Permit problems

Monica Begay says she's the type who likes to do things on the up-and-up.

She spays her dogs and cats. She keeps her lamb corral tidy.

When her husband died and the family was at odds over who should inherit his grazing permit, they took it to court.

It took six years, but in January Chinle Family Court finally probated Tsosie Begay's estate (which pretty much consisted of the grazing permit) and awarded it to his widow.

The next step was a slam-dunk, Begay thought. She would take it to the local BIA office and get the name on the permit changed.

That's where, she says, she ran into a brick wall.

According to Begay, the local BIA natural resources agent, Alvin Whitehair, refused to transfer the permit to her, saying that the area is overgrazed.

Begay went back to her remote homestead on the border between Cottonwood and Nazlini chapters. Not knowing what else to do, she continued to graze her 49 sheep and lambs. But it bugged her that she didn't have a legal permit, and she half expected Whitehair to appear at the door any minute and confiscate her livestock.

On June 3, Begay decided to confront Whitehair again. She brought along her son Tsosie Jr., 38, who waited outside.

Tsosie Begay was nonplussed when, a little while later, his 71-year-old mother emerged from the office escorted by a Navajo Nation police officer.

"I thought that was a little extreme," he said.

According to Begay, she had again demanded her grazing permit and Whitehair again refused, flashing a copy of a federal regulation.

Begay admits she got a little sassy, asking Whitehair, "That document, is that what put you on the earth? Take it to the outhouse and use it as toilet paper!"

That's when, according to Begay, Whitehair called the cops. Begay was sure she was being hauled off to jail.

"I thought, 'Who will feed my animals?'" she recalled.

But the officer just asked her a few questions and let her go.

Whitehair says the whole thing was a misunderstanding.

"I didn't deny the permit," he said. "It has to go through the process. I've tried to explain that to her so many times."

Whitehair said all new grazing permittees - including ones who inherit grazing rights - are required by Navajo and federal law to come up with a conservation plan for their area. Whitehair and his employees are happy to help them do it, although the process is backed up a bit.

"We have a couple of people ahead of Monica Begay, then we'll get to her," he said. "She'll get her permit."

The BIA agent also does not think he was out of line to call the police. According to Whitehair, Begay hurled some Navajo epithets at him that are a lot worse than what she's admitting to. Begay also sat down and refused to leave until she got her permit, according to Whitehair.

"She said she would sit there until midnight if she had to," he said. "I didn't know what else to do."

Begay said she understands the need to control overgrazing, but she doesn't think she needs a plan. She and her son Larry graze 49 sheep, 14 horses and a cow on an allotment that's allowed 102 animals.

If Whitehair wants proof she's not overgrazing, Begay says, he should come and see her sheep.

"Look at them," she said. "They're too fat. There's a lot of grass here."

Larry Begay, Monica's son, thinks the grazing permit issue is symptomatic of a larger problem.

"Our government pays lip service to supporting the traditional way of life," he said, "but in reality, we're on our own."

He gestured toward the big stock tank at the place known hereabouts as Waterhole. Two cow carcasses were rotting on the banks, victims of the quicksand that lines the pond.

"It used to be the BIA or the chapter or someone would come along with a tractor every so often and plow out the bank so that wouldn't happen," he said. "Now all we can do is pull them out with a truck."

Whitehair said the government is indeed changing its stripes, but he doesn't think it's a bad thing.

"We used to just go in and take care of things for everyone," he said. "Now there's more a philosophy of personal empowerment. We're trying to get the grazing permittees organized, so they can do things for themselves. I think you'll see some exciting grassroots things over the next few years, like farmers' markets."

As far as the stock tank, Whitehair thought it sounded like a perfect project for a federal EQIP (Environmental Quality Incentive Program) grant. But again, the ranchers would have to take the initiative to draw up a plan.

"We can help," he said, "but the days of just getting things handed to you are over."

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