, but that's life," says Carmody. "It took 100 years to
get this way and it's not going to change
"A sense within
people of self-sufficiency and strength is coming back," she says.
"We've hit bottom and now we're on the upswing."
This report was made
possible by a grant from the Northwest Area
YOU CAN CONTACT
* Fort Hall Bureau of Indian Affairs
Superintendent Eric LaPointe, 208/238-2301;
The Fort Hall Landowners Alliance, 208/238-3960;
* The Indian Land Working Group, 505/668-9013;
The Native American Rights Fund,