A Landowner Who Said No
The letter I write each January to the Haverfield family is, by now, an exercise in unchanging courtesy. I have written it four times. The envelope is always addressed to Mrs. Haverfield, senior, because she is the person whose name is on the deed, though the ranch is run in practice by her son and her son's wife, and has been for fifteen years. The letter is two paragraphs long. The first paragraph explains who I am and what I am doing on the river. The second paragraph requests permission to walk a twelve-hundred-metre section of the Stillwater that passes through their land, for the purpose of counting redds and assessing passage conditions in the late September to early November window. I offer to coordinate on any day, to text before I arrive, to wear the same boots in the same truck and to take no samples the family does not authorise. I offer not to publish anything identifying the parcel. I offer to share the data I collect with the family directly before it goes anywhere else. I sign the letter in blue ink and include my cell number.
The Haverfields have said no four times. Once by letter, twice by voicemail, once by the son in person on his porch last spring, politely. The letter was the first year. The voicemails — both from Mrs. Haverfield, senior, whose voice on the recording is dry and Scandinavian and perfectly clear — were short and unequivocal. The porch visit