Farmland

Government Seizes Farmer’s Land to Build Airport for Corporate Jets and Business Hangars

Tue, 12 May 2026 11:42:10 GMT

The government is taking Jeff Melin’s Georgia farm. His crime? Preserving 450 acres and pouring blood, sweat, and tears into the property.

“We already gave the government land for eminent domain,” he says. “Now they’re back wanting more. Now they want it all.”

Even in the nightmare realm of eminent domain power grabs, Melin’s case is particularly shocking. His farmland is being obliterated, with roughly 225 acres ripped from the middle of his operation to house an airport: Cows replaced by corporate jets. Barns replaced by hangars.

“And it’s not even for commercial passengers,” he says. “It’s an airport for billionaires to park their jets and big businesses to have hangars.”

“My grandfather, dad, and myself protected this land,” Melin continues. “We survived depressions and disasters, and kept this place together for decades. My dad turned down millions of dollars, over and over, from subdivisions.”

Melin describes a sickening contradiction of farmland preservation. “We sacrificed to keep this wonderful place whole, and now that’s why they want it. How could it be more ironic? If we’d have built on it or trashed it, they’d leave it alone. The better and longer you take care of your land, the more at risk you are to losing it.”

Insult to deepest injury, Melin is getting a per acre pittance for his land, he says. “They force me to sell against my will and then pay a fraction of the value. And I’m not allowed to turn them down. My story will make you question what kind of country you’re living in.”

Heaven No More
Sixty miles south of Atlanta, in Spalding County, Melin stares across gentle hills veined with creeks, rubbing against a mix of pastures and woods: cattle, water, deer plots, dove field, pecan grove, and much more. Despite the beauty, it also contains a withering family legacy.

“Our farm was not for sale at any price because our lives were molded around this land,” says Jeff Melin.

(Photo courtesy of Melin Farms)

Awaiting grinding at the edge of the 70-acre pecan grove, a chain of toppled trees stretches like fallen dominoes, with many of the specimens over a century in age. Concrete poles are already in place as pecans give way to power lines. Soon, grass will give way to a 6,000’ asphalt runway, as part of a 730-acre new airport for Spalding County.

“I’ve got 90 days to get my stuff out of a 40’-by-60’ shop so they can get started,” Melin describes. “It’s an order to vacate. That means 90 days to move 75 years worth of farm equipment. I don’t even know where I’ll put all the tools, welders, compressors, and all the rest. I don’t have another shop built. I’ve got to get rid of at least 65 cows and 30 calves right off the bat.”

“They’ve killed my farm,” he adds. “This will be the end of me. And when I say, ‘they,’ I mean the county, state, and federal government. All three are involved with this airport.”

“All together, they’re taking about 225 acres from the middle of my operation. They’re leaving me land in the back that’s landlocked, that I can’t get to, and then leaving me land on the front of one side that’s going to be landlocked. I never dreamed this is how it’d end. For sure, my grandfather and dad (John Bennett Melin) never dreamed it, either. This was heaven to us.”

In 1951, the Melin clan pulled stakes in Red Wing, Minnesota and moved over 1,200 miles to Griffin, Georgia, hauling cattle the whole way, to start Melin Brothers Poled Herefords.

Melin’s 450-acre farm is split into four parcels. The county is taking a 225-acre strip from the middle.

(Photo courtesy of Melin Farms)

“I love everything this farm represents—heart and soul,” Melin says. “I love it so much that I took a job close to home as a mechanic at Delta Airlines so that I could work the land and help my dad. We grew up with sacrifice. Didn’t matter if it was family vacation or Thanksgiving—somebody had to be here to feed. People in farming know exactly what I’m saying. Our farm was not for sale at any price because our lives were molded around this land.”

“At 57 and approaching retirement age, to have your land and life snatched away feels like a terrible dream, but I know it’s real. It all started with a newspaper article: They didn’t even have the decency to knock on my door.”

Blood and Tears
In 2012, Melin opened a morning newspaper to find himself in the bull’s-eye of eminent domain’s “common good.” The existing Spalding County airport’s runway was deemed too short, and Melin’s farm was listed among four to five potential sites to build a new airport on 730 acres, including 124 hangars for express and corporate jets.

The opening stage of airport-related construction commences as a power line takes out a pecan grove on Melin’s land.

(Photo courtesy of Melin Farms)

According to the Georgia Department of Transportation, a new airport would generate $24 million in economic impact per year for Spalding County.

Melin was stunned. His ground is hilly. “I thought it was impossible. A mistake. Why build an airport in hills? I couldn’t imagine the amount of dirt moving and earthworks and boxing creeks it’d take to build an airport on my land. I mean, it even requires moving power lines and a gas line.”

No matter. Melin’s land is open and near town. Case closed, in the county’s eyes.

“We’re an old mill town. There’s plenty of other spots that are flatter, but they don’t want to deal with the legalities and paperwork. Better to take prime agriculture ground preserved across my dad’s lifetime at a cost of blood and tears. There’s a lot of other dilapidated land around here, but it’s not open and would require diligence and hassle. Better to steal mine. There was no public vote or opportunity to say no. Nothing.”

Melin’s 450-acre farm is split into four parcels. The county is taking a 225-acre strip from the middle. Irony upon irony, Melin already had willfully ceded ground to eminent domain. “Many times in the past, for genuine public good, we got out of the way when roads were widened, because we cared about people’s safety. This is not that. This is greed and power.”

An Honest Dollar
Letters and studies. Environmental. Archeological. Ecological.

“They dragged it out, year after year, and never let you know what was really going on,” Melin contends. “They never listened. They never communicated with us face to face. They didn’t come to my house. They didn’t seek me out. They didn’t come find me and say anything. They sent a few letters and made their announcements.”

“It just doesn’t seem like America when someone shows up and says, ‘We’re taking your land for a set price, and you’ll like it or else,’” says Melin.

(Photo courtesy of Melin Farms)

“It was shoddy. No matter what I said, they’d respond, ‘We just have to keep on doing studies.’ This was a foregone conclusion, but they pretended otherwise. They didn’t even know there were five gas lines under me and were going to put hangars on top of them.”

Money doesn’t replace lifeblood, but Melin assumed he’d receive a “fair price” for his land.

Melin had fair reasoning behind his assumption: According to the county, there was nowhere else to build an airport presented as indispensable and necessary. Arguably, Melin was sitting atop the most vital land in Spalding County.

“Nope. They wouldn’t give me an honest dollar.”

Like It or Else
Every year, Melin poured in money to improve his land and soils. Fertilizer, lime, weed control, and myriad other management costs—even foot patrol with a backpack sprayer to kill thistle. “None of that goes into their valuations. All I can do about value is look around and make reasonable judgements based on how much got paid recently for land recently around me. There was an old cattle farm right down the road that we did business with for years. It was 100 acres, fenced and cross-fenced, and sold for $75,000 an acre to Georgia Power for a substation. The owner got $7.5M.”

According to schedule, construction of the new Spalding County Airport will begin in 2026 and conclude in 2031.

(Photo by Google Maps)

“About 2 miles from me, the county bought a 29-acre school site and paid $14,000 per acre about 22 years ago: $420,000,” he adds.

However, according to Melin, Spalding County offered a fraction of what the school property brought per acre. “I’m getting lowballed with a percentage of what the other properties sold for, but I can’t refuse the offer. Don’t tell me about federal guidelines and fair market value. I have eyes. I can smell corruption and manipulation. Doesn’t mean I can prove it, but it’s right in front of my face.”

“It just doesn’t seem like America when someone shows up and says, ‘We’re taking your land for a set price, and you’ll like it or else.’”

Farmer In the Way
According to schedule, construction of the new Spalding County Airport will begin in 2026 and conclude in 2031. Within proximity of Melin’s farm, a groundbreaking ceremony is imminent.

“The better and longer you take care of your land, the more at risk you are to losing it,” warns Jeff Melin.

(Photo courtesy of Melin Farms)

“The lieutenant governor, state officials, politicians, and county commissioners will all be there, backslapping, grinning, and congratulating each other,” Melin notes. “Not a one of them can look me in the eye. Can you imagine if eminent domain was used to take their land to park a jet? No, you can’t imagine such, because that would never happen to them.”

“But I’m just a farmer in their way. They’re happy to take my land and call it ‘progress and public good.’ Force me to sell, take my land, and fly in the billionaires and big companies.”

Grass and dirt in a forced exchange for concrete and asphalt. A farm legacy erased by county, state, and federal seizure. “They’re taking my farmland so rich men can have hangars for their jets,” Melin concludes. “That sound like the ‘public good’ of eminent domain?”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

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Cold-Busted: Frozen Deer Decoy Nabs Poachers and Cocaine in Spectacular Sting

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No Consent: Tennessee Farmer Defeats TVA Energy Giant in Property Rights Battle

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 11:47:31 GMT

Come hell or high water, utility companies rule farmland. Power lines talk and farmers walk.

“Not this time,” says John Gregory. “We’re not selling and we’re not giving way.”

The Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) intended to carve a pole-and-wire corridor through Gregory’s 650 acres—a 239-year-old historic family farm founded at the close of the American Revolution.

“They thought they could run over us, but this is the age of digital and social media,” he says. “They didn’t expect for the public to find out what they were doing and they didn’t expect farmers to have a voice.”

Cheapest and Fastest
Thirty miles northeast of Nashville, John and Kaytlin Gregory, alongside John’s father, Robert “Frosty” Gregory, background steers, and grow corn and soybeans, outside Gallatin, in Sumner County, Tennessee. In addition to direct-to-consumer beef, pork, and chicken, Kaytlin runs a booming farm school and homeschool program, bringing in elementary kids from the Nashville metro to learn the basics of row crops, livestock, pollination, wildlife, weather, and nature. She barely keeps up with demand: First started in 2023 with 30 kids, the hands-on sessions now draw 300-plus participants.

“Families who preserve their property are the ones who get penalized because eventually the utility companies or the government can take advantage of what you saved,” says John Gregory.

(Photo by Gregory Family Farm)

“For some of these kids, it’s the only exposure they get to agriculture and the outdoors during their entire childhoods,” Kaytlin explains.

“That’s what has always been done on this farm ,” John adds. “Find a way to meet a need and provide for our community. We’ve done it for almost 240 years.”

Sincerely. In 1787, Revolutionary War veteran Joseph Wallace, of Mecklenburg, North Carolina, earned 640 acres for his militia service. Family in tow, he crossed the Blue Ridge Mountains and settled in Sumner County. Nine generations of full-time farmers later, his direct descendants still work the land.

“That’s who we are,” John says. “But our survival was put under threat from a power line.”

A TVA line was set to cross the Gregory’s farm pastures and woods with a 100’ right-of-way, balding the ground and essentially erasing farm school.

“It would destroy what we do and what we’ve worked so hard to build,” Kaytlin says. “TVA proposed 10 posts with guidelines across the farm. All vegetation and trees removed in the corridor, and that means they’d take out the exact trail and creek crossing and education area we use for farm school.”

“It was all so unnecessary,” John says. “This is not about the inconvenience of farming around a light pole. This is about tearing up the entire way our farm works. They can easily go another way, and everyone knows it. This is not the way to treat people.”

“TVA assumed we would all do exactly as we were told,” says Kaytlin Gregory. “It works for them everywhere else, but not this time.”

(Photo by Gregory Family Farm)

“Families who preserve their property are the ones who get penalized because eventually the utility companies or the government can take advantage of what you saved,” he adds. “They see a wide-open parcel on a map and roll in because it’s the cheapest and fastest route.”

Significantly, TVA promotes itself as a model of “environmental stewardship,” a claim John dismisses. “TVA wanted to plow through our 239-year-old farm to run power to a mega-development with over 1,000 houses stacked on top of each other and destroy the land we use to teach kids about the outdoors, animals, and agriculture. That is TVA’s idea of environmentalism?”

Making Noise
The proposed power line first poked the Gregory property in spring of 2024 via a snail-mail letter from TVA. Paraphrased: A power line is coming via multiple potential routes, and your land may or may not be in one of those routes.

“They had a public forum in May to come by and voice your opinion,” John notes. “They also had it open online to make comments. That was it. After the forum, everything went silent. I didn’t think any more about it.”

“Your farm or private land will be next, so don’t be afraid to speak out and expose what these companies do,” says John concludes. “You’re no longer a voice in the wind.”

(Photo by Gregory Family Farm)

Three months later, on August 25, a TVA surveyor pulled up to the Gregory farm shop, according to John, and stated, “I’m here to survey where the power lines are coming across and I need permission.”

The surveyor showed John where the lines would run across the farm: “I could see right away it would ruin everything me and Kaitlyn had worked on, plus the rest of the farm. Seemed like this just couldn’t be happening.”

The chain of process was in motion. Survey. Historical study. Ecological study. In mid-January 2025, TVA workers placed stubs precisely where permanent poles would be stationed.

“By this point, there was yet to be a TVA representative set foot on the farm or even a letter in the mail talking about buying the easement or purchasing the easement,” John recounts. “Every time they came to do something, my dad asked to speak to somebody in charge and he’d get the same answer, ‘That’s further up the token pole. I’m just here to do a job.’”

Frosty’s patience was gone. He demanded a TVA official high in the brass. “Finally, a TVA engineer called my dad, and he told the guy about our farm school and what a power line would do to our farm school.”

“TVA knew the power line would put an end to our agriculture education programs,” says Kaytlin. “They knew farm school was a crucial part of our farm.”

(Photo by Gregory Family Farm)

The engineer, according to John, insinuated that farm school was a “made-up” cover, and insisted on proof of its existence.

Kaytlin responded with online links, signup information, and social media videos as proof of the farm school’s wide outreach and success. “TVA knew the power line would put an end to our agriculture education programs,” she contends. “They knew farm school was a crucial part of our farm. They knew our farm was in continuous operation since the Revolutionary War. They just didn’t care.”

“My dad reached out to the TVA guys again and again,” John explains. “That’s when they shut the door and said, “No. There’s nothing we can do.”

John, Katylin, and Frosty were supposed to roll. “No way,” John adds. “That’s when we started to make noise.”

All Hands on Deck
Initially, the Gregorys put crosshairs on a single goal: Get one particularly imposing pole removed and pray that farm school could still function.

The Gregory family alongside country music artist John Rich, second from right, a major proponent of private property rights.

(Photo by Gregory Family Farm)

“Didn’t work,” John says. “They wouldn’t talk to us about it. Not even a single pole off the table.”

All hands on deck. John and Kaytlin began making calls, pleading for help: TVA reps, engineers, state legislators, congressmen, media. Anyone. Everyone.

They cranked out a petition and spoke out in social media videos, hoping to gain attention.

And then some. They caught the eyes and ears of a heavyweight country music star and songwriter. Enter an irate John Rich, a major league advocate of property rights, who ran their story up the viral flagpole : The Gregory Family does NOT CONSENT to the @TVAnews running transmission lines across their 239 year old, Revolutionary War Era farm. Thank you @jeremymansfield for ringing the bell! I call on @SecRollins and @USDA to look into this ASAP.

(In 2025, Rich led successful grassroots opposition to a proposed TVA power plant in Cheatham County , Tennessee. In February 2026, he was appointed as a citizen advocate by USDA to help roll out the Farmer and Rancher Freedom Framework , aimed at countering ag lawfare.)

“Well, wouldn’t you know?” John recalls. “Almost instantly, TVA called telling my dad that they’d move that single pole anywhere on the farm so they could come across.”

Frosty responded with a line in the sand: I’m not agreeing to that. No consent. We don’t want this power line.

The Gregorys had found their voice.

Blood, Sweat, and Tears
“Publicly, TVA pretended our opposition was the first they’d heard about any of this,” Kaytlin explains.

Significantly, TVA released statements claiming ignorance regarding Gregory family resistance to the power line: “TVA has been working directly with Mr. Robert Gregory, the landowner, for several months and this concern had not previously been raised.”

Gregory Family Farm has been in operation since 1787.

(Photo by Gregory Family Farm)

“Not true,” Kaytlin counters. “We’ve got texts to prove otherwise. Frosty was against the line from the start, but they wouldn’t listen or let him talk to anyone up high. They never came around to have conversations with surrounding landowners. It’s very clear: TVA assumed we would all do exactly as we were told. It works for them everywhere else, but not this time. This was never about anything except protecting our farm.”

Money played no role, she explains. As in, there was no holdout or hope for a big payout. “Money. Money. Money. That’s comical,” she exclaims. “We’ve broken our backs with blood, sweat, and tears to keep this farm going. That’s what we care about and that’s why its lasted for 240 years. We’re not selling, period.”

“My dad’s been approached close to 10 times in the last 15 years to sell this whole place,” John echoes. “The plans went from industrial stations to housing developments. Every time, the people making those offers left with hat in hand. We’ve been here too long to sell. Some people see the dollars and don’t understand what I’m saying. Those people never will understand.”

In March 2026, with public discontent at full-bore, TVA ended the power line cut across Gregory Family Farm, choosing a different route.

A TVA spokesman told Agweb.com: “There was significant objection to a TVA-proposed route impacting the more than 200-year-old farm owned by the Gregory family. TVA has agreed not to pursue that route … TVA is exploring other options for the transmission line route, which would more closely follow existing rights of way.”

Additionally, TVA contends a newly-formed “Landowner Task Force,” including several farmers, will offer future input on energy projects.

Backbones of steel. John and Kaytlin Gregory.

(Photo by Gregory Family Farm)

The Gregorys are hopeful regarding TVA’s change of direction, but wary. Without the “noise” made by Kaitlyn and John, there would be TVA poles and wires across Gregory Family Farm . Instead, the Revolutionary War-era farm is in full operation, and farm school is in session.

“Your farm or private land will be next, so don’t be afraid to speak out and expose what these companies do,” John concludes. “You’re no longer a voice in the wind.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

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Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

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Who Was the Lady in Red? Farm Mystery Lingers Over Woman in Iron Coffin

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 11:54:52 GMT

Her corpse was impossibly preserved, as if merely sleeping. At the crack of a coffin’s seal, after over 100 years beneath the fertile soil of the Mississippi Delta, the Lady in Red emerged.

On a picturesque spring day in 1969, with heat rising and sun climbing over the low-lying flats of Egypt Plantation in Holmes County, Bob Hardeman and Willie Williams dared to peek inside an exquisite cast-iron coffin unearthed by chance, a stone’s throw from the languid flow of the Yazoo River. As a sickly-sweet scent of alcohol lingered, the pair stared in shock at the flawless face of a young woman dead since the mid-1800s.

Clad in the finery of a red dress, black-buckle shoes, and white gloves, with dark hair contrasted against pale skin, the woman’s immaculate condition—as if buried the day before—was a physical phenomenon. Arms crossed gracefully across her breasts, the Lady in Red, nestled inside a pharaonic coffin topped by a glass viewing window, was an absolute enigma.

A woman of means, interred in high style, yet with no headstone, marker, or memory. No trace of legend or lore. The once beautiful woman, pickled in alcohol, had been placed within an ornate iron maiden off the sloped banks of the Yazoo and forgotten, until 1969. A Mississippi mummy, encased in a sarcophagus, hidden on a farm.

Welcome to a profound mystery laced with ghosts and gothic. The Lady in Red still whispers.

A Velvet Woman in Liquid
Fifteen miles below Greenwood and 35 miles above Yazoo City, tucked on the eastern edge of the Delta, just off Highway 49E, several miles down a gravel straight, Egypt Plantation sits frozen in time. Flanked by the Yazoo River and fronted by endless rows bedded in cotton production, it’s hard to find a more Southern place on earth.

The Yazoo River, the likely means of transport for the Lady in Red, pictured directly behind Egypt Plantation.

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

Cypress and magnolia trees, several old homes, alongside farm buildings and machine sheds, all cluster around what once was Egypt’s hub—a namesake-bearing commissary building, now serving as the office of retired patriarch Jim Thomas. Across a career split between law and agriculture, Thomas farmed roughly 7,500 acres before hanging up his boots in 2024.

“This place was first settled and cleared starting in 1835,” explains Thomas, a repository of his family’s rich, layered agriculture history spanning generations. “My grandfather bought it in 1919, and it was a wonderful place to grow up for me as a boy.”

Raised onsite with two brothers, Thomas spent a childhood swimming the Yazoo and working summers in the rows of Egypt, never suspecting a mystery under his feet. Off to college in Oxford, Thomas received a bizarre phone call while at Ole Miss, in April 1969.

“That’s when they found her, about 100 yards from the river’s edge, or maybe even a little closer,” he recalls. “I got a call telling me my uncle, Bob Hardeman, dug up an iron coffin in the middle of our farm, a few feet below the ground directly beside the house where my grandparents had lived. Inside the coffin was a woman in liquid.”

Egypt Plantation’s bell once rang across Delta fields, summoning farmhands.

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

The Greenwood Commonwealth, in a 1969 article, offered a description: “She wore a red velvet dress, white gloves and had the face described as that of a young girl.”

“Her physical condition was unbelievable,” Thomas echoes. “Couldn’t have been and shouldn’t have been, but it was so. People got rattled. You have to understand: She was perfectly preserved.”

Macabre Marvel
April 24, 1969. On a clear Thursday morning with temps set to tap 80 F, Willie Williams was running a backhoe at Egypt Plantation. He was a master operator, highly adept with boom and bucket.

At roughly 10 a.m., Williams was on task, digging into a vegetable garden to install a line for a septic tank only feet from Hardeman’s home, the same dwelling previously occupied by Thomas’ grandparents. As Williams clawed dirt at a depth of 3-4’, the bucket lurched when steel teeth caught iron.

The exact spot where the Lady in Red was found, looking at the fields of Egypt Plantation.

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

Surprised and cautious, Williams shut down the machinery, looked into the hole, and saw exposed metal. “He was a very capable worker; very good at what he did. He caught the corner of the casket, and he knew that whatever he hit wasn’t supposed to be there,” Thomas explains.

Williams had unearthed an outrageously heavy coffin shaped to human form, just under 5’ in length, featuring an oval or octagonal glass window at head height—a viewing porthole. The ½”-thick glass had shattered on impact.

“He got a shovel and dug around the edges,” Thomas says. “At some point, whether or not he saw anything in the coffin, I don’t know, but he went to get help and my uncle, Bob Hardeman, came to see.”

Thomas’ narrative is bolstered by Hardeman’s recollection. Presumably, Hardeman was planting seed when Williams found the coffin. “I was in the field,” Hardeman told the Commonwealth in April 1995. “The straw boss, K.P. Rooks, who is now deceased, called me on the radio after Willie Williams hit the coffin. I called the sheriff. I got there within 30 minutes, I’d say. The body had not deteriorated; there was no odor.”

Jim Thomas kneels beside the location where a backhoe cracked the Lady in Red’s coffin, now beside a tennis court, just beyond the Yazoo’s banks.

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

Prior to the arrival of Holmes County Sheriff Carl Moore, Hardeman and Williams could see a body in the coffin via a gash in the metal box, according to Thomas. “The casket hadn’t broken open, but they could see the body by a big tear in the corner,” he says. “I don’t know if the glass was visible at that point. The casket had been filled with liquid, a preservative of some kind, and I’d guess it was alcohol, but it poured out.”

Again, Thomas’ narrative matches with Hardeman’s description, recounted to Leflore Illustrated in 2016: “It hit that thing and pulled the side off, just like a sardine can,” Hardeman noted. “It pulled the side off the coffin, and the body slipped out a little bit.”

“I did take a fair look at it, but you don’t want to look at something like that too long.”

April 1969 newspaper headlines on the Lady in Red.

(Photo public domain)

The scene was surreal. Black man and white man staring at the translucent cadaver of a woman in red velvet, all set against a canvas of mocha Delta soil. Her hair color would range in subsequent news reports as brown, black, and auburn.

Roughly an hour after Williams found the coffin, Sheriff Moore arrived. In the presence of Hardeman, Moore opened the coffin, confirming a macabre marvel—the Lady in Red, estimated in age from early 20s to early 30s.

Quoted the next day by the Commonwealth, Hardeman’s wife, Eleanor, recounted the moment: “I did not see the body myself, but my husband described her as a young, white girl with long brown hair, dressed in a red velvet dress. Her hands were crossed at her chest and she had on white gloves. She was amazingly well preserved.”

However, nature’s clock was ticking. For the first time in over 100 years, the Lady in Red was exposed to the elements.

Moore did not delay: “Frankly, the odor was so peculiar, I did not look for very long,” he told the Commonwealth. “We did notice a scent of alcohol and believe the possibility that the body was preserved in alcohol at the time of burial.”

A recent discovery of a Fisk burial coffin, similar to the Lady in Red’s casket.

(Photo public domain)

After only 90 minutes of exposure to mild heat, time caught up to the Lady in Red, per Hardeman: “Back out there, the body had deteriorated greatly in the hour and a half. She’d turned black, and the odor was awful.”

Bottom line, Moore decided on immediate reburial of the Lady in Red until official legal channels determined a correct interment course. Back into Egypt’s ground she went.

Planted at Odd Fellows
The Thomas family was shocked. A time machine buried in a vegetable garden?

“Where did she come from and who was she?” Thomas asks. “We had a farm cemetery, but it was half-a-mile away. My grandparents had lived in that house beside where she was found, but the structure dated back before the Civil War.”

A post-Civil War funeral business advertisement announcing arrival of Fisk coffins.

(Photo public domain)

“We started asking questions of anyone and everyone, and going through all the previous owners. We checked records going back to that section and title in 1835. Nothing. Not the smallest hint of who she was. It just made things all the stranger, because people were scared and shook up over it. When you’ve got no records to on, then start with the clothing she wore.”

Her garments spoke of money and position.

Her dress, as detailed by the Commonwealth: “The woman has been described as wearing red velvet with a cape covering and blanket of striped ticking.”

“The folds of the garment which gave the Lady in Red her name, were shreds, but at one time were a beautiful brocade, the type worn by an aristocratic woman of her day.”

The dress, according to Sheriff Moore, was covered by a “striped material, which had signs of water spots, or alcohol spots.”

Her black, square-toed shoes, dated from 1830-1880. Per the Commonwealth: “On her feet, which have been used to pinpoint her age, were tiny, low broad heel boots forming a slipper, the fabric of silk going almost to the midcalf.”

The Lady in Red during transport from Egypt Plantation to Lexington by Southern Funeral Home.

(Photo by Susie James, Greenwood Commonwealth, 1969)

Four months after discovery, the Lady in Red was exhumed, and by law, transported for reburial at the county seat in Lexington. Iron box into pine box.

“Billy Cochran, 61, of Durant was on the job when Southern Funeral Home went to pick up the remains of the Lady in Red in August 1969,” noted the Commonwealth. “He recalls an extraordinarily heavy casket, fitted together with a rubber gasket and screws against the glass, which they put in a wood box.”

The Fisk Coffin, complete with viewer-plate convenience for a last look into the face of a loved one, was a major funeral business hit.

(Photo public domain)

She was driven 20 miles from Egypt Plantation to Lexington and planted in the pauper section of Odd Fellows Cemetery. Thomas’ father, James Talbert ‘Tol’ Thomas, placed a granite headstone atop the grave: LADY IN RED; FOUND ON EGYPT PLANTATION; 1835-1969.

“Excluding her clothing,” Thomas says, “the other concrete clue was the coffin.”

Sincerely. The coffin told its own tale, with a peculiar genesis 90 miles northeast in Oxford.

Iron Toe-Tags
Thomas Holmes made a pile of coin during the Civil War. He turned a kitchen-sink mixture of arsenic, zinc, mercury, creosote, turpentine, and alcohol into an elixir of the dead— embalming fluid .

A field surgeon embalms a Union soldier for transport home during the Civil War.

(Photo Library of Congress)

Holmes popularized arterial embalming by successfully returning of hundreds of fallen Union soldiers to their families for burial. At $100 a head, Holmes embalmed roughly 4,000 bodies during the Blue-Gray bloodshed, and triggered an industry of copycat practitioners who followed armies in the field, waiting on a guaranteed supply of new customers—the next wave of fatalities.

Bookending the Civil War in April-May 1865, following his assassination, President Lincoln became the first commander in chief embalmed in U.S. history, enabling a railway funeral procession lasting 13-days and 1,600-miles through seven states and 400 cities, further raising regard for the Holmes’ preservative innovation.

Yet, prior to Holmes and the widespread adoption of embalming, and just before artificial refrigeration in railcars or morgues, cadaver preservation was a losing race against decomposition. During an era of increased rail and steamship travel, Americans often roamed far from a city or state of origin. An unexpected death could require prompt burial far from home, particularly for diseased cadavers.

A pristine Fisk Coffin made between 1848-1880.

(Photo courtesy of The Henry Ford Museum)

In 1844, 17 years prior to the Civil War, Almond Dunbar Fisk, 26, a New York stove maker, received word that his younger brother, William, had dropped dead 1,100 miles away, in Oxford, Mississippi.

William later was buried in Clinton County, New York, but the difficulties and extended time required to transport his body catalyzed Fisk to invent a new burial container. He turned a furnace into a hermetically-sealed sarcophagus. Airtight and durable, it was marketed as a “Fisk Coffin.” No microbes in or out.

The interior of a Fisk Coffin. “…if preferred, the coffin may be filled with any gas or fluid having the property of preventing putrefaction,” wrote Almond Fisk.

(Photo courtesy of The Henry Ford Museum)

As Fisk wrote in his 1848 patent application: “From a coffin of this description the air may be exhausted so completely as entirely to prevent the decay of the contained body on principles well understood; or, if preferred, the coffin may be filled with any gas or fluid having the property of preventing putrefaction.”

The Fisk Coffin, complete with viewer-plate convenience for a last look into the face of a loved one, was a major hit, with the family of Dolley Madison purchasing a Fisk at her death in 1849—the biggest funeral ever held in Washington, D.C. to that date. Likewise, in 1850, former president Zachary Taylor was encased in a Fisk Coffin .

Fisk manufactured 11 sizes of form-fitting caskets, from 2’4” to 6’6” in length. The base models could reach $25 in price—a sizable toe-tag considering pine coffins were as low as a dollar or could be crafted by hand. If a buyer desired ornamental flowers, crosses, and heavenly scenes in the metalwork, or a gleaming bronze finish, the price jumped.

Almond Fisk’s 1848 patent drawings.

(Photo public domain)

Fisk’s success motivated numerous knockoff companies to produce metallic coffins, but by roughly 1890, iron burial boxes faded out of widespread use. Tracing production dates and clothing style, the Lady in Red likely was sealed into her Fisk Coffin at some point between 1848-1880: “The method of preservation used for the Lady in Red was common prior to the Civil War, when custom-made caskets, shaped to the body, were ordered as one would order a dress,” noted the Commonwealth in August 1969. “The glass that sealed the coffin was placed over the body and alcohol poured inside until it was level full.”

Her iron casket, including body immersed in fluid, could have tipped the scales at 300-400 lb. Presumably, she was loaded onto a ship, bound for burial in parts unknown, either up or down the Yazoo River, which is birthed by the confluence of the Tallahatchie and Yalobusha rivers at Greenwood and runs to Vicksburg, spilling into the Mississippi River. Either way, the Lady in Red had to pass by Egypt Plantation and its landing—directly behind the future home of Jim Thomas.

Grasping at Straws
Via newspaper coverage and telephone chains, claims and rumors poured into Egypt Plantation, as tipsters shook family tree branches, certain of the Lady in Red’s identity. But whether in-state or out-of-state, each lead proved hollow. A blank. Nothing.

“My grandparents and parents were still alive when she was dug up, and they couldn’t find any hint of her identity,” Thomas notes. “We went through the records of the landowners before us because that was the logical place to look, but there wasn’t anything there to provide a single clue. There was no headstone or grave marker, but someone spent a lot of money on the coffin. That’s a contradiction that’s hard to wrap your mind around, considering all the effort to bury her in what would have been a very, very isolated place at the time. Maybe it suggests she was buried in a hurry.”

Despite the wide reach of the digital age and advent of the internet, Thomas received no answers. “There have been calls and emails over the years from people claiming to be her relative or know who she was, and I sincerely wished they were right, but in the end, we were grasping at straws.”

“How does someone like that get left behind or forgotten?” asks Jim Thomas.

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

“There are certain facts,” he continues. “Her clothing and casket point to the Civil War years, or at least somewhere very close in time. That means she had to arrive on a wagon overland or arrive by the river, because her death predates the automobile. She’s inside an iron coffin and covered in alcohol, so that means she didn’t get sick on the trip and die; she was already dead and going somewhere.”

“The first few years, I’d think about her almost every day, and wonder who she was. Time went by, but she still never slipped my mind. Sometimes I wondered if she had been transported by boat and fell off, and got buried here because there was a landing, and because no one knew what else to do, who she was, or how to get her home. Maybe it’s just that simple. Maybe not.”

Egypt Plantation, a stone’s throw from the Yazoo.

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

“She was here for over 100 years before anyone knew. Then again, some people thought she never left. They thought that out of fear. I never saw anything, but others claim they did—her ghost.”

Haunts and Haints
Thomas doesn’t play up the supernatural. Simply, he recounts a matter-of-fact narrative tied from the get-go to the afterlife.

Williams, the backhoe operator who first scraped against the forgotten coffin, was immediately distraught, Thomas explains. “He was very, very concerned and afraid the Lady in Red would haunt him, or ‘haint’ him, as he pronounced it. Yes, he was worried from the start, because he was the one that first disturbed her.”

“By no means was he the only one afraid. We had sincere stories from workers about seeing the Lady in Red walking down the road, or her coming up from behind. A lot of people had a ghost story at one point or another.”

May 1969 newspaper headlines on the Lady in Red.

(Photo public domain)

“One year, my brother had a friend over to spend the night, and that turned scary for them. They believed they saw her ghost,” Thomas recalls. “Take it for what you will, but when a preserved lady is dug up right where you live, things get shaky for some people.”

“Let me put it this way: Remember in biology class in high school when they bottled frogs in formaldehyde and you could see them? That’s how preserved the Lady in Red was. How does someone like that get left behind or forgotten?”

Immortal Beloved?
Almost 160 years past her death and 60 years beyond her discovery, the Lady in Red still hides her secrets inside an iron coffin.

“I wish we could find out who she was. I’ll always want to know her story,” Thomas concludes. “I still would love to know how she got here and where she might have been going.”

(Photo public domain)

“I wish we could find out who she was. I’ll always want to know her story,” Thomas concludes. “I still would love to know how she got here and where she might have been going.”

Beyond the possibility of familial DNA testing in the future, the Lady in Red remains a perpetual, puzzling ghost. Someone’s wife, daughter, mother, or sister. Someone’s beloved.

Someone who never made it home.

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Solar Panel Plague or Progress? Controversy Explodes as Farmland Disappears

Tue, 07 Apr 2026 11:40:39 GMT

Roughly 2,200 acres of prime farmland is vanishing under a blue blanket of glass, plastic, aluminum, and silicon in Kalamazoo County, Michigan. The disappearing act, increasingly common in rural America, is a sweet source of income for some farmers, but a bitter pill for many adjoining producers and landowners.

“Giant solar panels mean prime farmland gone forever and the ruin of rural life, not to mention a potential environmental mess,” says Kate Smit, whose farm sits close to the proposed solar facility.

Smit’s property will be the next-door recipient of 461,000 solar panels strung in 5,400 rows, much of it surrounded by 7’-high fencing.

Bill Peter, a homeowner adjacent to the incoming facility and former longtime employee of Liberty Farms, the same operation that leased the acres for a solar transformation, is opposed to the installation: “Don’t insult me by calling it a ‘solar farm.’ I’m not fooled. What’s happening is sick, and whether you live in Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, or any other state, it’s coming to your backyard. Today here and tomorrow everywhere.”

Peter was fired by Liberty Farms on March 27, he claims, as a direct outcome of his opposition to the solar lease. “I don’t agree with the ‘tiny percent of overall farmland’ excuse,” he adds. “This is one of the saddest things I’ve seen in American agriculture in my lifetime. It ends with glass and metal covering millions of acres.”

Is Peter correct? How many solar acres are planned: 10 million by 2030? 20 million by 2040? Less? More?

Eyesore or Green Beauty?
Standing at the edge of her 97 acres of grain outside Richland Township, Kate Smit sweeps an arm toward the horizon. She soon will be surrounded by a sea of solar panels. Her property almost rubs nearby Liberty Farms—which leased 2,268 prime acres to Consumers Energy, the second largest electric utility in Michigan, for a solar facility with construction and operation scheduled in 2026.

Proposed coverage of the 2,268-acre solar panel site in Richland Township.

(Image by Consumers Energy)

“Our family farm dates back 100 years and now my kids will inherit our fields beside a sprawling, industrial mess,” Smit describes. “We’re an example of what’s going on all over Michigan and the U.S.”

(The Liberty Farms solar installation is not a done deal. The Richland Township planning commission has not yet approved Consumer Energy’s application.)

“Our area in Richland has gorgeous nature with abundant deer, ospreys, bald eagles, cranes, and you name it. We’re also a wonderful agriculture community, and it’s all the bigger shame because prime farmland is what they’re using for this solar project.”

According to a release, Consumers Energy “expects the Project to be in service for at least 35 years. Consumers Energy has worked diligently with nearby landowners and residents to minimize Project impacts on the surrounding community.”

“Are you kidding me? That farmland is lost way past 35 years or 50 years, or whatever ridiculous number they throw out,” Smit says. “No one wants solar panels here, and Consumers knows that. Our community is fighting this tooth and nail. Consumers came here hush-hush, did deals with MDOT, and suddenly our landscape is permanently destroyed.”

(Consumers Energy declined Agweb interview requests regarding the Richland solar installation.)

“We want to stall Consumers’ solar project until we can get a bill passed in our state senate to where townships and counties have to vote if a solar panel company wants in,” Smit continues.

Solar lease rates for agriculture land are significantly high.

(Graph by AFBF)

Two miles from Smit, Bill Peter, 70, who sits on the Richland Township board as a trustee, lives down a mile-and-a-half road dotted with seven homes. “I’m about to get circled by solar panels,” he says. “Literally, Consumers Energy is putting panels all the way around. They’ll take out the tillable ground and replace it with glass.”

Ironically, until March 2026, Peter was employed at Liberty Farms, the new landlord of Consumers Energy. “I’m not afraid to tell the truth and they fired me for it. That’s their choice,” he emphasizes. “I’m not sitting quietly while 450,000 solar panels permanently replace the best farm soil around.”

Generally, solar panels are made of 76% glass, 10% plastic, 8% aluminum, 5% silicon, and 1% copper.

“There’s nothing green about this green energy,” Peter contends. “They want to put glass, steel, aluminum, and plastic on top of a natural watershed area, and completely cut the ground off from photosynthesis, and then tell you it’s environmentally safe for 50 years, and won’t hurt the soil with contamination? What happens when a tornado or natural disaster tosses grinds all these panels to particles?”

“We’re all tired of this renewable energy talk,” he adds. “It funnels to tax dollars and tax breaks, and backroom deals and mandates. This Richland installation is rumored to be a $50-plus million contract, ultimately paid for by us in one way or another.”

“Wake up,” Smit echoes. “No matter where you’re at in the U.S., the land beside you or the land in your community could be next. How many panels will they put in if they can get away with it?”

Battle of the Pens
In 2021, President Biden (Executive Order 14057 ) mandated that the federal government reach net-zero carbon emissions by 2050. A massive solar push was included in the plan. How much farmland was needed to reach the net-zero goal? Estimates ranged from 10 million to 26 million acres, with upper end projections of 50 million.

“We’re supposed to say nothing while solar panels and data centers explode, and we’re told about the wonders of green, renewable energy,” says Smit.

(Photo by iStock)

However, in 2025, President Trump signed Executive Order 14148 , revoking Biden’s mandate.

In 2024-2025, solar infrastructure covered approximately 1 million-plus acres of farmland, with roughly half of the acreage directly on cropland. Overall, the U.S. contains almost 880 million acres of farmland.

“It’s not that complicated to me,” says Ed Yelton, a cattle producer in Dearborn County , Indiana. “They’ll build as many as they can get away with. If you think it’s not a big deal because they’re only on a fraction of total farmland, wait till one pops up beside you. Who in the hell wants to see the monstrosity?”

“And if a different presidential administration comes in, they might pick up a pen and sign another executive order and we’ll be at 50 million acres before you know it. Let me be direct: Whatever number the government pushes, that tells me they want far, far more.”

A mile from Yelton’s pastures, Linea Energy has a lease on 1,200 acres of planned solar panels. “It’s beautiful farmland, or was,” Yelton says.

Prime agricultural land is popular for solar installations, partially because it’s often open, dry, and relatively flat. Construction costs for solar conversion on farmland are generally lower than on other types of ground.

The pressure from solar installations and data centers on rural landowners and communities is just beginning, Kate Smit says.

(Graph by AFBF)

“The energy people slipped in here and signed leases with people without nobody knowing it. These are the same people that tell you that solar isn’t permanent while they’re hauling in glass, fencing, and concrete. This is same story you see in North Carolina, New York, Kentucky, Oklahoma—it’s all over the place.”

“We’re pressuring our zoning board to do something,” Yelton exclaims. “That might be the solution in the future: Only allow solar panel installation beside the homes and properties of county officials and board members. Hell, that might sincerely stop some of this.”

Private Land v Public Choice?
Whose ox is gored? When millions of dollars in lease contracts are at stake, how does the right to use private land as a property owner sees fit weigh into the solar equation? Simply, solar pays tremendously well compared with corn, cotton, rice, or soybeans.

“It’s a tough one,” Yelton admits. “I believe a person should be able to do with their land whatever they want, but solar is something else. If you’re the next to get panels beside your land or house, you’ll be sick. The only solution to panels and AI data centers is to let a community decide.”

“The power companies and the government all know this is wrong. That’s why they call them ‘solar farms.’ They use words to trick and influence the public, but that’s an insult to anyone in agriculture. I’m sticking with common sense: Once you put glass, aluminum, and plastic all over a field, that’s no longer a farm.”

Well and Good
As of 2024, American Farm Bureau Federation estimates over 1.25 million acres of farmland has been covered by solar installations:

The ERS (Economic Research Service, USDA) approximates solar’s footprint as of 2020 at 336,000 acres of rural land based on the total solar production capacity installed in U.S. Census designated rural areas. As solar capacity has more than doubled since 2020 and is increasingly coming from utility-scale solar, this estimate is woefully out-of-date. Using SIEA’s current estimate of 200 GW of installed solar capacity, ERS’s estimate of 7.5 acres used per MW of production, and AFT’s estimate that 83% of solar installations are on farmland, we roughly estimate that 1.25 million acres of farmland have been converted for use in solar production. While that may be a startlingly high number to some, it would represent 0.14% of the 879 million acres of farmland in the United States.

“No matter where you’re at in the U.S., the land beside you or the land in your community could be next,” says Smit. “How many panels will they put in if they can get away with it?”

(Photo by iStock)

Whether eyesore and erasure, or energy godsend and income windfall, the pressure from solar installations and data centers on rural landowners and communities is just beginning, Kate Smit says.

“We’re supposed to say nothing while solar panels and data centers explode, and we’re told about the wonders of green, renewable energy,” she concludes. “If it’s all so well and good, then who wants one outside your bedroom window?”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

When Conservation Backfires: Landowner Defeats Feds in Mindboggling Private Property Case

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Landowner Builds Off-Grid Container Home on Farm, Triggers Regulatory Rumble

Tue, 31 Mar 2026 11:49:21 GMT

Is Chad Cane’s great sin going off-grid on the farm?

When Cane began building a container home on private land, county officials trespassed on his property, ignored due process, and levied a chain of regulatory penalties, he contends.

“Don’t dare try to live simply and responsibly if you don’t fit into the state’s model. We want to be left alone out in the countryside, but instead we’re fighting selective permitting schemes that violate basic constitutional rights.”

Self-sufficiency and solar power in rural America? “No,” he says. “More like targeting and potential jail time.”

Hell of a Surprise
In 2021, Chad Cane and Rhonda Aho were given 2.5 acres of her father’s 40-acre farm, the last vestige of a family operation reaching back to the 1950s and still planted in corn and soybeans today.

Aho and Cane’s Cass County property and container location.

(Photo Google Earth)

Located outside Pine River (population 990), in central Minnesota’s Cass County, the 2.5 acres, partially edged by evergreens and jack pines, is surrounded by agricultural land. West, across a paved road, sits a cattle farm; north, a neighbor with another 40 acres; south, farmland; and east, a mix of timber and farmland.

In May 2021, Cane, 55, bought six shipping containers and placed them on the gifted acreage. “Rhonda and I decided to build a container house and go off-grid. We wanted to live basic on the farm. Bother no one. Build at our own pace.”

Cane sought the blessing of his only immediate neighbor. “They were enthusiastic and gave us a big thumb’s up. Other than them, there was no one else we could possibly bother. It was just a matter of putting in the time and effort to build a modest container home with my own hands—no public harm, no commercial activity, and no one else involved on private property.”

By the summer of 2022, Cane was making headway, digging a basement and utilizing solar panels for power. On June 22, Cane got a “hell of a surprise.”

An unidentified, unannounced woman entered the property as Cane was working. She walked behind the containers, taking photographs of the basement, solar panels, and Cane, he insists. “I was taken totally by surprise and had no idea who she was. I said, ‘Do you know you’re trespassing?’”

“We were building on private land and not hooking onto public utilities, but I think that made them want to control us even more,” Cane says.

(Photo Google Earth)

“She said, ‘I’m from the county assessor’s office.’”

The individual gathering information and taking pictures, Cane says, was Cass County staff appraiser Sandy Bennett. The property was posted with “no-trespassing” signs, including “private drive” hanging on the entry gate.

“She had no warrant, authorization, or permission,” Cane says. “A local government official walking around private land taking measurements and photographs? I didn’t know all my rights, but I knew this was crazy.”

Back came the county.

Out in the Sticks
On January 10, 2023, Cane got “another shock” behind his containers. “Around the corner walks a different lady than last time and says she’s from the county and she’s supposed to check on my progress.”

Cane contends photographs taken by Cass County on his property, including this basement image, were illegally obtained by county reps.

(Photo courtesy of Cane)

Cane says Jerri Huston, another Cass County staff appraiser, began asking construction questions. “I told her I wasn’t through with anything yet, and she said, ‘I could tell that you’re not done from peeking inside.’”

“I was really angry about the actions of a county official that knew better,” Cane continues. “She was the second official to trespass, take measurements, take pictures, and snoop around—all without authorization. Blatant violations of the most basic property rights.”

“This was all done without warrant or consent. I told her she knew she’d driven through my gate and a no-trespassing sign and walked by another sign to get around back. She left, but I knew this was only just beginning.”

(Citing pending litigation, Cass County officials decline Agweb.com interview requests regarding Aho and Cane’s property.)

Less than 24 hours after Cane demanded Huston leave, Cass County officials downloaded (January 11) Google Earth images of the property, he notes. Several weeks later, on February 2, Cane received a letter from Troy Nelson, resource specialist with Cass County Environmental Services, declaring the containers in violation of regulations:

An on-site inspection was performed on your above listed property. This inspection revealed the presence of six storage containers, with at least one of them placed upon a basement. There is also a solar panel on site. These structures all require permits according to the Cass County Land Use Ordinance (LUO) section 501 “Permits Required”.

On a permit search of this parcel, it revealed no land use permits were approved or applied for on this property. These structures all now require After-The-Fact permits (LUO 604) which are 3 times the original cost.

Nelson’s letter refers to an “on-site inspection.” However, no on-site inspection was conducted by Cass County, Cane says.

“It’s deceptive. The wording makes it sound like he (Nelson) officially walked the property and examined everything. No way. He drove up to the gate and took a couple of pictures. That’s it. And there was 2’ of snow on the ground. How would he judge whether there was truly a basement?”

“Truth is, he used Google, Eagleview , and the photos taken by the county appraisers when they illegally came on my land. That’s an abuse of power. You illegally come on private property twice, and then pretend to have performed a legal inspection the third time when you never even were on the land.”

(Citing pending litigation, Cass County declined all Agweb.com questions related to the Aho/Cane property.)

Per the county, Cane needed permits for all six containers and solar panel. He was required to sign a residential building permit application—and abide by the stipulations.

Cane insists no on-site inspection of his property ever was conducted by Cass County.

(Photo courtesy of Cane)

“It said I had to be done in two years. Keep in mind, I was building all by myself, so there was no chance in hell I’d be done. It said I had to agree to inspections and the state could come on our property. It said they can do a stop-work order if I violate their regulations.”

“All these permits, rules, and regulations for a few containers and solar panels for a family living off the grid, out in the sticks?”

Cane began questioning past permitting: Cass County had abundant shipping containers and solar panels scattered over 2,400 square miles. How many were permitted?

The answer, he says, was telltale.

Hammer Time
Roughly a half-mile to the south of Cane and Aho’s property, a neighbor had a shipping container. Almost a half-mile east, a commercial property housed four containers. Further down the road, at another commercial business, 10 containers were visible from the road. And Aho’s uncle, residing inside Pine River, kept two shipping containers.

“Throw a rock, hit a shipping container,” Cane says.

He asked each property owner or business owner a direct question: Are your containers permitted?

“None. Zero. Nobody had a permit,” Cane contends. “Nobody had ever been asked for a permit. Nobody had ever had county officials even take a look at their containers. I looked online in the public records for our area of the county (Barclay township) and found no permits issued for shipping containers in the 53 years of available data. Another township, same thing. Another, same thing. I found one township with a couple of permitted containers. Literally, there are thousands of unpermitted containers here.”

What about solar panels? “I started going around asking people with solar panels who told me they didn’t have a permit and had never been bothered about it by the county. What the county was doing to me was the definition of selective enforcement. In my opinion, because I threw them off our land, they decided to hammer us. I wasn’t sure what they’d do next.”

Jail time, possibly? Yes, according to Cass County.

Criminals and Containers
Approximately one month after Cane received a notice of violation letter from Nelson at Environmental Services, he received another letter (March 16, 2023) from Cass County assistant attorney Nicole Cayko, regarding his sewage system: get permitted, get fined, or go to jail for 90 days:

… any habitable structure with pressurized water requires a Subsurface Sewage Treatment System (SSTS). All septic systems require a design by a licensed professional and a permit from Cass County.

You must bring your property into compliance within 30 days of the date of this letter or further enforcement action will be taken.

Each day of a violation of an ordinance constitutes a separate offense. Each offense … is punishable by up to 90 days in jail, a fine of not more than $1,000 or both.

“We were building on private land and not hooking onto public utilities, but I think that made them want to control us even more. And to top it off, they didn’t even know exactly what I was building, except for the information they took illegally. Suddenly, we were criminals for trying to live in a container.”

Sewer and Solar
Pebble became landslide. Cass County hired a law firm, Iverson Reuvers, to seek enforcement or sue Cane in district court. On September 20, 2023, Cane received a certified letter from Iverson Reuvers, declaring him in violation of land use land use ordinances and in violation of sewage ordinances:

… the County will seek injunctive relief and/or criminal charges, in addition to any costs and fees awarded by the Court.

“Why is the state so desperate to regulate a solar panel?” Cane asks. “That’s the whole point of an off-grid power source—to generate our own power and not bother anyone.”

(Photo courtesy of Aho/Cane)

Three months later, sewer became solar. On the heels of Cass County’s noncompliance enforcement, the Minnesota Department of Labor & Industry put crosshairs on Cane’s solar power. Cane received a letter (December 28, 2023) from senior investigator Chris Nguyen, requiring Cane to undergo a solar inspection and obtain a permit.

Before the Department considers whether formal action is warranted or necessary, we would like to offer you the opportunity to respond to the allegations and/or potential violations noted above. Please provide this office with your written response by January 11, 2024. Additionally, please include in your written response the following:

• Identify who installed the solar array and did the electrical work.

• Provide copies of any invoices/contracts/agreements between you and whomever installed the solar array if it was not you…

A violation of either of these statutes would constitute cause for the imposition of monetary penalties of up to $10,000 per violation.

“Why is the state so desperate to regulate a solar panel?” Cane asks. “That’s the whole point of an off-grid power source—to generate our own power and not bother anyone. I believe it’s just one more means for the state to control people.”

Chain of Suits
In January 2024, accusing Cass County of numerous constitutional violations, Aho and Cane filed a federal lawsuit against the county and 14 of its employees.

With time/date marked by Cane, he contends Cass County officials downloaded Google Earth images of the container location a day after he threw a county appraiser off the property.

(Photo courtesy of Cane)

“When they’re engaging in unconstitutional enforcement and threatening to throw Rhonda in jail as the landowner, what was I supposed to do? This wasn’t about land ordinances,” says Cane, who represented himself and Aho, despite no legal background. “This was about basic freedoms.”

In June 2024, Cane’s lawsuit was dismissed. “I did my best, thinking I could just present the facts to a judge. Big mistake. It was all about procedure and filing; facts were irrelevant.”

In July 2024, Cass County sued Aho over the zoning ordinances, and won in January 2025. Cane followed with a second lawsuit against the county—now pending.

And the off-grid container home? It remains unfinished.

Personal Liberty v. Permitting
Rules for thee, but not for me, Cane posits. “The county ignores fundamental private property rights and then wields land use ordinances like I’m building a skyscraper or amusement park. They frame this as a zoning dispute, but it’s really a civil rights and government overreach dispute.”

“We want to be left alone out in the countryside,” Cane insists, “but instead we’re fighting selective permitting schemes that violate basic constitutional rights.”

(Photo courtesy of Aho/Cane)

How does Cane answer calls to pay the penalties and obtain permits?

“Somebody has to stop government overreach. We’re supposed to live in a free country with personal liberty that ensures the government doesn’t come on our land at will. Our crime was stacking cinder blocks, digging a basement on private land, and then challenging their selective enforcement.”

“There’s nothing more American than getting a piece of land far out and building something from nothing to live simply off-grid,” he adds. “This is not the land of the fee and home of the slave. Not everything needs to be regulated.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

When Conservation Backfires: Landowner Defeats Feds in Mindboggling Private Property Case

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Bootlegger’s Secret: Arkansas Brothers Find Buried Treasure

Tue, 17 Feb 2026 13:07:51 GMT

Secrets wait beneath soil. Gently inserting a 4’ steel probe through a layer of ash, Ezra Lane pushed down 2’, felt hard resistance, and heard a telltale report run up the shaft. Not the clink of glass, nor the clang of metal, but the dull thud of stoneware.

Lane’s mouth dried to cotton. “It sounded good. So good. I couldn’t be certain, but somewhere inside I already knew we would make the find of a lifetime.”

Out of the ground, Lane pulled an intact cache of stoneware—nine whiskey jugs buried roughly 100-150 years in the past, with the prize specimen possibly worth several thousand dollars. Find of a lifetime, indeed.

“You want to know how to find treasure?” Lane asks. “It takes dirty elbows and sweat, but first you find it in your mind. The magic is real.”

Relic Obsession
Surrounded by the lore and lost hollers of the southern Ozarks in northcentral Arkansas’ Baxter County, roughly 15 miles below the Missouri line in Mountain Home, Ezra Lane, 26, keeps a nose in the dirt.

Raised alongside the Trail of Tears historic road, a skip from the confluence of the White and North Fork rivers, Lane caught artifact fever as a child sorting the layers of a 1930s bottle dump behind his family’s rural property. At 6, after Lane’s parents bought him a metal detector, the boy’s relic obsession raged.

A portion of Lane’s stoneware haul, including a prized D. Canale jug.

(Photo by Ezra Lane)

“It turned into a hunt for life and love of history for Civil War artifacts, arrowheads, glassware, old signs, coins, pre-1880 bottles, and so much more. The older I got, the more I learned that finding artifacts takes preparation. To this day, I put in a lot of research before a hunt.”

Whether farmland, creeks, mills, homesteads, or dumps, the clues to artifact sites abound. Typically, Lane spends hours poring over vintage maps and newspaper clippings. “Old settler accounts have lots of nuggets that help find forgotten places. For sure, I also study old maps for wooded places beside towns. Those woods are sometimes there because the terrain wasn’t habitable. If so, that’s a strong possibly for a waste site and a place people dumped their trash dating back to whenever the area was settled.”

However, preparation doesn’t displace intuition. “Before any hunt, I ask myself, ‘If I find just one item today, what do I want it to be?’ It’s a way of sincerely believing I’ll find something. Kinda like speaking it into existence. People will believe what they will, but for me, you need that mindset to make your own fortune. All I can say is, ‘It works.’”

And in November 2025, it worked to perfection.

X Marks the Spot
He knew. He knew the ground would surrender something special. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I had this gut feeling earlier that morning that this was the day to find something awesome.”

Two hours from Mountain Home, in late afternoon, Lane hot-nosed a trail of vintage bottles down a low-lying creek, alongside his brother, Eli, and hunting buddy, Brandon. Wearing hiking boots, shorts, and t-shirt, and strapped with a backpack, Lane carried his requisite probe, shovel, and a two-pronged extraction tool.

Ezra Lane holds the first jug found in the cache—with plenty to follow.

(Photo by Eli Lane)

Characterized by poorly-drained terrain, the area hid a century-plus-old dump site. “It’s fair to describe the place as nasty,” Lane says. “It’s almost swampy and smells miserable. We parked our truck about a quarter mile away and walked in.”

A stone’s throw from the creek, Lane noted streaks of exposed, black soil. Ash and soot.

“It’s an easy, easy clue. Back in the days of wood-burning stoves, large amounts of ash got thrown in the trash, or there was burning going at the dump sites. Either way, it’s a strong indicator of artifacts.”

Losing daylight, Lane began probing in the ash layer. X marks the spot.

“I stuck my metal probe in the ground and at first, all I could hear was the sound of it going through ash and back into dirt. Then a thud. A solid thud.”

Grabbing the shovel, Lane carefully dug a test hole approximately 2’ down, gingerly scraping away the final inches of soil as a patch of cream-colored glaze emerged from the dark dirt: a 2-gallon stoneware whiskey jug caught light for the first time in over a century.

“We could see the curvature and knew exactly what it was instantly,” Lane recalls. “The digging was really easy because the dirt was loose, and I could reach around it and feel the handle. If the handle is there, you know it’s a good situation, because normally that’s the easiest piece to break off a jug.”

Eli spots a prize waiting to be plucked.

(Photo by Ezra Lane)

Scratching along the jug’s edges, Lane lifted the jug with a final tug—and stared deeper into the cavity with astonishment. Another jug. And another.

His heartbeat thumped like the hindfoot of a rabbit. “No way. No way. It’s not supposed to happen this good or fast. This wasn’t a good spot to dig, it was fantastic.”

Hidden behind the initial find were more jugs. Too many to count.

“In about four minutes, we had four jugs pulled out. And there was a bunch more exposed in the hole. No question, we’d stumbled on a once-in-a-lifetime cache. And the best was still in there.”

One Jug to Rule Them All
Brother Eli was next at the hole.

Sweeping away more dirt, Eli exposed white glaze atop unique styling. Excitement building, he eased out a 3-gallon jug and rolled it over, revealing a manufacturer mark from the Memphis-based D. Canale & Co. , a renowned Mid-South distributor of liquor and produce, established in 1866.

Eli’s progression as the D. Canale jug emerged.

(Photo by Ezra Lane)

“We went crazy with excitement,” Lane recalls. “That Memphis jug is worth $2,000 or more, and to find it intact in a hole was like a dream.”

On with the hunt. On with a roller coaster of adrenaline shots. In total, Lane found nine intact jugs and roughly 25 broken jugs.

“It’s hard to describe, but you gotta realize this all happened in about 25 to 30 minutes,” he exclaims.

Carrying the nine dirt-filled jugs a quarter-mile uphill to the truck should have been a slog for the hunting trio. Instead, it was an easy stroll.

“They were filled tight with a clay mixture, and super heavy,” Lane notes, “but the weight was the last thing on my mind. I just had lots of questions about how they got left in the first place.”

Who stashed or discarded the jugs? When and why? Buried in the hole in beside the stoneware, Lane found a clue: Three 1-gallon medicine bottles.

Bootlegger’s Secret?
Corn, barley, and rye birth whiskey. Before the widespread advent of adequate glass receptacles, stoneware jugs (glazed to help prevent leaks) were standard liquor containers.

Lane estimates his jugs at roughly 1880 to 1920. “Most sizable towns had jug makers, so the ones we found likely were somewhat local. Certainly, the marked jug is from Memphis, and the others might be too.”

Seven of the nine intact stoneware jugs dug by Ezra Lane & Co. A bootlegger’s stash?

(Photo courtesy of Ezra Lane)

“As far who left them, my best guess comes from the medicine bottles we found with the jugs. That’s a hint, to me, that maybe a drugstore closed down and dumped all their stock. Just speculation on my part.”

“Then again, these jugs date close to Prohibition,” Lane continues. “Maybe a farmer was bootlegging whiskey and got in trouble, and had to ditch his stuff. That’s a whole lot of intact stoneware to just get thrown out. Makes me wonder if someone was in a hurry.”

The nine-jug hoard is a unified collection—and will remain so, Lane emphasizes.

“We’re not selling these jugs. The smaller ones range in value from $50 to $100, and the Memphis jug has bigtime value, and that’s all cool, but we don’t care. Part of the magic is just finding them together and keeping them that way.”

“They survive from an age when it was seriously rough around these parts. Everyone had a gun, everyone dipped, everyone drank, everyone farmed, everyone kind of stayed to themselves, and everyone protected their land.”

Eli, left, and Ezra Lane. “You want to know how to find treasure?” Ezra asks. “It takes dirty elbows and sweat, but first you find it in your mind. The magic is real.”

(Photo courtesy of Ezra Lane)

No matter what Lane next pulls from the earth, the whiskey jug cache will stay at the tip of his memory—and fingertips.

“It’s a dig we’ll talk about for the rest of our lives. Some guys can hunt 50 years never find a jug stash like that. Then again, on a farm or in the woods, maybe somebody tomorrow will find an even bigger stash,” Lane adds.

“That’s the fun and beauty in treasure hunting: Incredible secrets are still out there, and today could be the day.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

When Conservation Backfires: Landowner Defeats Feds in Mindboggling Private Property Case

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

44 Million Acres: The New Frontier of Farm Consolidation and Growth

Tue, 10 Feb 2026 17:46:41 GMT

At the 2026 Top Producer Summit , Farm Journal Intelligence unveiled new farmland insights derived from predictive modeling and deep-data analysis. The research focused on the shifting landscape of land acquisition, identifying which operations are at risk of consolidation, who is positioned for growth and where the most significant opportunities lie.

Here are the six primary findings for farm businesses:

1. Scale Does Not Immune Operations from Consolidation.

(Farm Journal)

While smaller operations face the highest risk — with 58% of small farms “at risk” for sale or acquisition before 2030 — size is not a complete safeguard. Research shows the risk of consolidation or ownership transfer never drops below 27%, even for the largest operations. Furthermore, crop diversity made minimal impact on these odds; the likelihood of transition remains constant whether a farm produces one crop or more than 11.

2. Geography Trumps Diversification.

(Farm Journal)

Regional location is increasingly becoming a primary driver of financial success, often outweighing the benefits of operational diversification. As regional market divides grow, farmers and ranchers are finding that local market conditions and individual circumstances dictate their trajectory more. State-level or even county-level effects are more indicative of their situation than national trends.

3. The 44-Million-Acre Transition.

(Farm Journal)

Nearly 15% of American cropland is projected to change hands within the next three years, driven by generational transfers, continued consolidation and economic pressures. Farm Journal data identifies the Midwest as the epicenter of this shift, with roughly 12 million acres likely to transition. Nationwide, that total reaches a staggering 44 million acres.

4. Mapping the “Sweet Spot” for Expansion.

(Farm Journal)

By plotting cost per cropland acre against the volume of land likely to transition, clear opportunities for expansion emerge. For producers looking to grow their footprint, the most viable opportunities are currently concentrated in Kansas, Texas, North Dakota, Missouri, and Oklahoma, according to this research.

5. Integrity Is the Top Currency in Rental Markets.

(Farm Journal)

When more than 400 landowners were surveyed about tenant selection, integrity ranked as the most critical factor. Interestingly, age was reported as the least important factor. For producers looking to secure rented ground, a reputation for character and experience outweighs both seniority and youth.

6. The “Willingness” Factor in Technology.

(Farm Journal)

Producers most inclined to expand share a common trait: a higher comfort level and rate of adoption with technology. Crucially, this is not necessarily tied to technical skill or existing expertise, but rather to mindset and action. The most growth-oriented producers are defined by their willingness to try new technologies rather than their current mastery of them.

Download the Full Report

When Conservation Backfires: Landowner Defeats Feds in Mindboggling Private Property Case

Tue, 03 Feb 2026 13:05:02 GMT

Atop a swelling pile of bureaucratic abuses waged against American property owners, the ordeal of Gray Skipper is standalone. The government used a phantom snake to gain permanent control of 10,000 acres belonging to Skipper.

“I want people to find out how power-hungry FWS is in our case,” he says.

In 2015, Fish & Wildlife Service dropped a critical habitat designation on Skipper’s rural property in the name of a reptile that did not exist on the land. However, in 2025, after FWS action was exposed, a federal judge excoriated FWS behavior, labeling the agency’s actions as “arbitrary and capricious.” Translated: A court tossed FWS off Skipper’s property.

“On our land, my family’s attitude has always been, ‘Do the right thing and everything will be fine.’ Didn’t work with FWS.”

A family betrayed over a ghost.

Facts Be Damned
Conservation is a hefty battering ram in the hands of a bureaucrat.

Since 1902, the Skipper family has owned and managed timberland in southwestern Alabama’s Clarke County. In 1956, they began participating in the state’s Wildlife Management Area (WMA) program, opening acreage for public hunting and wildlife conservation. “All the generations of my family have been proud to be involved in conservation and didn’t ask or expect anything back,” Gray Skipper told Farm Journal in 2023.

“What landowner wants FWS to show up at their gate?” Skipper asks. “Really, who in the hell actually trusts FWS anymore?”

(Photo courtesy of PLF)

Across decades, his family’s pristine timberland played a direct role in boosting whitetail deer populations (and eastern wild turkey) across multiple states beyond Alabama. On paper and in practice, the environmental marriage was a remarkable success.

However, the Skippers’ preservation efforts backfired. By protecting original habitat and welcoming researchers for decades, the pristine ground attracted government attention. As in, no good deed goes unpunished.

In February 2020, FWS designated 300,000-plus acres as critical habitat for the black pinesnake, including over 10,000 acres belonging to Skipper. Despite only a single black pinesnake sighting on the property across almost 25 years (including a comprehensive 2008 state survey that found no pinesnakes, as in zero), FWS declared Skipper’s land as “occupied” by the black pinesnake. (Also, FWS officials were aware they had no authority to reintroduce the snake, i.e., they knew they were creating a paper haven for the reptile.)

Adult black pinesnakes (non-venomous) range from 4’-6’ in length, and are typically dark brown to black in color.

(Photo public domain)

Brazenly, FWS based the critical habitat designation on soil type and tree species—not the presence of snakes. Facts be damned: Skipper’s land, considered by the feds as “critical” for the survival of the black pinesnake—had no pinesnakes.

“Office bureaucrats that preach about saving species and taking care of the land are hypocrites because they do nothing but hurt their own cause by breaking trust with private citizens,” Skipper said. “What landowner wants FWS to show up at their gate? Really, who in the hell actually trusts FWS anymore?”

(FWS declined Agweb.com interview requests regarding the Skipper litigation.)

With the stroke of a pen, Skipper’s land and business fell under the regulatory weight of a federal decree that permanently altered the value of his acres and silviculture operation. FWS insisted economic loss to Skipper would be minimal—a remarkable contention considering development restrictions, permit requirements on activity from herbicide applications to roadbuilding, potential civil and criminal liability during timber harvest, and value perception in the public eye.

By protecting original habitat and welcoming researchers for decades, the Skippers’ pristine ground attracted government attention.

(Photo courtesy of PLF)

FWS assured Skipper that restrictions would be inconsequential. “I can read the critical habitat rules for myself,” Skipper emphasized, “and it is chockful of restrictions. We’re at a point in this country where bureaucrats can lie to the public and nobody can do a thing about it. Here’s a restriction: If I alter the habitat or kill a pinesnake, I’m subject to a $50,000 fine and up to one year in prison. Does that sound kinda restrictive?”

Swinging Gate
In 2022, represented pro bono by Pacific Legal Foundation , Skipper took FWS to court (Skipper v. FWS). In August 2025, at the U.S. District Court, Southern District of Alabama, Chief Judge Jeffrey Beaverstock ruled in Skipper’s favor, and labeled FWS’ critical habitat designation and its economic impact analysis as “arbitrary and capricious.”

“The Skippers opened their gate to preservation, conservation, and public hunting, and the gate swung back and hit the family,” says Scott Jones, CEO of Forest Landowners Association.

(Photo courtesy of FLA)

Further, Beaverstock blistered FWS’ reasoning and behavior as: unsupported by competent evidence, hollow exercise, without a full and fair consideration, abuse of discretion, and not the product of reasoned judgment.

“We see a lot of surprising cases of government overreach in our line of work,” says PLF attorney Jeffrey McCoy, “but this one was far beyond reason. There was an arrogance by FWS, telling the Skippers: ‘Don’t worry, this habitat designation will never cause you any problems, and we’re going to force you either way.’ It was an extreme position even compared to other cases, and I think that’s reflected in how thoroughly the judge rebuked the agency.”

“FWS and other agencies know that no matter how extreme their regulations are, most landowners cannot fight back long-term,” McCoy continues. “The agencies have nearly unlimited resources and they use your own tax dollars to tie you up in court. Things change when you have landowners, like the Skippers, willing to stand up, and an organization, like PLF, to take it into a courtroom.”

“On our land, my family’s attitude has always been, ‘Do the right thing and everything will be fine.’ Didn’t work with FWS.”

(Photo courtesy of PLF)

As a co-plaintiff alongside Skipper, Scott Jones , CEO of the Forest Landowners Association , a nonprofit representing approximately 5,000 family forest landowners and 50 million acres of woodland in 45 states, summed the case: “The Skippers opened their gate to preservation, conservation, and public hunting, and the gate swung back and hit the family … Regulation without reason, good science, and recognition of property rights is a danger, and people need to recognize that what has happened to the Skippers can happen to any landowner.”

And all for the survival of a snake not even found on the land in question.

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farm Alarm: 8,000-acre Grower Considers Cuts, Doubts Midwest Corn-Soybean Monolith

Tue, 20 Jan 2026 12:07:19 GMT

Time to pull the handbrake. In November 2025, Ron Robbins placed 8,000 acres of farmland on the scales, spurred by two successive years of financial strain. He dropped grading categories atop his corn and soybean acres for a tale-of-the-tape judgement. Keep, improve, or cull.

“Call it a crossroads or breaking point, but traditional row crop farms are in serious trouble, and I believe the agriculture industry has gotten complacent,” Robbins says. “If you don’t step back now and take a detailed look at your acres, it could be a terribly costly mistake that I might call blind ambition.”

Nailing Numbers
In 2025, Robbins’ end-of-year crop inventory value was $1.3 million less than his end-of-year value in 2023. “We had good yields and good prices in 2023. We had decent yields and horrible prices in 2024. We had terribly challenging weather, horrible yields, and horrible prices in 2025.”

“The crop math is extremely difficult, and then who’s to say things will get better, stay the same, or get worse? After this past season in 2025, I wasn’t going to put my head in the sand and hope. It was time for a hard look at each farm, each field, our process, and how we can improve going into 2026 and beyond.”

“We now have a concrete framework to justify cutting acres if needed,” Robbins says. “It’s preparation regardless of what happens next year.”

(Photo by Robbins Grain & North Dairy Harbor)

A skip from the east end of Lake Ontario, Robbins Grain & North Dairy Harbor is tucked in the relative flats of the Lake Plain region in Jefferson County, New York. The overall operation includes 1,600 dairy cows, trucking, ag tourism, and 8,000 acres of corn silage, corn grain, soybeans, wheat, and hay.

Scattered across a 20-mile radius from his main headquarters, Robbins’ field sizes are small, averaging 40-50 acres, and soil diversity is extremely diverse, ranging from well-drained loamy limestone to heavy clay. Despite diminutive size, it’s not unusual for a single field to contain four distinct soil types—contributing to a complicated management dance.

“We’ve got feed hitting blacktop. We’ve got manure hitting blacktop. We’ve got labor hitting blacktop. It’s expensive, period, and the tiniest factors are big deals,” says Robbins. “Spread manure; plant crops; and harvest hay, all at the same time. You better have the numbers nailed down.”

As he speaks, in January 2026, unharvested 2025 corn remains in many New York State fields. “Because of very late planting last spring and a very dry summer, there’s 15-20% of grain corn acres still standing that basically never fully matured”. It speaks to the crucial need to be timely at planting. Just one more reason we’ve implemented a grading scale. Fortunately, ours was all harvested timely.”

Time to call balls and strikes.

Adios to Guesswork
In November 2025, Robbins and his team gathered around an HQ table and shared a nine-course meal of farm data.

He placed acreage into four five-year-average planting date categories, alongside five-year-average yields: early, mid-early, mid-late and late. “We began considering each piece based on fertility, distance, and whether issues could be fixed with tile, lime, manure, or something else.”

First, Robbins noted 1,000 acres of top-drawer, highest-yielding ground—the earliest fields planted year-in and year-out, regardless of weather, between April 25 to May 5.

Scattered across a 20-mile radius from his main headquarters, Robbins’ field sizes are small, averaging 40-50 acres.

(Photo by Robbins Grain & North Dairy Harbor)

Second, he tagged 1,500 mid-early acres—accessible for planting and manure spreading in most years, May 5 to May 15.

Third, he identified 1,500 mid-late corn and soybean acres that generally are planted between May 15 and May 25, along with 1,500 acres of hay ground that must be harvested for hay silage in this same time frame.

Fourth, the late bunch, i.e., all acres planted after May 25, typically poorly-drained and the furthest away from the main farm. “These are acres we will focus on for improvements where possible, and if not possible, we’ll seed them to a grass hay crop for heifer forage or consider dropping the land.”

The result?

He’ll fallow 400 acres in 2026, designating it for improvements, including pushing back brush rows and tree lines, tile drainage, ditch cleaning, heavy manure applications, and planting fall ryegrass or wheat or triticale.

Additionally, of approximately 4,700 total corn and soybean acres, he’ll shift 500 (heavy clay soil) from soybeans to corn. “We are trying to figure out why our heavy clay soils struggle to produce decent soybean yields, but seem to produce strong corn yields each year.”

“We now have a plan in place and we can match corn variety to acres better than ever. I don’t want my employees guessing about anything. We’ve got seed varieties designated for each category. For example, it’ll be 98-day to 102-day corn in the early category. If we get to May 5 and those acres aren’t planted, we move 94-day to 98-day corn. Again, no guessing.”

“Putting our acreage in these classifications is our first move, and we’ll make tighter adjustments as we go along,” Robbins continues. “One thing we won’t do is increase our acres because we’re maxed out. Maybe there’s nothing worse than taking on land you can’t manage properly. However, we now have a concrete framework to justify cutting acres if needed. It’s preparation regardless of what happens next year.”

(For more on producers considering acreage cuts, see: Farmland Shock: Georgia Grower Drops 3,000 Acres, Warns of Unplanted Ground in 2026 )

“We’re categorizing acres according to data,” Robbins adds. “All farms have tons of data, and so much of it goes unused, but right now row crop profitability is beyond tough, and we’re done with leaving our data untouched. The details are what matter. Who’s to say this downturn in the row crop economy won’t continue?”

Translated: Robbins is acting now in case the row crop rut becomes agriculture’s new normal.

Through a Glass Darkly
Good, bad, and ugly, fourth-generation Robbins doesn’t mince words.

“I’m very worried about the future of row crop agriculture, particularly out in the Midwest. For guys married to corn and soybeans, without diversity otherwise, that means all your eggs are in one basket. For the past several decades, the blueprint on many of those operations has been a focus on growth and getting bigger, but that may have meant losing sight of the true picture. Bigger is only better if timeliness and profitability make sense.”

“Call it a crossroads or breaking point, but traditional row crop farms are in serious trouble, and I believe the agriculture industry has gotten complacent,” Robbins says.

(Photo by Robbins Grain & North Dairy Harbor)

“Growth should mean a lot of things besides buying equipment or adding land,” Robbins notes. “It should equally mean adding a side business, increasing efficiency, improving profitability and, maybe most importantly, learning from mistakes by keeping your head up and looking at what’s coming or how things are changing.”

“Personally, I believe row crops are at a fork in the road,” Robbins concludes. “Every single farmer out there has a different management situation on their land, but my encouragement is to step back, take a hard look, analyze your acres in a systematic way like you’ve never done before, and determine what is best for long-term profitability, no matter how difficult the choices. Assume nothing, because the future of farming is very tough to see right now.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Farmland Shock: Georgia Grower Drops 3,000 Acres, Warns of Unplanted Ground in 2026

Sticky Fingers: USDA Fraudster Steals $200M in Stunning Scam

Government Threatens Seizure of 85-Year-Old’s Entire Farm for Irrigating Wrong Field

Frontier Justice: Cowboy Posse Corners Deer Poacher in Buck-Wild Bust

Water Witch Keeps Dowsing Tradition Alive on Nebraska Farmland

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Will Land Values Remain Resilient in 2026 in The Face of a Farm Crisis?

Tue, 20 Jan 2026 14:59:08 GMT

While we may not see as many record eye-popping land sales in 2026, experts say they still anticipate the land market to remain resilient. After years of steady growth, the agricultural land market is shifting and stabilizing. That’s according to analysis from Farmers National Company.

“When we look to 2026, we look for the market to remain stable. We don’t see anything on the horizon that would indicate large fluctuations in land values,” says Colton Lacina, senior vice president of real estate operations. “There are some macro influential factors we are watching — whether that’s grain prices, the 2026 crop and also interest rates.”

He says this isn’t a sign of collapse, but a recalibration that reflects current commodity prices, input costs and regional production conditions.

“We aren’t anticipating the market to fall out, but we are with prolonged compressed margins in the commodity sector. We are anticipating the growth to slow down,” Lacina points out.

Land Market Still Resilient

Still, the resilience of land values has been a welcome surprise to Lacina and his company.

“I think it comes down to, fundamentally, supply and demand. Our supply has continued to be, throughout the last 18 months, historically low, and demand has remained stable. So, that really props up the resiliency of the market,” he adds.

That’s good news with four-year lows in grain prices, and particularly for farmers who own their land outright. That value is what’s keeping many of them in business with negative profits.

Regional Differences Emerge

Although land values are still high historically, current signs indicate a more complex market — driven by local and regional factors rather than nationwide trends. Of the eight regions Farmers National Company serves, Lacina says some are faring better than others.

“The core Midwest, the I-states and eastern Nebraska have remained much more stable than say the Southern regions where different commodity types or crop types, being cotton or rice, are seeing a little more weakness there. We’ve also seen marginal land slide,” Lacina says.

Farmers Still Main Buyers, But More Conservative

Lacina says active farmers remain the largest group of buyers, yet many are more cautious — weighing profitability concerns against long-term ownership goals. They focus on high-quality land within their established areas.

“In areas that we saw good yields in 2025, we’re seeing that translate into higher land values in areas that were impacted on yield. Producers being our largest buying sector, they are being more conservative and really analyzing those purchases,” he explains.

One bright spot has been increased value for range and pasture land with high cattle prices. Additionally, Lacina says they only expect land rental rates to cool by about 1.5% in 2026.

Farmland Shock: Georgia Grower Drops 3,000 Acres, Warns of Unplanted Ground in 2026

Mon, 05 Jan 2026 12:38:59 GMT

How deep is the farm crisis? Adios to acreage.

In November 2025, Alex Harrell, among the most highly reputed producers in the U.S., dropped an old-school grading scale, A to F, across his 6,000-acre operation and slashed almost half his ground, notifying 12 landlords in a three-week window. “I can’t speak to the rest of the country, but around here, generational growers are either cutting back, quitting, falling into Chapter 12, or grasping at straws.”

Spurred by crippling inputs, Harrell’s acreage drop is an alarming indication of an agriculture economy in dire straits. “There will be significant acres in my area that won’t be planted next year,” he says. “I’m seeing it with my own eyes in real time.”

“People don’t realize there was ground here in 2025 that didn’t get planted, but you can already see what’s developing for 2026. Guys are walking away.”

Down Comes the Ax
No fat left to trim. Nothing to burn but muscle. No way to outyield cold math.

“Something has to give when you go three years and more just spinning your wheels on net profit,” Harrell, 36, explains. “The numbers aren’t complicated. When fertilizer, chemical, and machinery costs go up 300% over a short span of time, everything is upside down, especially when commodities go in the tank.”

In 2025, Harrell grew 6,000 acres of corn, soybeans, cotton, and wheat in southwest Georgia’s Lee County. “Breaking even is bad enough in farming, but we’re all way below that around here. We are literally paying to farm—not getting paid to farm. Every year, it costs more to farm input-wise, and unless something changes with these retailers, I don’t see things changing. Based on that, I took a long look at my operation.”

“We’ve now got guys with all their land and equity burned up, and we’re seeing Chapter 12 bankruptcies every day,” Harrell says.

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

But what to do when there’s nothing left to cut on the farm? Cut the farm itself.

In November 2025, Harrell put his leased acreage under the microscope, under a seven-category lens subject to grades A through F:

1. How many miles away was the land?

2. How productive is the soil?

3. What was the water source (pond, creek, or well)?

4. How was irrigation powered (electric or diesel)?

5. On base acres, how productive was the farm related to PLC and ARC?

6. How did wildlife depredation factor for deer and wild pigs (and whether landowners allowed for shooting with deer permits)?

7. How much was rent?

Harrell axed any piece of ground that scored C through F in more than two categories. The reduction totaled 45% of his crop ground.

“It’s pretty straightforward. The only way I could figure out to make things work was to break down those farms individually and grade them on a scale. Then I dropped the ones that didn’t pass—and that included the very first irrigated farm I ever rented, and ground we’ve put 16, 17 crops on that I’ve been working for years. It was time to turn them loose. Like I said, that’s how bad the farm economy is around here. In some ways, I think the worst part is still to come, but people don’t realize that yet.”

No Bidding War
Harrell’s acreage chop may go deeper. “I’ve still got considerations to make on some farms. I’ve still got ground flirting on the line. I may have to make more calls to landlords.”

“We can grow most any variety of crop in the world right here,” Harrell describes, “but we’re at the point of seeing what happens when none of them will turn a profit due to the crazy input prices.”

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

Rent on irrigated ground in Harrell’s region typically runs $275-330 per acre. How did his landlords react when he dropped acres?

“I had one that offered to drop rent a little bit, but I understand because they’re used to having 10 guys sitting there waiting to rent that land. In my opinion, I don’t think they understand the shifting dynamic of the farm economy. This time, people are not going to be beating their doors down. I’m not saying their particular acres won’t get rented, but there’s definitely not going to be a bidding war.”

“Even last year in 2025, there was irrigated land down here that didn’t get worked. In 2026, there’ll be even more. I can’t speak for anyplace else in the U.S., but in southwest Georgia, this is what we’re seeing in farmland, especially marginal ground. It’s already happening.

Yield Forfeit
Prior to Harrell’s acreage slash, his operation stretched 21 miles east, 30 miles west, 15 miles north, and 15 miles south.

“In some ways, I think the worst part is still to come, but people don’t realize that yet.”

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

“I tightened the circle. I think my furthest farm is only going to be about 10 miles from me now. When you look at fuel, labor, time, and insurance involved in running up and down the road, that kills you whenever you put a tractor on a highway.

“Next, I’ve got to consider equipment and labor cuts to drop our insurance at least a little, at the same time keeping my eye on the fine line where I’ve got to keep enough acres to spread equipment over.”

Getting bigger and going longer is out—at least for Harrell. “Yeah, that’s how I used to think: Just go across more acres, make inputs cost less, and that’ll solve everything. Not anymore. What people come to see is that spreading too far in the Southeast means that nine times outta ten, you forfeit yield, because there’s no way to look after your crops like they need.”

Translated: Irrigation, weed control, repeated fungicide applications, labor logistics, and host of other management practices create a never-ending game of catch-up.

“There are Midwest farmers out there on big, big acres that do a fantastic job, but in the Southeast, we can’t get behind a single day on irrigation, or we lose yield,” Harrell notes. “Then factor in all the other aspects people don’t think about—like wildlife damage from deer and hogs, and countless spray trips across the field—and things get really complicated. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say a 15,000-acre operation in the Midwest compares to a 5,000-acre in the Southeast as far as demand on a farmer. That doesn’t mean anybody is better or worse, but it sure means things are very different.”

Walking Away
On Aug. 13, 2024, Alex Harrell fired the soybean shot heard round the farm world with a bin-busting 218.28 bushels per acre, shattering his own world record of 206.79 bushels set in 2023. Back to back, he grew the highest yielding soybeans in history.

“People don’t realize there was ground here in 2025 that didn’t get planted, but you can already see what’s developing for 2026. Guys are walking away.”

(Photo courtesy of Harrell Farms)

Harrell has a tight grasp on agronomics, crop management, and bottom-line financials. The extreme rub endured by growers over successive years is down to the bone, he warns.

“We can grow most any variety of crop in the world right here, but we’re at the point of seeing what happens when none of them will turn a profit due to the crazy input prices. We’ve now got guys with all their land and equity burned up, and we’re seeing Chapter 12 bankruptcies every day. Guys are quitting and walking away, and that eventually leads to land that doesn’t get picked up. That’s how terrible things have gotten, even if some people don’t see it yet. Cropland with no crop.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Outraged Farmers Blame Ag Monopolies as Catastrophic Collapse Looms

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Northwest Iowa Farm Serves Up 12 Days of Ice Cream for the Holidays

Wed, 24 Dec 2025 18:51:39 GMT

Stensland Family Farms, dates back over a hundred years. Jason Stensland says his great great grandfather homesteaded the farm near the Northwest Iowa town of Larchwood.

The Stensland’s are grain farmers, and they ran a dairy operation for 20 years. However, in 2015 they started their own creamery, which currently involves 10 family members. Jason says they added the creamery by necessity. “Our story is trying to survive on the farm and vertically integrate ourselves so then we can keep the the heritage going and our family farm going and providing for our families.”

The ice cream production is done right on the farm and is overseen by Jason’s twin brother, Justin. “We’ll make about 1,400 quarts today and we do that two to three times a week roughly.” The family produces 70,000 to 80,000 quarts of premium ice cream annually using a small batch process. Justin says it starts with their base ice cream mix. “You dump that into an ice cream machine and then depending on the flavor you’re making and then you add your ingredients. You mix it all up and it takes about 10 minutes to make a batch and it comes out like soft serve.” He says it then goes into the freezer for 18 to 24 hours at -25° to harden.”

Stenland’s originally offered a long list of dairy products when their father Dave kick started the creamery ten years ago. However, with their flare for ice cream it quickly became their focus. Jason says their ice cream is a premium product. “It’s a fuller fat and we really focus on good quality ingredients and it’s a lactose free base. So then as long as you stick to the simple ice creams, you’ll kind of you can tolerate the ice cream with the lactose free situation.”

Stensland’s make over 80 flavors of ice cream and while their Mom is the GOAT of new flavors everyone in the family plays a role. This time of year they expand their flavor offerings to include some holiday favorites like eggnog, cinnamon stick, ginger snap and white chocolate peppermint. These and other flavors are sold at their retail store in Sioux Falls as part of their 12 days of Ice Cream Christmas promotion says Jason, “So, it’ll be 12 different flavors and somebody can come in and have a different flavor throughout their 12 days of Christmas.”

Justin says they also feature holiday shakes and other novelties. “We also do different pies like cheesecake pies. We’ll do so we’ll do like a white chocolate peppermint cheesecake pie. Then we’ll do a pumpkin cheesecake pie also.”

Plus, Stenland’s incorporate their cheeses, curds and products produced on local farms to create holiday gift offerings. They assemble corporate gift boxes, and anything for individuals.

And Jason says at Christmas and all year long they pride themselves in producing local products fresh from the farm.
“We take passion and pride in what we do and if we can do that uh as a family and also give people the ice cream like that and serve that to them it’s it’s just it’s rewarding.”
and

Georgia Watermelon Heist Explodes Into Epic Night of Pandemonium

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 12:37:10 GMT

“Son, you roll one more melon down that board and I’m gonna to shoot you.”

The bare-bones warning, delivered over a midnight hum of katydids and crickets, froze young Terry Nunn in mid theft, silhouetted against the glow of a fat Georgia moon. Staring at the double-barrel bores of a shotgun nestled capably in the arms of an old farmer, Nunn, 16, felt his mouth go to cotton.

Still as a statue behind a truck bed half-loaded with giant watermelons, Nunn had been minutes from a flawless, five-fingered heist. Instead, he was cold-busted and on the verge of frontier justice, alongside two confederates. Beyond surrender, the teen had one option: Run like hell.

With the turn of a heel in red dirt, Nunn bolted like a blind man escaping flames, and scrambled into the melon field, leaving behind a hail of blasts, buckshot, burning rubber, and buck-wild bedlam. The scheme descended into epic pandemonium.

“I’m sure not proud of what we did, but I still scratch my head at how crazy it was,” Nunn recalls. “No doubt, the whole deal still sticks close to my heart.”

Welcome to the night the lights almost went out in Georgia.

Black Diamonds
Pocked with a roadmap of dents and scratches, testament to horse hauling and cow wrangling, a 1969 F-100 bounced the backroads of Jackson County, roughly 60 miles northeast of Atlanta, on a sticky August morning with mercury bound for 100 degrees.

Windows rolled down in the green, two-tone truck, the price of a breeze was worth the taste of dust to three teenage boys sweltering in the cab, as Nunn rode passenger window, with his good buddy, Gene, behind the wheel, and lifetime friend, Rocky, wedged in the middle.

“It didn’t take long and we could see exactly where we were going and what we were doing,” Nunn remembers. “Big ole melons laying everywhere.”

(Photo public domain)

Elbow cocked over belt molding, Nunn watched the blur of pastures and woods. It was 1977 in rural Georgia: Young men riding the backroads could easily stray.

“It was almost natural for three teenagers to drift toward trouble in summertime,” explains Nunn, in a voice soaked in Southern honey. “It’s easy to stir up a mess out in the country, especially if you’re bored and ain’t got any money.”

Recounting the past comes natural to the 64-year-old—a master storyteller who paints in color, hangs on detail, and delivers tales on a loop with remarkable recall. Raised hardscrabble, Nunn never lacked for necessity, but he could see poverty from the bottom rung of working class. By 12, he worked full-time; by 14, he drove a tractor-trailer. By 16, “Big T” Nunn was stacked at 6’1”, 220 lb., and could blaze down the gridiron.

And on an otherwise ordinary dog day in 1977, Nunn’s young life almost doglegged as the Ford crossed north into Banks County. Beyond endless stretches of grain fields, the pickup slowed and eased to the shoulder, alongside a 50-acre patch dotted with massive chunks of oblong fruit.

Black Diamond watermelons. Deep, dark green in color, each easily exceeding 50 lb., the picture-book specimens were prime for picking.

Gene swept his finger across the field of dragon eggs, and turned to Rocky and Nunn: Y’all wanna make some money?

Lock, Stock, and Barrel
The plan was straightforward: Return to the field in the witching hour, fill the bed with booty, and sell the haul roadside on the edge of Atlanta the following day. Easy money, honey.

However, the property in the trio’s crosshairs was not easy pickings. By no means.

Months earlier, Nunn had snuck onto the same farm and rustled catfish a stone’s throw from the watermelon patch. He was caught red-handed by the shotgun-toting farmer-owner.

Apparently, the old man never slept.

“He nabbed me and another buddy holding a full 6’-string of fish that didn’t have room to slide another 2-pound channel cat on,” Nunn recollects. “He carried us back to his house and made us clean the fish right in front of him. We put them in gallon jugs, filled the jugs with water, stuck it all in the freezer, and then cleaned up everything. I thought he would call the law, but then he let us go.”

“Out of breath, alone in the dark, I was wishing I’d never have done something this crazy. But most of all, I was scared to death … I knew the old man was coming.”

(Photo courtesy of Cindy Nunn)

Only a few short months after the catfish fiasco, Nunn again was ready to roll the dice. Brimming with confidence, Nunn, Gene, and Rocky drove to a barn owned by Gene’s papaw, and prepared to execute. They padded the truck bed with a thick layer of hay and grabbed a scrap piece of plywood cut lengthways in half to deploy as a loading ramp.

At approximately 11:30 p.m., with temps still clinging tight to the low 80s, the teens rumbled back to Banks County. Gene drove just past the field entrance, turned off his headlights, cut the wheel, and backed down to an 8’ embankment below the melon field. Nunn and Rocky spilled out of the cab’s right side and moved toward the field, decked in standard summer fare: t-shirts, close-cropped jean shorts, and work boots. Gene, strapped in blue jeans and cowboy boots, crawled into the bed, and extended the plywood ramp to the embankment.

A snapshot in time, left to right, proprietor Charlie Brown; Terry Nunn’s father, W.T.; Terry Nunn; Ricky Hill; and Rocky Brown. Photo courtesy of Cindy Nunn

(Photo courtesy of Cindy Nunn)

Nunn and Rocky would cut vines, pick, haul the produce from field to truck, and roll melons down the ramp to Gene for stacking and packing. Lock, stock, and barrel.

Under a moon that wasn’t quite full, but plenty fat, the boys walked into the rows. “Our eyes got adjusted pretty fast. It didn’t take long and we could see exactly where we were going and what we were doing,” Nunn remembers. “Big ole melons laying everywhere.”

“Only problem was, the old man’s house was just a mile from that field.”

Every Man for Himself
Nunn and Rocky knelt and began harvesting. A flick of a Barlow knife, an upward hoist, and the deed was done. Operating in total silence and total darkness, with no risk of flashlight exposure, they carried the hefty melons to the descending ramp for release to Gene.

“You snipped the vine and toted off the melon, keeping the knife between your fingers,” Nunn describes. “We wasn’t playing around. I mean, these were Black Diamonds and we were both good-sized boys, so we toted them in pairs. We’d put’em on the ramp, one at a time, and roll’em down. Gene was stacking them in the bed.”

“I’m sure not proud of what we did, but I still scratch my head at how crazy it was,” Nunn recalls.

(Photo courtesy of Facebook, Miller Farms)

“I’m not sure how much time passed, but we were hard at it and covered an area about a quarter of a football field. By this time, maybe we had 40 or so melons loaded in the bed. It was getting about time to call it a night, but that ain’t what happened. We went back in for a few melons more.”

Cradling two more Black Diamonds under his arms, Nunn marched to the embankment and rolled the first down the plywood plank. He bent over, grabbed the second, and stopped cold. A voice with Old Testament wrath cut the night air.

Son, you roll one more melon down that board and I’m going to shoot you. If you don’t believe me, you just go ahead and roll another one.

Roughly 40’ to Nunn’s left stood the old man, wearing overalls and a crumpled ball hat that looked to have been run over by a tractor several times. Time stopped.

“He had a double-barrel shotgun in the crook of his arm and it looked like it was a part of him. You know how old men lay it in the bend of their arm and it looks natural? It looked like he’d been carrying his gun in that position his whole life,” Nunn exclaims.

“I didn’t have no idea where he’d come from or how he knew we were there. I ain’t got a clue. All I knew was he meant every word about shooting me. Evidently, somebody had been in that melon field before and he was keeping an eye on it because there was no reason for him to come down there at all.”

“The only thing in my favor was that in the dark, the old man didn’t recognize me as being the kid who stole his catfish. That might have saved me from getting shot on the spot.”

Still as a stone, casting his eyes toward the field, Nunn caught a snapshot of Rocky, a sprinter on the high school track team, motoring toward liberty 40 yards into the field, fading into black. He gone.

Shifting his gaze back to the old man, Nunn mustered up a reply: “Yessir. I’m not going to roll another watermelon, and I’m sorry that I did.”

The gun remained level: “We fixin’ to call the law.”

Despite getting the drop on Nunn, the old man made one miscalculation. He assumed Nunn was the driver, i.e., he didn’t realize Gene was squatting in the bed.

“All of a sudden, Gene slipped or shifted in the truck, and the sound kinda startled the old man. He turned to the noise, and when he did, I took my chance.”

Sincerely. Every man for himself.

Melons at Midnight
Bat outta hell, Big T Nunn burst into the field, work boots cutting Georgia dirt. Behind him, complete chaos and 12-gauge thunder.

“I stretched out, hit full speed, and about right then I heard shots. At the same time, I heard Gene crank the truck and spin off with melons flying everywhere. I clearly heard the plywood hit the tailgate. And I’m running as fast as my legs will go.”

Pellets exploded all around Nunn. “The old man was reloading and firing steady. Birdshot popped all around, some of them hitting my arms and legs and head, and it stung. I don’t know if he was trying to kill me or just shooting overtop to scare me, but it worked either way. He shot about eight times or so.”

“It’s easy to stir up a mess out in the country, especially if you’re bored and ain’t got any money,” Nunn says.

(Photo courtesy of Cindy Nunn)

With no plan beyond immediate escape, Nunn kept running, aiming for a tree line on the far side of the field. But suddenly—thump, crash, and somersault. Nunn forgot he was running in a field full of melons at midnight.

“My right foot planted dead center of one and went right in, and down I went. Got up, ran a few yards, and hit another. It was like that the whole way across the field, but finally I dove into the tree line and found cover.”

“Out of breath, alone in the dark, I was wishing I’d never have done something this crazy. But most of all, I was scared to death, looking back out at the field. I knew the old man was coming.”

Bury the Body
Splattered in watermelon flesh, streaked in dirt, and skinned on elbows and knees, Nunn appeared to have wrestled a bear and lost.

Crouching in tree cover, unsure of what to do next, he was startled by the sound of leaves rustling to his rear. Rocky looked equally worse for wear.

“Terry, what do you think Gene is doing?”

“I know exactly what he’s doing,” Nunn replied. “He’s headed down the road wide open, and melons are tumbling all outta that bed. I promise you, if that old man thinks about it, he’ll be able to track Gene just by following the watermelons.”

Nunn and Rocky, unsure of how to get back to Jackson County, began moving down the tree line, stopping where the timber brushed the road. “We waited in the shadows, hoping maybe, just maybe, Gene would come back for us.”

An eternity later, Nunn saw headlights approaching. However, the lights didn’t belong to a 1969 F-100. “I knew who it was,” Nunn details. “Gene had gone home and switched out vehicles to his papaw’s truck. I hollered out and Gene slowed down, and we hopped in the bed while he was still moving.”

Forty miles south, the trio pulled up beside the barn, where Gene’s papaw was waiting: I know y’all have been up to no good. Don’t know what y’all been doing. Don’t want to know. Don’t tell me about it. Don’t wake me up no more. Put my truck back in the barn, and y’all behave.

Translated: Papaw knew how to bury a body.

Never Going Back
A heist turned debacle, the watermelon job mercifully ended with a whimper, rather than a bang. The take? Seven watermelons, all gashed and bruised, remained in the F-100’s bed.

The man of a thousand tales, Terry “Big T” Nunn, one of the finest raconteurs in the South.

(Photo courtesy of Cindy Nunn)

“We gave them away to family,” Nunn says. “Looking back, we were just kids in a rural county looking for a little bit of fun that stopped short of trouble.”

“The watermelon raid didn’t cure us from trouble, but it sure fixed us from bothering that old man,” Nunn concludes. “I didn’t ever wanna see him or his shotgun again. I reckon that’s why we never went back.”

(Almost 50 years later, Nunn is a walking library of a thousand stories, all pulled from rural life, agriculture, hunting, fishing, and all points in between. To hear Nunn’s tales and superb delivery, visit his TikTok channel: @terrynunn74 .)

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

Government Threatens Seizure of 85-yr-old’s Entire Farm for Irrigating Wrong Field

Wed, 10 Dec 2025 12:40:09 GMT

The government is preparing to take the private land and legacy of an 85-year-old farmer for the crime of irrigation. Why? He watered his crops without regulatory approval.

“I didn’t use a drop past my legal rights, but because I put it on the wrong field, I’m a criminal and the state wants to take everything I have,” Bob Greiff says. “It’s all about control. And power.”

In response to Greiff’s water “violations,” the Washington State Department of Ecology levied a series of fines totaling $121,000 and slapped a lien on his property. The department issued press releases championing its actions, and portrayed Greiff as an environmental outlaw. Notably, Ecology officials are not penalizing Greiff for the amount of water pumped, but rather, the location applied. Put it where we say, or else.

“This is the worst abuse of power by Ecology over a farmer I’ve seen in my career,” says water consultant Tim Reierson. “Why the state chose to issue massive fines instead of permits is unexplainable. And the more facts you know, the worse it gets. Ecology made it impossible for Bob to be legal and still survive on that farm. It’s cruel. I can back everything I say.”

Greiff insists the state’s measures are a “nightmare dream you don’t wake up from.”

“Why do they care what crops or acres I put my legally obtained water on?” he asks. “How did things ever get this crazy for farmers?”

Make or Break
On a bare-bones 160-acre (120 arable) farm outside Deer Park, in northeast Washington’s Spokane County, Bob Greiff rotates alfalfa, oats, hay, and barley. His fields are evenly split by a road—two 80-acre tracts to the south and north of the ribbon. Greiff rubs pennies to make dollars: His last tractor purchase was in 1992—for $70,000. “We traded a number of even older tractors just to get the price down to what we could afford,” he recalls.

Deploying conservative farming practices on relatively tiny acreage, Greiff’s operation is akin to a step back in time. Describing Greiff as old-school is an understatement.

In 1939, Greiff’s father, Willie, purchased an initial portion of the creek-side property and planted seed potatoes. A decade later, in 1949, Willie secured a water right and began irrigating.

“I had a set amount of water I was allowed to use, but they said I was in big trouble if I used it on any row except what they allowed,” Greiff explains.

(Photo by Ray Aguirre)

“My dad bought that first 80 by the creek and then bought another 80 across the road,” Greiff explains. “In about 1953, he ran a pipe under the road and started pumping to both fields because the second one had more cultivated land and was level.”

Willie watered on both sides of the road until his death in 1991. Greiff continued watering in the same manner. Potatoes were replaced by alfalfa and grain. Regardless of crop, Greiff’s soil produces limited yield without moisture. Each year, as his crops rotate on a given piece of dirt, he requires flexibility to add more water in some areas and less in others. The logistical dance is make or break: For example, Greiff typically grows one crop of alfalfa dryland and three irrigated, and he grows 50-bushel dryland wheat and 100-plus-bushel irrigated wheat.

Legally, Greiff holds three water rights totaling 136 acre-feet per year annual volume for irrigation on 37 acres north of the dividing road. “I’ve always pumped from our water rights and survived on this dirt since I was a boy,” Greiff exclaims. “Now they tell me they’ll kick me off my own land. For what? Because I irrigated the wrong acres without permission and owe them $121,000.”

“Sound crazy? It is. One day I’m pumping water just like I have for 70 years, and the next day I’m the target of people who know nothing about farming. Nothing.”

In 2019, Greiff’s mailbox clinked with a snail-mail message from the Washington State Department of Ecology. Mr. Greiff, you’re irrigating on the south side the road, but we don’t find a record of a water right for you to do that.

(Significantly, Ecology made recent headlines in 2023 after fining King Ranch in Grant and Douglas counties almost $268,000 for alleged wetlands destruction. Ecology referred King Ranch to the state attorney general for a criminal investigation. USDA is backing King Ranch.)

“It all started with a letter,” Greiff says, his voice trailing off in disbelief. “I had a set amount of water I was allowed to use, but they said I was in big trouble if I used it on any row except what they allowed.”

Gone to Hell
In July 2019, Greiff knocked on the front door of water consultant Tim Reierson’s home in Yakima, roughly three hours distant. Seated at Reierson’s dining room table, Greiff told his tale.

At the helm of Streamline Water Consulting, and highly esteemed in the irrigation industry, Reierson navigates both agriculture rows and the paperwork maze of water rights. Prior to private practice, he worked for seven years (1989-1996) at Ecology in the Water Rights Division. Translated: Reierson understands nuance on both sides of the table.

Reierson researched Greiff’s water rights and farm history.

“If they want to destroy a farmer because he put his water on unapproved acres, then I’m not gonna run and hide,” Greiff says.

(Photo by Ray Aguirre)

“The research showed Bob’s water rights don’t cover south of the road. Ecology doesn’t seem to register the significance of irrigating in plain sight for decades, but I found an explanation for it. In 1968, Bob filed to irrigate both north and south, and it was approved in 1975 . But when Ecology certified the right in 1983, they left out the south part, possibly in error.”

“I don’t think Bob read the certificate fine print,” Reierson continues. “He thought it was fixed and farmed it 50 years. Ecology has this false narrative they’ve spread around that he’s a bad actor. Bob Greiff actually wants to follow the rules. That’s why he contacted me.”

“People need to understand how important this farm is, and Bob’s legacy. It’s subsistence farming and water-efficient to keep pumping costs down. Classic rotation practices; hand labor moving wheel lines; and the orchestrated timing and movement of limited water. He’s a treasure and so is that farm.”

Reierson’s remedy was straightforward: Follow the rulebook and get Greiff legally clear to irrigate the south acreage. Once approved, Greiff could take his 136-acre feet and “spread” it to the south acreage. Same amount of water—but poured thinner across more acres.

According to Washington State law, a grower is required to adhere to a single irrigation program for two years before “spreading” is allowed. Greiff willingly jumped through the onerous regulatory hoop.

“I asked Bob to follow the statutory requirements exactly to qualify for increasing acres, all while still using the same amount of water,” Reierson details. “There’s a calculation called the ACQ, the annual consumptive quantity, based on proving your annual beneficial use. It averages the highest two years in the past five. All we needed was two years of water use on the 37 acres in the north, file the applications, provide all the supporting documentation and technical work, and get the approvals. This is what I do for a living.”

“Bob did what I asked in 2020 and 2021, irrigating an alfalfa stand in the north. Alfalfa hay has deep roots. It takes lots of water and then gives multiple cuttings. He even had bad luck with a pump going down that hurt his average. He was willing to give up some water rights to get approved quickly.”

“One thing for certain, this was sure as hell never about water or the environment for them (Ecology),” Greiff says.

(Photo by Ray Aguirre)

In 2022, with regulatory boxes ticked, Reierson presented all the paperwork to the Spokane County Water Conservancy Board and gained approval in August that year. Conservancy shipped their decisions to Ecology for a maximum 75-day review period. Under Washington State law , if Ecology does nothing, Conservancy approvals automatically become final.

After two years of yield losses on his south-of-the-road acreage to satisfy the state’s regulations, Greiff was on the cusp of gaining permission to spread water.

And then everything went to hell.

“Ecology intervened on day 58 and that’s when it got surreal,” Reierson says. “At first, they said the water rights couldn’t be overlapped, which is nonsense, but they also said Greiff wouldn’t be able to farm that many acres with the amount of rights he had. The power records on his irrigation pumps proved he did. To tell Greiff how he can and can’t farm is insulting—and embarrassing for Ecology.”

Bring Me a Rock
Conservancy had accepted Reierson’s irrigation plan on Aug. 22, 2022, opening a path for Greiff to irrigate on both sides of the road and spread the water onto all irrigated acres.

However, on Nov. 9, Conservancy called for a meeting with Ecology, recalls Kevin Freeman, then chair of Conservancy. “There’s not funding for us to hire our own private consultants to review those applications. We’re a volunteer board, so we rely on Ecology’s technical expertise related to the applications. Regarding Mr. Greiff, we had questions about the technical aspects of how water spreading was to occur between groundwater and surface rights. Turns out, Ecology didn’t agree with Mr. Greiff’s consultant’s (Reierson) interpretation of how the water was to be spread and if that was appropriate.”

“I’ve always tried to do things right on this farm and I never dreamed my own state would treat me or anyone else like this,” Greiff says.

(Photo by Ray Aguirre)

“We never approved the application,” says Freeman, a geologist and a hydrogeologist working mainly in lower Yakima Valley with long legs in private consulting—35 years of experience. “This was a technical disagreement at the state level between Ecology and Mr. Greiff and his consultant. It was apparent that that difference was strong enough that Ecology would reject the application. We felt it was better for Mr. Greiff to work directly with Ecology.”

Six days later, on Nov. 15, public records show Conservancy voted to withdraw its decisions, stating for each: “The board intends to revise and resubmit for Ecology review the record of decision and report of examination for the subject application.”

Reierson explained his consent, “I initially agreed to that step, for the board to withdraw its formal approvals from August 2022, based on the promise a compromise could be found with Ecology. Plus, we had no leverage, meaning no money or time to fight Ecology in court if they denied the board’s approvals. But when Ecology intervened, what followed was an exhausting game of ‘bring me a rock.’ ”

“That’s where clients without wealth would go broke,” Rierson adds, “but I’d stopped charging Bob by this time so it didn’t work.”

In early February 2023, Reierson completed a third technical report. He thought he had finally broken through. He had not. What happened next was fatal to Greiff’s compliance efforts.

“The 2023 irrigation season was approaching. On February 13, the Conservancy Board held a meeting without telling me,” Reierson notes. “They asked for technical support about ACQ from Ecology. Herman Spangle, the liaison to the board, and his supervisor Jaime Short attended. At the end of that meeting the board voted to drop the applications completely. I only know details because I did a public records request for their emails.”

“After that, the applications went to Ecology as last resort for approval. They could have approved them in April. Instead, Ecology sat on the applications and waited Bob out, then fined him in June. Then, as if it couldn’t get worse, Ecology rejected his applications based on his noncompliance, and kept adding fines. What the hell?”

“I even sent them an email four months before that final rejection, begging them to issue the permits, not fines. It was short. I remember it saying ‘Please...Be human. Be humane.’ And here we are.”

“Comply or Die”
Technical excuses are a dime a dozen, Greiff says. “It’s always the same story with the agencies and departments,” Greiff says. “They got a million reasons why I’ve done something wrong, but they don’t want to talk about the plain truth that I’m just trying to spread my water rights over my crops and that I’ve never stolen any water.”

Ecology personnel place blame for the permitting rejection on Greiff and Reierson.

“They sent us something and we reviewed it and got back to the Conservancy Board and said, ‘Hey, you don’t actually have the information you need to make this recommendation,” explains Jaime Short, Section Manager for Ecology’s Water Resource Program in the Eastern Regional Office. “Like, just the ingredients aren’t there.’”

“So, they decided, and this was all in consultation with Mr. Greiff’s consultant (Reierson), to withdraw their recommendation. He was going to get them some additional information. And then that did not occur,” Short adds. “So, eventually we kind of kicked the applications back to him because we didn’t have what we needed to process them.”

In response to Greiff’s water “violations,” Ecology levied a series of fines totaling $121,000 and placed a lien on his property.

(Photo by Ray Aguirre)

Brook Beeler, Eastern Regional Director of Ecology, echoes Short: “I think the crux of the issue here is when Mr. Greiff looked at his quantity or how much he’d been using, he wanted to put it in a different place than was identified in his right. And he started to work through that process with his Conservancy Board application. And then again, following up with us.”

And that’s where we told him, ‘We do not have enough information from you to be able to make that change for you to expand your acreage or to put this water that you claim you have on additional acreage.’ … He may have had enough to do what he was attempting to do, but he didn’t share that information with us in a way where we could make that approval. Instead of working with us, he chose to ignore us and continue to irrigate illegally.”

Reierson contradicts the claims made by Short and Beeler.

“The only ingredient missing was Ecology as a good faith partner. It was a continual process trying to answer endless objections. Not saying all their comments were wrong but on fundamentals it was baseless. Ecology management parroted staff instead of putting them in line on the nonsense. We didn’t have time for games but it was never enough, so then it all just tasted bad. And I felt sick knowing the original approvals were completely valid and I’d fallen for a trap going along with them being withdrawn.”

In many conservation quarters, Greiff’s desire to spread his water allotment over greater acres—yet still maintain yield—would be applauded.

“Not with Ecology for Mr. Greiff,” Reierson says. “They said different, but in reality they resisted Bob’s efforts to comply. Jaime Short told me Bob didn’t have enough water rights to cover the spreading acres. Another staffer said Bob’s crop rotation explanation was ‘weak’. It’s all in their emails.”

“Bob knew how to navigate farming, but not how to navigate the hurdles they set up. Even I couldn’t navigate them. In the end it about broke me to tell Bob, ‘I can’t help you anymore, I’ve tried everything. They’re flat out against you, or me, or both.’”

Following Ecology’s rejection, Greiff turned on the water. He began irrigating the south acres. “They left an old man no choice,” Greiff says. “I’d been without water for several years because of all this craziness. So, I started irrigating south of the road—right where they said it was illegal, but that’s where I make my money and that’s where I survive. And the whole time, I never used a drop more of water than I was supposed to. Didn’t matter. They wanted to cut my pocketbook in half, at first. Now, they want my farm. Their policy is, ‘Comply or die.’”

Bad Farmer
In response to his renewed irrigation, Greiff received a succession of letters from Ecology. Each time, he wrote “Return to Sender” and dropped the unopened envelopes back in the post.

“Hell, I even got letters from the Attorney General’s office in Olympia and sent those back, too. I didn’t know what kind of threats were in them, and I didn’t care. I wasn’t stealing any water. I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just wanted to be left alone to run a farm like my father and grandfather did.”

Freeman acknowledges that no theft of water theft by Greiff was alleged. “I feel Mr. Greiff’s pain because a number of my clients in the lower Yakima Valley are dairy farmers. And the small guys are just getting roasted. And I get that Mr. Greiff is a small farmer. We never thought this was about him pulling more than his legal amount of water—just that he’s not spreading it right. This should never have developed the way it did.”

Ecology issued a cease-and-desist order in June 2023, followed by a $6,000 fine in June 2024; and a $15,000 fine in August 2024, along with a press release regarding Greiff’s irrigation, telling the public: “attempts to help Greiff comply with regulations were unsuccessful … Additional unpermitted irrigation continued.”

A year later, in September 2025, Ecology levied a $100,000 fine, along with a judgement lien obtained by the Attorney General’s Office in Spokane County Superior Court. Again, Ecology issued a press release : “For years, we’ve seen repeated violations and a disregard for bringing this property into compliance … We’ve made multiple attempts to provide technical assistance and achieve voluntary compliance, yet illegal use continues.”

However, neither of the two press releases noted that Greiff was not exceeding his water rights or stealing water. A neutral observer, lacking context, might assume Greiff was an environmental criminal. The releases also did not explain that Greiff hired professional help to comply with the law. Additionally, the releases made no mention of Ecology’s involvement with Conservancy to block approvals for Greiff.

“These public portrayals of Bob Greiff as a bad actor and bad farmer are false,” Reierson says. “I guided him through all the statutory requirements for receiving the approvals, and he did everything required. The only bad actor in this situation is the Department of Ecology. They influenced the Water Conservancy Board to help defeat Bob’s plan for compliance with the law.”

Here I Will Be
As Greiff faces the prospect of farm and legacy loss, a solution is maddeningly just out of reach. All Greiff needs to legally spread his water onto his farmland on the south side of the road is a paperwork change from Ecology. Otherwise, his water rights can only be poured onto the north side of the road.

“I wasn’t looking for trouble,” Greiff says. “I just wanted to be left alone to run a farm like my father and grandfather did.”

(Photo by Ray Aguirre)

Absurd, Greiff insists. “I can’t thank Tim Reierson enough, but no matter what he did to help me and go by the book, the Department of Ecology dragged their feet. One thing for certain, this was sure as hell never about water or the environment for them. Think about it: I’m still allowed to use the exact same amount of water.”

Freeman believes Conservancy made the right call. However, his confidence doesn’t extend beyond: “I don’t know what the mechanisms were regarding what happened after we were done with our review. Is Ecology making an example out of him? I felt like if everyone could sit down in a room together, this would have gotten done, but I don’t know what happened, or how it’s gotten to this extreme point. Ecology would say they’re not being heavy-handed, but it now certainly appears that way to many people.”

“I think there are things Ecology could have done differently and things Mr. Greiff and his consultant could have done differently,” Freeman adds. “But for a situation that is supposed to only be about how Mr. Greiff is applying water to his fields to end up with a lien and potential seizure—that’s extremely surprising, and I won’t lay the blame at Mr. Greiff’s feet.”

The present impasse should never have developed, Reierson concurs. “Without Ecology’s interference, Bob’s first approval back in 2022 would have become final and he would have been irrigating just fine in 2023, 2024, and 2025—with no fines.”

“As far as correcting this it’s an easy solution because all the work’s been done. Ecology has the administrative power unilaterally, right now, to rescind its orders and fines, vacate the lien, reinstate and approve the applications. Done. It’s a safe bet they won’t do it on their own, so we’ll need a state legislator to take up the cause. Bob would welcome an independent review. Then, I think Ecology, higher up the ladder, might see the light.”

When the 2026 crop season arrives, Greiff intends to irrigate—on both sides of the road.

“We’ve been here since 1939. Come spring next year, just as my father and grandfather did, I’m going to plant like normal. And when May comes, I’m going to turn the sprinklers on again to survive wherever my crops need the water. I’ve always tried to do things right on this farm and I never dreamed my own state would treat me or anyone else like this.”

“I didn’t use a drop past my legal rights, but because I put it on the wrong field, I’m a criminal and the state wants to take everything I have,” says Greiff.

(Photo by Ray Aguirre)

“I don’t believe the people in these departments know what irrigation, yield, crops, or rotation are,” Greiff insists. “It’s a big secret that no one is supposed to say: They don’t understand what farming is.”

Will Ecology shut down Greiff’s operation? “We can’t certainly speak for, you know, what lies ahead for him and how he continues to operate his farm or as a producer,” says Director Beeler. “I will say if he continues to illegally irrigate those acres, I think we have to, we have to look at what tools do we have left in our toolbox to again ensure compliance.”

“The state wants people to think I’m an outlaw,” Greiff concludes. “They don’t want people to know the true story. If they want to destroy a farmer because he put his water on unapproved acres, then I’m not gonna run and hide. Here I am. Here I will be.”

For further resources on the interaction between Washington State and Bob Greiff, see Tim Reierson’s timeline and document resource .

For more articles from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

$100K Per Acre Farmland in 2050: Is Buying Land Sustainable?

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 16:34:50 GMT

Land will be worth $100,000 per acre in 2050 in Marshall County, Ill. At least, that’s what the forecasted ROI based on the past 25 years would indicate.

I recently partnered with Harrison Rogers of Fractal Ag to build a simple tool around land purchase decision-making . I said, “Harrison, we need to be able to plug in the price in 2000, the price now in 2025 and have the calculation extrapolate that forward to a projected price in 2050.”

Harrison is much smarter, and better looking, than me, and he made that happen.

I have built land investment tools in the past that accounted for taxes, capital rates of return and appreciation, but I was missing historical context.

How I Got That Number
Using the example below, if land was $2,500 per acre in 2000 and is now $16,500 that’s a 7.84% compounded annual rate. By 2050, that’s more than $108,000 per acre. Even at conservative 45-year trends from university data of 6.75%, $80,000+ isn’t unrealistic.

Is this our new reality? I don’t know. Scarce assets with high demand drive prices up. Will it be at the continued parabolic rate, or will it flatten out? These opportunities for buying come in cycles, and we might be in a buying opportunity right now.

I’m fortunate to speak to many wealthy and successful farm business owners who consistently relate “buying land almost never cash flows or makes sense at the time.” It worked for them, and their balance sheets showed it. Now, $16,500 per acre on 160 acres becomes $14 million in balance sheet gain over the next 25 years if these calculations are true. So, is buying land sustainable today? Or is the better question: Is buying land sustainable in five, 10 or 25 years from now?

Interested in farmland investments? Make plans to attend Top Producer Summit , Feb. 9-11, 2026, to learn how to assess each investment opportunity and look beyond your common understanding of how, when and why to buy land. Land is measured in acres but it’s effect on your balance sheet, bottom line and control over your business is greater than just that.

(Top Producer)

Record-Breaking Sale: Iowa Farmland Sets New High for State at $32,000 Per Acre

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 17:12:42 GMT

An Iowa farmland auction in Sioux County, just outside Orange City, is resetting the top of the market. A 35.5-acre tract sold on Dec. 1 for $32,000 per acre, and Jim Rothermich of Iowa Appraisal says it’s the highest auction price he has recorded in the state.

“It is a 35-and-a-half-acre tract that goes for $32,000 an acre,” Rothermich says. “As far as my data goes, I keep track of all the land auctions in Iowa, that’s the highest. It set a new record yesterday in Iowa.”

He says the previous record was $30,000 per acre, also in Sioux County, set in November 2022, and he’s quick to point out that while Sioux County regularly posts some of Iowa’s biggest numbers, this one still stands apart.

“ The last record is $30,000 an acre , and that is in Sioux County also back in Nov. 11, 2022,” Rothermich says. “So it’s not unusual to see those huge prices in Sioux County. It’s a heavy livestock and dairy county. They need those acres to apply animal waste, and they need the corn production to feed those animals. So it’s not unusual to see that, but that is definitely a high price — no doubt about it.”

A Farmer Bought the Land, Not an Investor

At a time when producers are watching margins and questioning who is really driving top-end land prices, Rothermich says this record isn’t attributed to a Wall Street fund or an out-of-state investor. According to the auctioneer, the winning bidder is a farmer, and the land is positioned to fit directly into an existing local operation.

“According to the auctioneer, it is a farmer buyer,” Rothermich says. “And the highest and best use of this farm is to raise corn and soybeans. I understand it is an adjoining landowner, and there again, it’s a heavy livestock area and dairy area. There’s some large dairies just right around there, and they’re going to use that land.”

No Comment......SOLD! SOLD! SOLD! $1.13+ million or $32,000/acre; purchased by local farmer to produce corn/soybeans. pic.twitter.com/hMeCFJjvjx
— Jim Rothermich, MAI, ARA, ALC (@theLandTalker) December 1, 2025

That adjoining landowner angle matters in competitive auctions, where neighbor value — operational fit, access and scale — can turn into aggressive bidding when a tract comes up for sale.

According to a local source, that dynamic played out in this sale and helped drive the final price higher. The source told Farm Journal the winning bidder operates a large Holstein dairy heifer replacement business, and the tract for sale was located near their existing operation. But competition for the land, and the reason the price went so high, is there was a bidding war with another farmer whose property borders the 35.5-acre parcel, pushing the price well above expectations.

Investor Pressure is Still Real, Amplifying the Top End of Farmland Prices

Rothermich says he can’t say for certain whether investor bids help push the Dec. 1 price to a record. But across Iowa, he says auctioneers describe a consistent trend: Investors, often with local ties, are showing up and competing hard, sometimes forcing farmers to dig deeper for high-quality acres.

“I don’t know if that is the case [in this auction],” he says. “But just visiting with different auctioneers across the state, they’re telling me these investors with local ties, they’re in the market, and they’re pushing these farmers to buy land. Some of those investors are getting them bought, but those local farmers on high-quality land are competing with those guys, and it’s making a difference on high quality.”

In other words, even when a farmer has the winning bid, the bidding atmosphere can still be shaped by investor presence particularly on ground that fits the region’s strongest operations.

Not many $30,000+ sales, but Plenty of Big Numbers in Iowa and Surrounding States

Rothermich says he doesn’t see other Iowa auction results above $30,000 per acre so far this year, but he does track multiple sales above $20,000, including county records.

“I haven’t seen anything over $30,000 this year,” he says. “Now we have several over $20,000 an acre. As a matter of fact, in Mitchell County on Sept. 10 of this year, there is a short 80-acre tract that brings $24,400 an acre, and that is a new price record for that county.”

And Iowa isn’t alone. Rothermich says he’s collecting late-year auction results around the region that show strength continuing across multiple Corn Belt states.

“It’s not just Iowa; we’re seeing these strong prices,” he says. “South Dakota has one farm sell for $18,200 an acre. One in Illinois is $20,150 an acre; I’ve seen several over $20,000 in Illinois. Missouri: $20,000 an acre. Minnesota: a couple tracts bring $17,000 an acre. So it’s not just an Iowa thing; it’s around the surrounding states of Iowa.”

Tight Margins, Strong Land Values Comes as a Surprise

Even with improved commodity prices compared to last year, many producers still describe the current environment as belt-tightening territory: Inputs remain high, and margins are pressured.

That’s why Rothermich says the late-year auction strength, especially the steady stream of standout sales, is catching his attention.

“It does surprise me,” he says. “I am very surprised at the volume. November is typically our busiest month for land auctions, and I’ve been surprised every week in the month of November — some of the strong prices coming out.”

Key Divergence Between High Quality and Lower Quality Farmland

Rothermich says there’s no clearer evidence of a two-speed land market than what’s happening on the lower-quality end, where more auctions are failing to meet seller expectations.

He says he tallies 10 no-sales in Iowa in November, which he calls a high number for the month that typically dominates the auction calendar.

“One area where we are seeing some weakness is the lower quality farms,” he says. “Those are being affected; there’s no doubt about that. And as I say, I keep track of all the land auctions in Iowa; there are 10 no-sales in November. That’s a high number for no sales in a month. So there’s no doubt lower quality farms are being affected.”

When asked directly whether the Dec. 1 record sale signals a widening gap between premium and marginal ground, Rothermich says absolutely.

“The people that have the money to buy that high-quality ground, they’re going after it. There’s no doubt about it,” he adds.

And when it comes to why lower quality farms are more likely to stall at auction, he says the buyer pool changes, especially the presence (or absence) of investors.

“They’re on those lower quality farms,” he says. “You don’t have those local investors competing with the local farmers on that. So those local farmers are kind of driving that market on that, and they’re definitely pulling back. There’s no doubt about it.”

He ties that pullback directly to economic pressure with the weaker performance in some land values a sign of current economic stress.

What to Watch Over the Next Six Months

Rothermich describes today’s auction environment as a market with two tails: a premium segment with strong competition and a lower-quality segment facing resistance. That split makes the overall market feel uneven, even when the headlines are bullish.

“It’s kind of got two tails right now,” he says. “The high quality is selling very good, and the low quality is being affected by the current economy. So it’s kind of a choppy market. That’s how I’d describe it right now.”

Still, he says two fundamentals support stability over the next six months: lower auction volume, which tends to firm prices, and grain prices higher than last year.

“Looking at the number of auctions for November, December, we’re going to be down for the year,” he says. “And that’s been a three-year trend. Lower auction volume is supportive to prices. So as I look at current grain prices, we’re higher than we were last year. So with those two fundamentals, it’s signaling we’re probably going to have a stable market the next six months.”

He adds that good yields, though not necessarily record yield, also help underpin buyer confidence in the near term.

“The lower volume of sales, good harvest … yields are good but not as good as last year,” he says. “Grain prices are higher than they were last year, and we still have buyers out there wanting to get their hands on some high-quality farm ground.”

The $32,000-per-acre Sioux County auction isn’t just a number; it’s a marker of how aggressively buyers are pursuing top-end Iowa farmland, particularly in regions where acres fit into livestock- and dairy-driven demand. The fact Rothermich says the buyer is a farmer adjoining the tract reinforces that operational value is still a powerful force.

At the same time, the record sale lands in a market that’s increasingly divided: Premium farms draw competition while lower-quality farms see more no-sales, signaling that economic pressure is shaping buyer behavior — just not evenly across all acres.

Frontier Justice: Cowboy Posse Corners Deer Poacher in Buck-Wild Bust

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 12:48:05 GMT

When a hairy ape jumped out of a bush and scrambled over a rocky outcrop before disappearing into a canyon with a dog and three cowboys in hot pursuit, Dee Scherich witnessed the opening act to one of the wildest escapades in agriculture and outdoor history.

What followed? A story straight out of the Wild West. Outlaws, cowboy posse, legendary ranchers, yucca hideout, cake feeder truck, honey in a hotel hookup, X marks the spot, and a head-knocking duo of old-school lawmen low on patience.

“I’ve seen crazy things in my life on the ranch, and dealt with poachers my whole career, but who expects to see a damn ape-man hightailing across their land?” Scherich remarks. “Didn’t matter how long it took, we’d catch him.”

Tough as Boot Leather
Rewind the clock to 2002.

“I hope all your f***ing hogs die.” Such were the profane, final words of Kansas game warden Tracy Galvin to a brazen Oklahoma desperado. Maybe not poetic; certainly plain and punctuated.

In the heart of southwest Kansas’ monster buck universe, Comanche County was plagued by outlaws intent on trespass, slaughter, and theft of magnificent antlers worthy of display at Bass Pro or Cabela’s.

Comanche County features open country, few people, and big horns—arguably nowhere more evident than the rugged and raw Merrill Ranch , a slice of Jayhawk heaven. Laced west to east by the sandy Salt Fork of the Arkansas River, the 17,500-acre operation (including 2,000 acres of row crops) was once part of the Comanche Pool —the largest livestock spread in Kansas history. Merrill Ranch’s topography, echoing a Hollywood movie set, is characterized by flat mesas, buttes, deep canyons, gypsum hills, brick-red shale or sandstone formations, deep caves, prickly pear, and yucca. (Adjacent to Merrill, in Barber County, sits the 42,479-acre Z Bar Ranch, owned by Ted Turner.)

Cowboys of the Comanche pool.

(Photo public domain)

In 2002, Merrill was helmed by Dee and Phyllis Scherich , a duo fit for central casting or a Western novel. (A neutral observer would be forgiven for assuming the couple stepped out of a time capsule from the 1800s.) Living legends later inducted into the Kansas Cowboy Hall of Fame , the wedded pair herded cattle, mended fencelines, and managed the outfit for 40 years.

Tough as boot leather, Dee was raised on the Merrill, riding the range in the shadow of his father, Virgil, who first worked the land in the 1940s and later became manager. Like father, like son.

Warm, kindhearted, and remarkably humble, the Scherichs never met a stranger. They also held a special wrath for outlaws, and on the Merrill, tucked in the back of beyond, right was right, and wrong was wrong.

“Damn poachers,” says Dee, 85. “We had a big population of white-tailed deer—really fine bucks. Some evenings, we’d drive out, lights off, watching for vehicles. Sometimes we could catch people, even with their headlights out if it was a moonlit night. Most of the time, we’d race after them and they’d escape at a higher rate of speed than we wanted to chase, but it got the message out that we were always watching.”

“Poach at your own risk.”

Call the Law
On the crisp morning of Nov. 13, 2002, before the opening of deer firearms season, with temps in the 30s set to reach the 50s, Scherich spotted a truck cruising his neighbor’s land—a white, flatbed pickup.

Decked in spurs, boots, cowboy hat, chaps, and Wranglers, Scherich was moving cattle in a pasture on the north end of Merrill Ranch, alongside two hired cowboys, Chris Lawless and Jim Sheets. Finishing herding duties by 11 a.m., the threesome trailered their mounts, leaving saddles and bridles in place, and began driving south across the vast property toward another roundup. Bouncing in the truck bed, Scherich’s two dogs scanned the horizon: Tedrow, a German Shorthair-Weimaraner-Border Collie mix, and Brandy, a chocolate Lab.

Dee and Phyllis Scherich, living legends, managed Merrill Ranch for 40 years.

(Photo courtesy of Phyllis Scherich)

Four miles later, easing along a dirt road with a hint of gravel, the quintet pulled over at a corner where crops met canyon, pausing to decide what part of the ranch to work next.

“We parked close to our crop fields,” Scherich describes. “We’d recently drilled 1,200 acres of wheat and it was prime for deer depredation. At night, the deer exited the canyon and fed on the wheat.”

As Scherich, Lawless, and Sheetz sat in the cab sorting priorities, Tedrow froze stiff as a statue, gazing out of the bed toward a yucca plant growing on the edge of the canyon roughly 75’ east. In a flash, Tedrow bailed from the truck.

A critter? “I thought Tedrow was going to chase a rabbit,” Scherich recalls. “Brandy, not nearly as aggressive, jumped out after him, following Tedrow.”

On a beeline, Tedrow closed on the dagger-leafed yucca, Brandy in his dust.

The yucca shifted. Literally.

“All of a sudden, a fuzzy and hairy man with a rifle stood up behind the yucca and took off running. He looked like an ape-man in camo, and he assumed he was about to get eaten alive. Of course, Tedrow and Brandy were no attack dogs, but he didn’t know that.”

The “ape-man” was a poacher garbed in a ghillie camo. In that instant, Scherich’s ranch roundup target changed from bovine to human.

“All we really knew was there was a guy in a ghillie suit on foot, hiding in some cedars in a canyon. It already sounded damn crazy,” Galvin recalls. Photo courtesy of USAF, Master Sgt. Scott T. Sturkol

(USAF)

The poacher retreated toward the canyon and skirted the rim, desperate to find enough slope to descend. Locating a traversable spot, he dropped over the lip into a gash roughly 100’ deep, 100’ wide extending to several hundred yards, and 1 mile long with multiple forks and a cedar thicket running along the bottom.

In tandem, Scherich and his hired men scrambled for their horses. Scherich had already made the connection: The poacher climbing down the canyon wall belonged to the flatbed pickup spotted earlier in the morning.

Pulling a two-way radio, Scherich barked a message: Another damn poacher. Call the law.

Twelve miles away, at Merrill headquarters, Phyllis was ready to pull the levers: “I called the sheriff immediately, and he promised to also alert the game wardens. Just so happened, everyone was far away or out of the county, but we had time on our side until they arrived.”

Next, Phyllis called neighbor Dave Brass and asked him to check on the odd pickup truck seen earlier. She knew the truck had to be the poacher’s only ride off the Merrill. Brass had also seen the pickup hours before, but he assumed it was the Scherich’s vehicle, because they drove a nearly identical setup.

Above the canyon, Scherich and his men road the rim, peering down for any sign of the outlaw. They had a rifle in the work truck, but carried no sidearms. “Looking into a canyon for an armed man, and not knowing if he’ll fire up at you is about as serious as things get,” Scherich emphasizes. “We wanted to keep him penned and be certain he didn’t escape.”

Scherich suspected the poacher was holed up somewhere in the bottom cedars. Brandy confirmed his suspicions. While Tedrow stayed alongside Scherich, Brandy frequently dropped into the canyon, tail wagging, and disappeared into the thicket. She knew.

“It turned into one of those days,” Phyllis describes. “You know? One of those days you never forget.”

Calls to law enforcement completed, Phyllis hopped in a Chevy S-10 and raced to the canyon. The waiting game was on.

Lust and Liaison
Bats out of hell. Kansas game wardens Tracy Galvin and B.J. Thurman, .45 caliber Glock 21’s on their hips, roared down US 400 from Dodge City, bound for Merrill Ranch roughly an hour-and-a-quarter distant. “At that point, all we really knew was there was a guy in a ghillie suit on foot, hiding in some cedars in a canyon. It already sounded damn crazy,” Galvin recalls.

Tracy Galvin, left, pictured with a cougar taken by a landowner in 2007, alongside B.J. Thurman.

(Photos by KDWP)

Straight-shooting, plain-talking conservation veterans, the bulldog duo had physical presence. Galvin backed by a 300 lb. frame and Thurman solidly stacked over 6’1”, decked in boots and cowboy hat.

Fifteen miles outside Merrill, Galvin’s cellphone buzzed. A local deputy was on the scene and had located the curious white truck seen hours earlier on the periphery of the Merrill . “Tracy, you might want to stop here first. Something’s off. The driver is from Oklahoma and things seem really weird.”

Minutes later, kicking up a cloud of dust, Galvin and Thurman pulled alongside the deputy and walked up to the white flatbed with Oklahoma plates. The vehicle had a cake feeder on the bed, ostensibly a pellet-box to feed cows—or a potential means of antler concealment.

Inside the cab, the evidence was telltale. A roadmap of Kansas, an empty rifle scabbard, and a hunting magazine open to a feature on Kansas monster deer, with hand-drawn scrawls circled around Comanche County. X marks the spot. Bull’s-eye. Almost too farcical for reality.

Thirty-something Howard Storment out of Sweetwater, Oklahoma, was behind the wheel. However, the vehicle was registered to Billy Palmer.

Galvin laid the trap.

“Son, what in the hell are you doing out here?”

“Me and my buddy are looking to buy used farm equipment.”

“How do you find the equipment?”

“We drive around till we spot it.”

Galvin spooled out more line. “You come to the least populated county in the state and you roam around in the middle of nowhere until you find an old tractor in a field? Then you contact the landowner to buy it? That’s the story you’re going with?”

“Yessir.

Galvin tightened the screws. “The gun case. That belong to your buddy, Billy Palmer?”

“Yessir.”

“Well, where in the hell is he?”

Without skipping a beat, Storment claimed lust and liaison. “We’re staying in Medicine Lodge (40 miles east) and he got lucky with some Kansas woman last night. I ain’t seen him since he ran off with her.”

Part of a 2009 seizure of poached bucks by Thurman (second row, yellow shirt, cowboy hat) and Galvin (standing on Thurman’s right). “Don’t come to Kansas to poach,” Galvin said. “Stay the hell away.”

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

“And I suppose he took his rifle with him when he hooked up with the woman?”

Stumped, Storment paused, unsure of what rabbit trail to go down.

Galvin seized the pregnant moment. “Son, you should know we have a guy penned up the road in a canyon. You think that might just be your good buddy, Billy?”

“Lord, I hope not.”

“Let’s go,” Galvin added. “You’re coming with us.”

Lyin’ Eyes
The scene around the canyon conjured the ghost of John Wayne. A mounted posse of cattlemen, lariats at the ready, searching for an outlaw.

“I’ve never, never seen anything like it in my life,” Thurman exclaims. “We drove up to a group of cowboys looking like they were about to string somebody up, cow dogs running around, and a sunuvabitch cornered.”

Maintaining watch at various points around the lip of the canyon were Dee Scherich, Phyllis Scherich, Chris Lawless, Jim Sheets, Marti Sheets, Dave Brass, along with the county sheriff and his young deputy.

Phyllis chuckles at the memory. “Of all the places to poach and of all the plentiful spaces to hide in our part of the state, this guy, Palmer, picked the wrong spot. We owed it all to Tedrow. We’d have never known a thing and Palmer would have killed a monster. Instead, Palmer picked a yucca right where Dee stopped, and then got chased by Tedrow into the canyon—a trap. We were all congregated, waiting on the law, and there was no way he was escaping.”

“I remember the sheriff and deputy being nervous,” Phyllis continues, “but Tracy and B.J. weren’t even a little bit hesitant.”

Galvin and Thurman were integral to multiple poaching busts, including this massive 2009 seizure.

(Photo by KDWP)

Galvin and Thurman peered over the rim. “We watched one of the posse’s dogs go down into the thicket, tail wagging,” Thurman notes. “Clearly, Billy Palmer was in there.”

Thurman leaned over the canyon edge and bellowed: “Billlllly. Billlllly. Billlllly Palmer. We’ve got your buddy, Howard. Bring your ass out, now.”

The jig was up. Within minutes, Palmer emerged without a rifle and began climbing up the canyon. Galvin and Thurman moved down a slight slope to intercept.

As Palmer neared, Galvin snapped out a clear order, “Stop and show your hands.”

Palmer kept walking. Galvin repeated the order. Palmer walked on.

“We had no idea if he had a pistol, knife, or other weapon hid on him,” Galvin describes. “When he refused to stop, we had no choice. B.J. tackled him and laid him out, and I screwed a pistol into his ear.”

Palmer didn’t flinch.

“Whoahhh,” Galvin recalls. “That’s when we knew this wasn’t his first rodeo with law enforcement. He had no reaction to the handgun. Just another day for him. Of course, we found out later they had done this before in Iowa: Shoot a big deer, come back later, cut off the head, hide it in the cake feeder, and drive away. By all appearances, just a couple of honest farm workers hard at work.”

Thurman seized Palmer’s cell phone. Despite no reception, the cell told the canyon tale. “Palmer was taking a risk by poaching out where cell service is poor, but when he went in the canyon, his spotty service went to absolute zero,” Thurman says. “He was trying to communicate with Howard, but he couldn’t get a signal. When we got his phone, there were too many calls out—all unsuccessful—to count. When he entered the canyon, it was over.”

Standing in the midst of the posse and law enforcement, Palmer denied possession of a rifle. Who ya gonna believe? Me or your lyin’ eyes?

Scherich was incensed. “He lied about not having a rifle and was calling us liars for saying otherwise. This guy was wearing camo, hiding on a ranch with big deer, and then daring to claim he had no gun. It’s a low breed of a man who steals your time, tries to poach your deer, and then calls you a liar.”

Scherich hit the trail, rode into the canyon, and found the rifle. “Turns out, he’d hid it in some other trees before easing into the cedar thicket.

For Scherich and Phyllis, the cat-and-mouse game was over. They’d lost almost a whole day of ranch work to Palmer and Storment. It was time to go the barn and undress the horses.

“It was a done deal for us,” Phyllis says. “We have so many stories from our decades on the ranch, but that’s one of the wildest. Apparently, it wasn’t over for the game wardens.”

Time for a jailhouse confession?

Saccharine Grin
Judge Loren Cronin didn’t take kindly to poachers. Palmer and Storment were each hit with $10,000 cash bail. Several days later, growing restless behind bars, Palmer summoned Galvin, begging for a way out of lockup.

From left: Tracy Galvin, left, and B.J. Thurman, after a wild pig hunt.

(Photo courtesy of KDWP)

“He said he needed to go home really bad because he had a hog farm and he needed to feed the hogs. He said his wife was having to do all the work,” Galvin remembers.

Galvin threw Palmer a bone: Tell the whole truth and I’ll help kick you loose.

Palmer agreed. Camera equipment in tow to record the confession, Galvin visited the jailhouse the same night. However, just prior to Galvin’s arrival, Palmer received word that his wife was enroute with $10,000.

Galvin walked into the interrogation room, set up the audio equipment, and pressed record. “Okay, Billy, tell us how it all started and who was involved.”

“You tell me,” Palmer answered, wearing a saccharine grin. “You seem to know it all.”

Galvin shook his head in disgust and threw in the towel. “I’m done. Take your ass back to the cell.”

As Palmer exited the room, Galvin delivered a parting shot: “I hope all your f***ing hogs die.”

A Final Message
All told, Palmer and Storment each received $1,800 in fines for the 2002 poaching violation. Case closed. Almost.

Over a decade later, beyond Galvin’s retirement from the Kansas Department of Wildlife & Parks in 2009, he got a phone call from a conservation officer in northwest Arkansas.

“After all those years, my game warden friend close to Bentonville called me and said he’d caught Billy doing the same kind of poaching business. He just wanted me to know he was in custody.”

Before hanging up, Galvin asked his Arkansas counterpart to deliver a message.

“Tell Billy, the game warden in Kansas still hopes all his f***ing hogs die.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

Avoid The Pitfall of Leasing Farmland With Low Fertility

Mon, 01 Dec 2025 22:46:05 GMT

Farmland often changes hands in the fall, and such exchanges are currently underway across the country as farmers and landlords look to finalize deals for the 2026 season. But some of the ground changing hands is in poor condition with regard to fertility, according to Ken Ferrie, Farm Journal Field Agronomist.

“I’m really shocked at how poor the stewardship is on some of these farms,” says Ferrie, who is seeing the issue in central Illinois, where he’s based. “We have seen multiple pieces of ground this fall that have been literally sucked dry of fertility and are sitting in bad shape on pH.”

While Ferrie isn’t sure how widespread the issue is, he says more farmers have reached out to him about the problem than in previous years. He attributes much of the issue to non-operating, absentee landowners who might not understand the need for good stewardship practices to keep ground productive. In other cases, he is concerned some landowners are simply interested in financial gain.

“It’s often land they inherited, [and they’re] two or three generations away from farming,” Ferrie says. “They look at it like an investment in the stock market.... In many cases, their relatives, the original landowner, would be turning over in their graves if they could see what’s happening to some of this ground.”

Conservation Practices On Rented Ground
Around 40% of all farmland in the U.S. is rented — in some U.S. counties that number is nearing 80%. According to USDA data, 283 million acres (30% of all farmland) are owned by non-operator landlords — those who own land used in agricultural production but are not actively involved in farming it.

The American Farmland Trust (AFT) reports that many non-operating landowners are unfamiliar with conservation practices or have difficulty discussing long-term goals with their renters. One survey found that 65% of non-operating landowners rely on their farm operator or someone else to make decisions on conservation practices.

“This dynamic can lead to a lack of investment in practices that improve productivity and resiliency of the land,” AFT reports. “Some of the areas with the highest rates of rental agricultural land are also those experiencing high rates of soil erosion and nutrient losses.”

Due Diligence Can Prevent A Costly Investment
Leasing land with low fertility levels can create financial hardship for unsuspecting growers. Such “hidden” costs frequently impact younger farmers who have limited resources and opportunities to rent ground.

“Many times, it’s our younger growers looking for land to expand their operation that seem to get caught up in these sucked-dry, short-term cash rent scenarios,” Ferrie says. “For short-term leases, that could be an anvil around your neck. There may not be a way to gain profitability short-term on some of these farms.”

While cash rents are softening slightly in some states for 2026, they still represent a huge investment for growers who are unlikely to see improved commodity prices to counter their investment in land and other inputs.

Table 1 provides average USDA cash rents across 4 land classes defined by soil productivity index (SPI). Average cash rents declined for the excellent, good, and average land classes while average rents slightly increased for areas classified as fair. Table 1 also provides average cash rents by land class as reported by the Illinois Society of Professional Farm Managers and Rural Appraisers (ISPFMRA). Average rents on professionally managed farmland tend to be higher than the averages reported by USDA.

(USDA and others as noted)

Ferrie’s advice for farmers looking to pick up more ground: do your homework thoroughly before signing on any dotted line. Here are three steps he recommends farmers take as they consider renting new ground for the year ahead:

1. Avoid making assumptions. “Don’t assume just because a piece of land is being managed, that stewardship is being followed,” Ferrie cautions. “Farm managers work for landlords/owners. If they want the farm taken care of so it can be passed down to future generations, they’ll make it happen. If the landlord wants the highest return without any regard to stewardship that, too, is the farm manager’s job,” he explains.

2. Ask for current soil tests and yield maps. That will provide some insights on how the ground has been treated and its general productivity.
“If the leaser is not supplying any information, talk to the neighbors, if possible. Ask whether they ever see a lime truck on the farm,” he says.

Another option is to ask the leaser if you can pull some spot soil samples to get a feel for fertility in the field.

“If the answer or situation is no, ask about a conditional lease based on soil fertility levels once you do get the field tested,” Ferrie advises.

3. Gather information about past practices on the ground. For example, Ferrie says if you no-till, you’ll want to evaluate whether there are horizontal layers present in the field.

“I’ve seen in many situations where the No. 1 hurdle is removing compaction layers left by the previous tenant,” Ferrie says. “If you rent the ground, you’ll need a plan with your agronomist on how to address that.”

Different Factors Influence Farmers Who Are Buying Land
Ferrie points out that poor soil fertility across a parcel of ground might not be as concerning for farmers who are purchasing the property.

“I’ve been told by more than one realtor and farm manager that soil fertility doesn’t matter when selling a piece of ground, and that low-fertility fields will bring the same as farms that have received good stewardship. And this is apparently true based on what I’m seeing on farms that we are testing,” he reports.

He believes the reason is those farmers often have confidence that they can bring their new ground up to speed production-wise over time. And time is on their side as most buyers make the investment planning to hold onto the ground for the long haul.

Your next read: Ag Lenders Anticipate Only Half of U.S. Farm Borrowers to Turn a Profit in 2025

Abuse of Liberty? Landowner Demands End to DNR’s Warrantless Entries on Private Acres

Tue, 18 Nov 2025 12:20:53 GMT

David Martin is raising hell in Michigan, determined to curtail the power claimed by government officials to enter private land without restrictions and surveil at will.

Martin, a landowner and 68^th District representative in Michigan, hopes to end adherence to the Open Fields doctrine that gives conservation officers open access to private property.

“Open Fields is an abuse of liberty and we want it to stop in Michigan. It’s the 250^th anniversary of the American Revolution and our forefathers would be disgusted to see how much government control the state has over private land. Enough.”

Co-sponsor of two bills blocking unfettered access for Department of Natural Resources (DNR) game wardens on private acreage, Martin’s legislative fight is echoed by pending Open Fields lawsuits around the U.S. in Alabama, Louisiana, Pennsylvania, and Virginia.

“At a basic level,” Martin emphasizes, “when people find out about Open Fields, they know it’s wrong.”

Without Reason
Open Fields ranks among the most consequential of all government powers. The doctrine stems from two Supreme Court decisions in 1924 (Hester) and 1984 (Oliver), giving federal officials permission to enter private land with no limits on frequency, duration, or scope. Essentially, the government can access any acreage without warrant or probable cause, excluding a personal residence and immediate yard/lawn/curtilage. Open Fields asserts that on private land, the Bill of Rights’ Fourth Amendment protections from search and seizure do not exist.

However, Martin contends the Michigan State Constitution provides protection from Open Fields, at least at the state level. House bills 4073 and 4421 require probable cause or a warrant for any DNR agent seeking access to private land without owner permission.

Open Fields provides the government with access to at least 1.12 billion private acres.

(Graphic courtesy of IJ)

“It’s past time for people to remember who we are as Americans. I’m not going to capitulate to excuses or the latest trends in legal thought. Open Fields is fundamentally wrong and bad law, but in Michigan we are protected by our state constitution. No private property owner should be subject to the presence of government officials on their private land without reason. I own 40 acres and the last thing I expect is to turn around and see a game warden unannounced. That’s crazy.”

Get a Warrant
Removal of Open Fields powers would impede DNR, says Jason Haines, chief of the DNR’s Law Enforcement Division.

“We oppose the bills ( 4073 and 4421 ) in their current form which would significantly hinder efforts to protect Michigan’s natural resources and environment on private lands in Michigan,” he explains. “These resources are held in the public trust for the benefit of all, and the DNR is charged with the responsibility of protecting those resources. The Open Fields doctrine says that acreage outside the curtilage of a private residence does not have the same Fourth Amendment protections like persons, houses, papers, and effects.”

Open Fields ranks among the most consequential of all government powers.

(Photo by IJ)

“Also, wildlife and fish don’t respect private land boundaries,” Haines continues. “No individual owns the wildlife that happens to be on their property at the time. These are public resources.”

Despite citing Open Fields, Haines contends DNR entries on private land must include reasonable suspicion or probable cause. “In Michigan we require every officer to document their justification for entering private land. We also don’t put up trail cameras on private property without a court issued warrant.”

However, Martin’s bills would establish probable cause as a baseline for state entries onto private property. “DNR should be subject to the exact same bar as our regular law enforcement,” Martin says. “Our bills allow the state entry onto private land when in pursuit of criminals or something nefarious. That should be fairly rare and fairly obvious. It should be simple: If someone is doing something illegal on private land—get a warrant.”

Reasonable Limits
Including Michigan, how much nationwide private acreage is subject to Open Fields? At least 1.12 billion acres , estimates Institute for Justice.

Since 2020, lawsuits challenging Open Fields at the state level have been successfully litigated in Tennessee (game wardens in Tennessee must now obtain a warrant before entering privately marked land), and are ongoing in Alabama , Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Louisiana.

According to the Supreme Court, federal officials from USDA, DOJ, FBI, Interior, Treasury, FWS, EPA, Bureau of Land Management, Corps of Engineers, and other departments or agencies all possess the power the enter and surveil private land without restriction.

Martin’s legislative fight in Michigan is echoed by pending Open Fields lawsuits around the U.S. in Alabama, Louisiana, Pennsylvania, and Virginia.

(Photo by IJ)

In Michigan, Martin wants to draw a line. “I swore an oath to uphold the Michigan Constitution, and I will do so. The Michigan Constitution, Article I, Section 11, protects all our possessions, including land. The U.S. Supreme Court has taken the wrong view of the Fourth Amendment, but we’re still protected here by our state constitution.”

How does the public in Michigan view Martin’s bills? “We’ve had overwhelming support, and we even hear from people out of state supporting us,” he notes.

Bills 4073 and 4421 passed the Michigan House on Nov. 4, 2025, with a 63-37 vote, with all 56 Republicans in support, along with seven Democrats. Next up, the Democrat-controlled Senate.

“The DNR has far too much latitude on private property,” Martin concludes. “It’s time to recognize reasonable limits in law.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Outraged Farmers Blame Ag Monopolies as Catastrophic Collapse Looms

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Water Witch Keeps Dowsing Tradition Alive on Nebraska Farmland

Wed, 12 Nov 2025 12:38:41 GMT

Last of the water witches? At 33 years young, Scott Hemmer walks Nebraska farmland, waiting on the soft twitch of brass rods held in his hands.

“Right here,” he says, pointing to the ground. “About a 450’ down and 1,000 gallons per minute. Drill here.”

The ancient art of water dowsing still lives in Cornhusker country. Hemmer claims the gift—an ability to sense and feel the pull of water in the bowels of the earth.

“All the old settlers who built this country and all the farmers without modern technology believed in witching, and they depended on it to survive.”

Wells, water lines, septic tanks, and forgotten graves, Hemmer witches them all. X marks the spot.

“It’s entirely real,” he contends. “Come see for yourself.”

Damn Near Spot-On
Since the first light of recorded history, dowsing has been the go-to location tool across continents and cultures. Whether using a y-shaped stick, pendulum, metal rods, wires, or a variety of other devices, dowsers have sought the underground location of liquids, minerals, dead bodies, lost valuables, and far more.

In Hemmer’s case, he uses L-shaped 1/8” brass rods—12” long with 4” handles. “From steel to copper to willow branches, people use all different kinds of dowsing rods. When I’ve had nothing else to rely on, I’ve even ripped the flag off utility markers and used the wires.”

On a clear November day in east-central Nebraska’s Platte County, Hemmer dowses a small tract of farmland in search of a replacement spot for a collapsed irrigation well that pumped 550 gallons per minute. He grips a rod in each hand, held like a pair of pistols.

“I’m not special and this is not magic,” Hemmer says. “I think most people could do it if they … tap into whatever connectivity is going on.”

(Photo by Hemmer Dowsing & Water Witching)

Mop of brown hair under a boonie hat, clad in t-shirt, canvas pants, and steel-toe Timberlands, he crosses to the far side of the field as the rods repeatedly move inward. No big show. No dramatic gestures. No performance. Just the gentle crossing of the rods—the telltale sign of water in proximity.

Hemmer confidently informs the farmer: “This spot will pump 1,000-1,200 gallons per minute.”

“Impossible. I was only getting 500-plus on the other side.”

“It’s here,” Hemmer responds. “Bout 265’ down.”

Banking on Hemmer’s reading, the farmer prepares to drill.

Days later, Hemmer’s phone rings: “You’re damn near spot-on. We hit water at 270’, pumping around 1,250 gallons per minute.”

Blind luck? Power of suggestion? Science? The unseen hand? Untapped senses?

How did a Nebraska dowser, with no family background in witching, find the gift?

No Harm, No Foul
In 2015, riding shotgun across endless Nebraska flats in a Dodge Ram 5500 service truck, Hemmer was a willing hostage to conversation. Behind the wheel, 81-year-old Gilbert Preister, Hemmer’s co-worker and founder of Preister Well & Backhoe, rattled off tales of the trade, each story layered with rabbit trails.

Hemmer, 33, dowsing in Platte County.

(Photo by Hemmer Dowsing & Water Witching)

“Gilbert would tell me stories about drilling on farms and hitting nothing and having to get a water witch instead. He had wells that were drilled strictly on the word of witcher Ervin Dohmen, and Gilbert believed in it, but he couldn’t explain it. I’d heard of witching before Gilbert, but knew nothing about it. Sounded like nonsense to me, but riding in the cab made me wonder if there might be anything to it.”

“I’d talk to our customers and they’d tell me that prior to drilling their wells back in the 1980s or 1990s, those wells had first been witched. I kept thinking about it.”

Intrigue sparked, 25-year-old Hemmer dove into dowsing research after hours. No family, friends, or fellow dowsers for help. Alone, he fashioned rods and walked sites around his rural home spots already confirmed to hold water. The rods spoke.

At work, Hemmer’s successful back yard experiments blossomed. “One day we were looking for a waterline, and the customer said, ‘It’s right here.’ But the customer turned out to be wrong and we dug for an hour looking for the line.”

Curiosity building, Hemmer grabbed two flags from the service truck, shaped them into makeshift rods, and began dowsing the property. The wire rods crossed and Hemmer made his mark. “We dug right there. At 6’ down, I was within a couple inches left and right of the waterline. I started realizing I had genuine ability. This was real.”

Hemmer Dowsing & Water Witching provides services in Nebraska and beyond.

(Photo by Hemmer Dowsing & Water Witching)

Next step? On the job, he witched spots during drilling to see if dowsing matched actual results in the field. No harm, no foul.

“We were going to drill in those places no matter what. I started witching beforehand, making my predictions each time, with no damage to anyone. Kind of a trial to see if I could dial in.”

The result? Gangbusters. A Nebraska witcher was born. Success after success, he says.

Uncanny. But what is the link between water, rods, and mind? How does Hemmer explain the mystery of dowsing?

Hitting the Bull’s-Eye
“I claim no scientific proof, but this has worked for centuries, and everyone has a different explanation. What I’ve slowly learned is that it’s not the tools or type of rod. It’s a mental state. Everything around us gives off some kind of frequency, almost like a radio wave.”

“I set my mind to whatever I’m looking for—water, sewer line, or grave—and my mind knows the frequency. Do it over and over, and confidence builds. You become more attuned to the things around you.”

In 2020, he started Hemmer Dowsing & Water Witching as a side business, offering dowsing services in Nebraska and beyond. As his reputation built, the service call volume grew in tandem: wells, septic tanks, water lines, and settler graves.

A dowser searching for water in 1942.

(Photo public domain)

On a witching call, no special environmental conditions are required. No solitude needed. “I like to be with the customer when I’m doing it. We talk the whole time I’m working, and that keeps me from overthinking. I’m going strictly off my mind-rod connection, and noise doesn’t bother me at all.”

“The rods are my visual indicator coming off what my mind and body are picking up. It’s amazing when you get that strong pull, and you know there’s water below.”

With skeptics in abundant supply, reputation is everything. In addition to pinpointing the location of significant water, Hemmer differentiates between seepage well and deep water well. Translated: Hemmer must stay tight in the bull’s-eye.

“When I get a call from a customer four hours away, and I go on their land and witch a spot for a residential well—that means money on the line for them. It’s as serious as it gets when someone pays $10,000 to drill a hole based on my recommendation. That’s how confident I am in what I do. At the end of the day, I’ve got to come in the ballpark of 95% correct.”

The Water Prophet
The hat of a dowser casts a long shadow. As in, most practitioners are up in age. The art of dowsing may by dying, but Hemmer is the exception, still in his early thirties.

“People are welcome to ask me anything about witching and believe what they will. I’ll let the results in the field speak for themselves. Doubters really don’t bother me, because those same people don’t realize that whether they live in Nebraska or Texas or Pennsylvania, their forefathers all believed in witching. Whenever old settlers wanted to dig a well, somebody with dowsing skills was used. Those were major undertakings and huge decisions because the well had to be dug by hand.”

Hemmer claims the dowsing gift—an ability to sense and feel the pull of water in the bowels of the earth.

(Photo by Hemmer Dowsing & Water Witching)

Can anyone dowse? Maybe, Hemmer says. “I’m not special and this is not magic. I think most people could do it if they could get around a mental block and know how to tap into whatever connectivity is going on.”

Eight years into a remarkable dowsing career, Hemmer is hitting stride. Rods in hand, the young water prophet is on the hunt.

“It’s pretty simple,” he concludes. “If it’s in the ground, I’ll find it.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

Discovery of Giant Bottle Dump Reveals Courage of Young Farmer

Tue, 28 Oct 2025 12:11:44 GMT

How did a stolen bottle and the discovery of an 1800s-era treasure dump reveal the courage of a young farmer?

Ask Keith Loris, the boy explorer. “I’d never seen anything like it or since. Glass everywhere; all colors and shapes. Hand-blown. Embossed. I’m not talking about hundreds of bottles. I can only describe it as tons.”

With rabbit trails crisscrossing Ellis Island, the Trail of Tears, and Hanging Judge Isaac Parker, Loris’ lost-and-found story is an American tale for all, he says. “Even now, you can still find treasures because farm properties, and even back yards in old city homes, are filled with buried secrets. If you take the time to listen, they’ll speak to you.”

Treasure Hunter’s Justice
When a small family tractor bucked and broke down, fair-skinned Keith Loris listened while his dark-complected father, Gene, muttered in frustration, resigned to a shop haul and inevitable repair bill. As Gene walked away in disgust, Keith, still in elementary school, dove into the bowels of the machine.

It was 1960 and Keith’s ninth birthday, celebrated with a bag of rusty hand tools and an exceptional tractor repair. Bolts. Grease. Engines. The kid was a prodigy.

If you take the time to learn your past, you’ll deeply appreciate the present, and that’ll give you hope for the future.”

(Photo courtesy of Keith Loris)

His mother, Barbara, recognized innate ability. Reaching into her purse, Barbara pulled a $20-bill, handed the money to Gene, and uttered words that spurred her son’s career in mechanics: “Why don’t we take Keith to Sears and let him pick out a Craftsman tool set for his birthday? He’s got something special.”

Indeed. Loris, 74, spent a lifetime in automotive teaching, engine rebuilds, body work, and hauling. Remarkable, particularly considering the gearhead was born into a family of cooks and restaurateurs. “I guess the difference is even more ironic because it all began with farming,” Loris notes.

Growing up on what was then the edge of Fort Smith, Arkansas, Loris could taste the past. As a jumping-off point for westward settlement in the 1800s—in the vein of St. Louis, Kansas City, Omaha, or Council Bluffs—Fort Smith was a bastion of history: supply depot, mail hub, military outpost, settler magnet, end of the line railroad terminus, and neck-snapping domain of Hanging Judge Isaac Parker .

“Pretty much my entire childhood was spent playing outdoors,” Loris recalls. “The people beside us had an overgrown pasture behind their house. The whole place would have once been on the very edge of Fort Smith settlement. The pasture lot, maybe 2 or 3 acres in size, was partly grown in timber.”

Gene and Barbara Loris; Fort Smith, Arkansas

(Photo courtesy of Keith Loris)

On a spring afternoon in 1963, 12-year-old Loris was playing with a friend when the pair veered into adjacent timber. “The first thing that caught my eye was several rusty cans and containers, so old they were almost disintegrated. Walking closer, I could see colored glass on the ground, between the scattered leaves. Everywhere.”

The boys cut sticks and began digging, picking through the shards of a second layer, where Loris cut his fingers multiple times. He walked home, grabbed gloves and a shovel, and returned to the site, digging into a third level—where the fragments turned to intact bottles.

“It was an unreal quantity. There were pretty bottles of all shapes, colors, and sizes. We were standing on and in glass, but I don’t know how deep this went into the ground. I know for certain it went back to the 1800s, but I can only guess at the volume of glass. I’d estimate there were tons of bottles.”

Sticking several specimens in his pockets and cradling the rest, Loris went home with 12 bottles, his favorite an embossed “Dr. J. Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters,” dating to the second half of the Nineteenth century.

“My buddy who was with me, Frankie, didn’t care anything about bottles and went home. I put all 12 on my back porch and started cleaning them. It felt kind of like magic. Like I had discovered a secret nobody else in the world knew about.”

Roughly one hour later, Loris recalls, a familiar face peered around the back porch—Frankie’s father. “He says, ‘My boy says you found some bottles.’ I answered, ‘Yessir,’ and pointed to the dozen. He picked up the Hostetter’s bottle, held it up to the light, and said, ‘I’m taking it. This bottle has part of my last name on it. You’ve got enough bottles left and you owe us this one.’ Then he walked away.”

A Hostetter’s bottle: “It felt kind of like magic. Like I had discovered a secret nobody else in the world knew about.”

(Photo public domain)

Loris was crestfallen. Afraid to challenge an adult, the 12-year-old sat on the back steps and fought back tears.

“In that moment, all I knew was that man stole my magical feeling and my favorite bottle of the find. It was wrong and a mean thing to do to a kid.”

But what Loris didn’t know? His dad, Gene, was about to deliver treasure hunter’s justice.

Under Cover of Darkness
Minutes later, Gene arrived home. Black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin, Gene carried paternal Greek and maternal Cherokee blood. He found his light-skinned, blue-eyed boy, who inherited Barbara’s Irish stock, on the back porch, wiping away a teardrop.

“What’s wrong, son?”

Loris recounted the find and seizure of the Hostetter’s bottle.

Gene was furious, but kept his powder dry. “Keith, don’t say a thing to momma. When she goes to sleep tonight, me and you are going back. Don’t you worry. We’ll find you that exact bottle. Where there’s one, there’s two.”

Swamp Fever Tonic
Flashlight throwing beam, father and son crossed into the back pasture at roughly 11 p.m. and felt the crunch of shifting glass underfoot. Inserting a pitchfork into the ground, Gene began turning glass. “He’d pull a bottle and smile at me, and then keep going to the next one,” Loris recalls.

“I didn’t know it right then, but I’d find out later that we were in the middle of an old hobo dump and likely a farm dump before that. It contained an unusual amount of liquor bottles, and I attribute that to the hobos. Fort Smith was a major railroad hub, and this pasture once was a spot where transients stayed for weeks. No question, it would have taken decades for that many bottles to accumulate in one spot.”

“The bottles speak to me about my father who felt his son’s pain and a grandfather who farmed in Greece and found his American dream,” says Loris.

(Photo public domain)

Fifty bottles later—including two Hostetter’s, Gene stopped digging. The duo walked home and cleaned up—all with a wink and nod: You have plenty of bottles now, son. Never bother Momma with where you got them. Never go back there and take anymore.

“I look back now and realize that pasture wasn’t our property, even though the old couple that owned it never went back there. My daddy was more concerned about how I’d been treated by an adult, and he made it right, in his own way, without causing an explosion or a property issue.”

Six decades later, Loris still has all 61 bottles: medicine, soda, whiskey, and wine. “One is a soft drink bottle with a rounded bottom and stopper top. Another is a ‘Schaap’s Swamp Chill and Fever Tonic.’ Another is an 1800s-era wine bottle from St. Louis. I keep them safely packed in boxes.”

“They’re not just bottles,” adds Loris, who serves as a volunteer historian at the Fort Smith National Historic Site . “They’re also books. They tell a story about a farm in Greece and one of the bravest men you’ll ever hear about.”

Greeks and Cherokees
In 1900, 16-year-old Demetrius Loris walked away from his farm in coastal Greece and caught passage on a ship bound for the United States.

Arriving at Ellis Island, alone, with family and friends 5,000 miles away, Demetrius changed his first name to “Jim” and dove headfirst into America: work, scrap, survive. He rode the rails west inside a caboose and learned the trade of a cook. At 25, via the Kansas City Southern, Jim stepped off the train in Fort Smith and never climbed back on, starting a restaurant in the railroad terminal.

The Fort Smith train station where a Greek farmer’s Arkansas story began.

(Photo public domain)

“My grandfather was a farmer in Greece with nine siblings who believed he could make it in America. His family had no money, and his siblings didn’t want to leave, so he begged his parents to send him. They saved up for the fare and he came over in the bottom of a freighter. One-way ticket, of course.”

Along a parallel timeline, Hattie Bell Murry, of Cherokee descent, worked at a Fort Smith laundry. “Her family had been pushed out of Tennessee on the Trail of Tears decades before, but her parents had died and she ended up working on a farm and finally working in Fort Smith,” Loris notes.

The stars aligned when Jim hauled his cooking aprons to the laundry for cleaning, and spotted Hattie Bell.

“The Greek married the Cherokee Indian, and our American family is the result of their determination to provide for their children and succeed. My grandfather started another restaurant on Rogers Avenue, and the rest is wonderful history. What a journey, what a life.”

A Chain in Time
Why are bottles preserved on old house sites and farms?

Before plastic, glassware was the ubiquitous catchall for medicine, hygiene, beverages, and more. Homeowners and landowners discarded the glass on-site, in holes, burn pits, outhouses, and wells. Covered by time, the spots were forgotten. Unintentional time capsules.

Lover of history: Loris serving at the Fort Smith Trolley Museum, flanked by the famous Birney Car.

(Photo courtesy of Keith Loris)

“Rural properties and old city house lots still have these treasures under the ground,” Loris says. “If you look for the telltale signs—sometimes just depression—you can find things that make you appreciate your life today. Something as simple as an ornate bottle, still holding the marks of elegant craftsmanship, makes you ask questions about how much it cost; who bought it; who drank from it; and who was the last person to hold it.”

Did Loris ever return to the most mammoth bottle dump of his lifetime? “No. I never took another bottle. I was tempted, but I wasn’t a little kid anymore and it wasn’t my property. I discovered it, but it didn’t belong to me.”

“In the end, I kept the bottles after all these years because they preserved a chain in time related to my father and grandfather,” Loris explains. “The bottles speak to me about my father who felt his son’s pain and a grandfather who farmed in Greece and found his American dream. Maybe it’s just that simple.”

Every family has its stories, Loris concludes.

“Maybe your stories are lost right now, but they’re out there all the same, just waiting to be uncovered, kind of like the bottles. If you take the time to learn your past, you’ll deeply appreciate the present, and that’ll give you hope for the future.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

Family Farm Saved From Eminent Domain After Capturing Nationwide Attention

Mon, 27 Oct 2025 17:09:31 GMT

Andy Henry beat eminent domain. His 21-acre, 175-year-old farm will no longer be targeted for government housing.

Henry’s fight to save his livestock operation from development caught the nation’s eye, followed by the attention of USDA Secretary Brooke Rollins, New Jersey Gov. Phil Murphy, and interim U.S. Attorney for the District of New Jersey Alina Habba.

An agreement is set to permanently protect the Henry family farm. Concrete will not replace grass.

Refusal to Roll
For decades, Henry declined $25 million development offers for Highland Ranch, his 21-acre farm in Middlesex County, N.J.

However, in April 2025, the Cranbury Township Committee tagged the entire Henry property as the ideal location for an affordable housing apartment complex of 130 units. Henry, a 20-year Air Force veteran, refused to sell, even though his land was designated by the Cranbury Township Committee for replacement with apartment buildings.

He hired attorney Timothy Duggan and held tight to his farm. “The public is disturbed by the government’s actions in this case,” Duggan told Agweb. “The details are so over the top to average people that they think they’re watching a Saturday Night Live skit.”

After decades of development, Henry’s 21 acres are the last farm standing on South River Road.

(Photo by Google)

In July, Henry filed a lawsuit challenging the township’s ordinance allowing seizure by eminent domain. He followed in August with a separate challenge to the affordable housing plan.

The Cranbury Township Committee then narrowed its acquisition of Henry’s land by targeting half the farm for concrete, leaving him with 9 acres and a farmhouse. Again, Henry declined.

Henry’s refusal to roll drew admiration from multiple government figures. As political pressure mounted, the Cranbury Township Committee changed course.

Henry won. On Oct. 24, 2025, Agriculture Secretary Rollins posted an announcement on X: After months of bipartisan, federal-state collaboration, the state of New Jersey has secured an agreement that would spare the 175-year-old Henry family farm from the state’s affordable housing plan. Further efforts are also underway by USDA and the New Jersey Department of Agriculture to protect this prime farmland in perpetuity.

N.J. Gov. Murphy followed with a statement : “From the very beginning, I have opposed efforts to seize the Henry Family Farm through eminent domain. While every town in New Jersey must do its part to resolve our state’s affordable housing crisis, these efforts must be pursued thoughtfully and collaboratively,”

Henry’s farmland was technically saved via a change in the New Jersey Housing and Mortgage Finance Agency rules. (To read the legislation/agreement, see here .)

“My family sacrificed on this land for 175 years,” Henry told Agweb in June 2025, as the legal saga began unfolding. “All the other farms disappeared. We did not. We will not.”

Sincerely. A legacy saved.

Feds Target Family Over Wetlands Regulations, Ignore Supreme Court Ruling?

Tue, 21 Oct 2025 11:46:42 GMT

What happens when a family’s landlocked agriculture property is deemed a wetland and the feds disregard a historic Supreme Court ruling? U.S. landowners and farmers move two steps forward and three steps back.

In May 2025, the Army Corps of Engineers tagged 1.13 acres belonging to Caleb and Rebecca Linck of Bonner County, Idaho, as a wetland, essentially dropping Clean Water Act (CWA) authority over their entire property. Significantly, the Linck’s ground is hundreds of feet from the nearest stream and 2 miles from the nearest lake. Close enough, according to federal officials.

Astoundingly, the Lincks live in the precise county where another family won a landmark CWA Supreme Court ruling in 2023, Sackett v. EPA, essentially protecting landowners from agency overregulation.

The Lincks, represented by Pacific Legal Foundation (PLF), are preparing for a legal fight. “It’s an outrage,” says PLF attorney Charles Yates. “After Sackett, the agencies went back to the drawing board. They simply won’t accept that the highest court in the land definitively told them they could not keep doing what they were doing. And it’s happening again in other cases, right now, to people all over the country.”

“This is part of a deliberate strategy on the part of these agencies to continue regulating as if Sackett didn’t happen,” Yates adds.

Even when government shrinks, it expands. Welcome to the Linck’s alarming case.

Leapfrog
In the northernmost reaches of Idaho, Caleb and Rebecca Linck own a 4.7-acre parcel inherited from family. Their hope? Live on the land and turn the spot to agriculture production in the future.

Prior to any disturbance or broken ground, the couple hired a wetlands consultant to ensure CWA adherence. The move backfired. On May 14, 2025, the Corps claimed authority over 1.13 acres of their ground—a purported federal wetland. Two months later, the Lincks, represented by PLF, filed an appeal.

The Linck’s acre of “wetlands” is hundreds of feet away from the nearest water—a stream. Their acre, zoned agriculture, is bordered by an elevated 35’-wide gravel road with no culverts. There are no land features within the acre that qualify for agency regulation. How is the Linck’s dry ground a wetland, according to the Corps?

(When contacted by Agweb.com regarding the Linck case, Corps representatives declined comment.)

A leapfrog association, claims the agency. Across the road from the Linck’s property is a farm pasture containing a swale depression. The pasture touches a stream that connects to a creek that spills into a navigable waterway. Thereby, the Linck acre is a connect-the-dots wetland in the eyes of government.

The Sackett case, arguably a mirror of the Linck case, still shocks many Americans.

(Photo by Chris Bennett)

“The Corps uses what they call a ‘wetlands complex theory,’” describes Yates. “They’re aggregating a whole bunch of wetlands in one area, and calling them one giant wetland, even if they’re separated by roads or berms or other structures.”

Subsurface connections. Groundwater hydrology. All water flows downhill. Catchall.

“By the Corps’ logic, because one little bit of the wetlands complex touches or abuts a covered water, then the whole thing can be regulated,” Yates continues. “That’s illegal for obvious reasons and it flatly violates the Sackett test.”

The Sackett case, arguably a mirror of the Linck case, still shocks many Americans.

Dozens of Cases
In Bonner County—the exact locale of the Linck’s property—the Sackett family attempted to build a subdivision home roughly a third- to half-mile distant from Priest Lake. Several previously constructed homes (and a road) stood between the Sackett property and the lake.

EPA designated the Sackett lot a wetland and issued a cease-and-desist construction order, threatening the couple with fines upward of $40,000 per day. Represented by PLF , the Sacketts fought back in court.

In May 2023, the Supreme Court (SCOTUS) issued a seismic 9-0 decision in favor of the Sacketts. In a major rebuke to EPA and the Corps, SCOTUS noted that wetlands designations should be obvious to the public, i.e., common sense should be in play. In a nutshell, SCOTUS said CWA regulations only apply to wetlands with a continuous surface water connection to navigable waters.

Justice Samuel Alito was specific: “the CWA’s use of ‘waters’ encompasses only those relatively permanent, standing or continuously flowing bodies of water forming geographical features that are described in ordinary parlance as streams, oceans, rivers, and lakes.”

Following the 2023 SCOTUS ruling, have regulatory agencies operated by the newly minted CWA enforcement restrictions?

Ask Iowa landowner Dan Ward. “No. They broke it immediately,” Ward said in 2024. “They ignored it and carried on, right on my property.”

“We’ve reached a place where our own officials believe they can disregard Supreme Court law,” Ward contends. “What the government is doing on my land is 100% about keeping power.”

(Photo courtesy of Dan Ward)

Ward was blocked by the Corps from building a pond on his 420-acre farm property because agency officials considered a dry depression that runs half-a-mile across his land, over 100 miles from the nearest navigable river, to be “waters of the United States.”

How many nationwide CWA cases are ongoing related to jurisdictional determinations, enforcement actions, compliance orders, or negotiations where regulatory agencies are pressing authority beyond Sackett?

“Widespread,” Yates emphasizes. “This is not just happening in Idaho or California. This is in North Carolina. This is in Iowa. This is in every corner of the country and I’m speaking about dozens of cases that I’m personally aware of.”

No Accident, No Oversight
Wash, rinse, repeat, contends Yates, who was a member of the PLF litigation team that argued the Sackett case at the Supreme Court. “The Lincks are falling victim to the exact same agency actions taken against the Sacketts. After the Sackett decision, the agencies wouldn’t accept that the highest court in the land definitively told them they could not keep doing what they were doing. Now it’s back to business as usual to assert authority to the maximum extent possible.”

The Linck’s landlocked farm property—is not so landlocked, per agency assertion.

“The Linck case is an egregious example of an agency blatantly disregarding the Supreme Court,” Yates concludes. “This is not an accident. This is not bureaucratic oversight. This is, I believe, part of a deliberate strategy on the part of these agencies to continue regulating as if Sackett didn’t happen. These agencies are holding tight to power.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Outraged Farmers Blame Ag Monopolies as Catastrophic Collapse Looms

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

With More Eye-Popping Sales, The Surprising Strength in Iowa Farmland Values

Tue, 14 Oct 2025 18:32:39 GMT

In a year marked by plunging grain prices and rising financial pressure, you might have expected Iowa’s farmland market to finally crack. But a closer look at recent sales data shows a market that remains remarkably resilient — and, in some cases, still setting records.

Jim Rothermich, vice president at Iowa Appraisal , shares his perspective on the surprising stability of Iowa land values, what’s driving demand and where some stress fractures may be starting to show.

2024 in Review: Rising, But Slowing

Even though commodity prices have been cut in half in just a few years, the farmland market has proven to show extreme resilience. According to USDA’s “Land Values 2024 Summary,” the average U.S. farm real estate value (which includes land and buildings) rose to $4,170 per acre, up 5% over 2023. Cropland values averaged $5,570 per acre, a 4.7% increase from the prior year.

These increases in values continued a multi-year stretch of rising land values, even though the pace of growth has clearly moderated. Still, considering the sharp drop in commodity prices, it would make sense for land values to also see pressure. But when you look at it as a whole — especially quality cropland — values are holding strong.

Tight Supply Keeps the Market Firm

One key factor is supporting land values: there simply isn’t much land for sale.

“As you can see, the number of acres going to auction has been trending lower the past four years — same for listings,” Rothermich says. “Most of the volume is from estate sales. There may be a couple of auctions from financial stress but not enough to influence volume. Lack of volume is supportive to market conditions.With fewer tracts hitting the market, buyers have fewer opportunities — keeping competition intense and prices supported.”

Farmers Still in the Driver’s Seat

Despite investors showing up at auctions, local farmers continue to dominate bidding wars. Just this month, a piece of farmland in Black Hawk County sold for $20,238 per acre.

Black Hawk County rings the bell this week with a $20,238/acre sale (including 5% buyer fee). It’s amazing how fast harvest happens with good weather – crops are disappearing fast! https://t.co/q90dgZFPjQ #IowaLandAuctionPrices pic.twitter.com/bNFPfL6cvo
— Jim Rothermich, MAI, ARA, ALC (@theLandTalker) October 13, 2025

That’s in addition to the notable sales last month. Rothermich says September saw several eye-popping sales across the state, including:

Mitchell County (north central Iowa): 80 acres sold for $24,400/acre — a new county record — after two local farmers battled for the tract.
Dallas County: 140 acres went for $20,100/acre.
Cedar County: 160 acres sold at $19,000/acre.
Osceola County: 70 acres fetched $18,400/acre.
Cherokee County: 160 acres brought $17,000/acre, purchased by a local farmer.

“Investors are still attending auctions but are being out competed by locals,” Rothermich explains. “No sales are not an issue currently. Where I do see price drop off is for low quality land. Investors don’t want low quality. If locals are the only bidders, they are discounting farms with issues.”

“Investors are still attending auctions but are being out competed by locals.”

Jim Rothermich, The Land Talker

Rothermich himself recently bought two “wet” farms, planning to enroll them in CRP for a 4% cash return — a sign strategic buying opportunities exist even in a tight market.

Rents Steady, But Financial Stress Emerging

Cash rents, according to Rothermich’s data, have held steady from last year. But beneath the surface, financial pressure is building.

“Financial issues are surfacing. I have had an uptick for appraisals with high-risk lenders on sizable operations. I have not had to do those appraisals since pre-COVID,” he notes.

He’s also hearing more chatter about sale-leasebacks, where financially stressed farmers sell land to investors but lease it back to keep operating — a trend not seen since before the pandemic. Still, a unique factor continues to underpin stability: 84% of Iowa farmland has no debt.

“It is under-capitalized,” Rothermich says. “Most people think Iowa will have a good crop despite a lot of disease pressure. [There are] still strong balance sheets in rural Iowa. The farmers who rent most of their land are really being affected by current economics. Working capital is shrinking.”

Echoes of the 1980s — But Not a Repeat

Some have drawn comparisons to the 1980s farm crisis. In the September Ag Economists’ Monthly Monitor, 91% of ag economists said the row crop side of agriculture is currently in a recession. Of the economists who said ag currently isn’t in a recession, the major reason was simple: strong land values.

“The U.S. crop sector is losing working capital, but cropland values are showing little weakness, either in terms of rents paid or cropland prices. Until the latter two start to weaken, the sector is not in a recession,” said one economist in the anonymous survey.

While Rothermich acknowledges signs of stress, he says the market backdrop is fundamentally different.

“My auction data suggests Iowa land market conditions are down around 8% from the peak in 2022. Grain prices are down almost 50%. [It’s] remarkable the market has not been affected anymore than that,” he says.

Unlike the 1980s, widespread over-leveraging isn’t a problem.

“So far, I am not seeing anything like the ‘80s was and have no concern due to the equity positions that have been built since then,” he says.

“My auction data suggests Iowa land market conditions are down around 8% from the peak in 2022. Grain prices are down almost 50%. Remarkable the market has not been affected anymore than that.”

Jim Rothermich, The Land Talker

The one trend that does give him pause? Retirement auctions.

“It seems a lot of people are exiting the business — much like happened in the 1980s,” he observes.

The Bottom Line

Despite economic headwinds, Iowa’s land market has shown remarkable resilience. Tight supply, strong farmer demand and minimal debt are keeping prices elevated — even as grain markets falter.

But the rise in retirement sales and early signs of financial stress suggest the landscape could shift in the months ahead. For now, though, the surprise story in Iowa land is not decline — but durable strength.

Outrage Builds as City Attempts to Turn Historic 21-Acre Farm into Government Housing

Tue, 05 May 2026 22:05:58 GMT

One tiny farm, standing alone against the power of eminent domain, has caught the attention of the nation. Bureaucrats aim to seize the ground for government housing.

For decades, brothers Andy Henry and Chris Henry, owners of a 175-year-old, 21-acre livestock operation in Middlesex County, N.J., declined $25 million development offers, preserving the farm for the sake of family legacy and county history. Their reward? In a surreal turn bordering on parody, in April 2025, the local council of Cranbury Township designated the entire Henry farm as the ideal location for an affordable housing apartment complex of 130 units. Sell or get covered by a concrete blanket.

Andy Henry, with 20 years of military service in the Air Force, refused to roll. His courage has caught the support of Secretary of Agriculture Brooke Rollins, spurring USDA to look at the loss of family farms via eminent domain.

Henry is prepared for a benchmark court battle, emphasizes attorney Timothy Duggan. “Farms are getting picked off one by one, but now USDA leaders are intent on protecting these families. The public is shocked when they hear the crazy circumstances of this case, but Andy Henry is ready. He’s going the distance for himself and farmers everywhere.”

Saturday Night Live
Surrounded by warehouses, industrial buildings, and turnpike exits, the Henry farm is an agriculture island on South River Road. Despite steady buyout attempts, the Henry siblings have maintained one of the oldest ag outfits on the East Coast—in operation since 1850, composed of 21 acres of pasture, barns, and a historic home.

As seen from above, Henry’s 21 acres represent the last farm standing on South River Road.

(Photo by Google)

However, when a statewide court order directed construction of 146,000 affordable housing units by 2035, Henry’s livestock farm was tagged by the Cranbury Township Committee for forced replacement with apartment buildings: We’re from the government and we’re here to help.

Henry didn’t follow the Committee’s script. He hired bulldog attorney Timothy Duggan and held tight to his farm. “The public is disturbed by the government’s actions in this case,” Duggan emphasizes. “The details are so over the top to average people that they think they’re watching a Saturday Night Live skit.”

In July, Henry filed a lawsuit challenging the township’s ordinance allowing seizure by eminent domain. He followed in August with a separate challenge to the affordable housing plan. “Our primary challenge was the plan is unconstitutional because it builds low-income housing in an area surrounded by warehouses,” Duggan explains, “and that’s not an appropriate location for housing.”

(See City Gov to Seize 175-Year-Old Farm by Eminent Domain for more details on Henry’s private property battle.)

“The public is shocked when they hear the crazy circumstances of this case, but Andy Henry is ready,” says Timothy Duggan. “He’s going the distance for himself and farmers everywhere.”

(Photo by AH)

Henry’s stand has drawn the public eye: “The support from everyday Americans has been overwhelming as evidenced by the social media posts and contributions to our GoFundMe ,” Henry says. “We’ve even had international support.”

Support extends to the top office of USDA. On June 17, USDA Secretary Rollins noted Henry’s potential loss. On her X account, @BrookeLRollins , she posted: We hear you, and I am looking into this situation immediately. We must protect our family farms at all costs. Standby.

Easy Targets
Rollins’ support of Henry has deepened. On Sept. 24, alongside Aubrey Bettencourt , chief of NRCS, Rollins met with Henry and Duggan in Washington, D.C.

“The purpose of the meeting was to discuss what we can do nationwide to try to help preserve additional farms and stop the use of eminent domain to go after farms,” Duggan notes. “Quite often, these old family farms are easy targets.”

L-R, at the Sept. 24 meeting: Jacquelyn A. Suarez, Commissioner of New Jersey Department of Community Affairs; John Koufos; USDA Secretary Brooke Rollins; Andy Henry; Timothy Duggan; and Edward Wengryn, New Jersey Secretary of Agriculture.

(Photo courtesy of Timothy Duggan)

“We’ve been very happy with the support from Secretary Rollins and Chief Bettencourt on how to develop a nationwide program and defense of the farmland we lose each day throughout the country. Secretary Rollins, from the very beginning, has been all-in, wanting to help all the way up the federal level. Our case, over a small amount of land in New Jersey, is about protecting farmland nationwide.”

The Trigger
Henry is prepared for a long-haul court battle.

“Think about the circumstances,” Duggan concludes. “You have farm owners of a wonderful 175-year-old operation turning down big money over and over, because they genuinely believe in preserving a legacy for their entire state. Their actions are then abused by eminent domain. At gut level, people know this is terribly wrong.”

Initially, Henry intended to save his 21 acres. Now, he hopes his legal fight triggers protection for agriculture operations across the nation.

“This started out with a threat to take a property we simply did not want to sell, and people rallied because they could see it was wrong,” Henry says. “I sincerely hope the publicity this has generated will help many other farmers.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

Sisters of Farm Fraud: How 4 Siblings Fleeced USDA for $10M

Texas Poachers Busted in Historic Kansas Sting After Slaughter of 119 Monster Bucks

Tue, 23 Sep 2025 11:57:57 GMT

Hack off a head of magnificent antlers. Slice away a scrotum of trophy semen. Roll the carcass onto its snowy belly to conceal the crime. High-five. Make bank. Fly away in a jet. Do it again.

One of the most astounding illegal hunting cases in U.S. history unfolded in the pastureland and crop rows of southwest Kansas with the poaching of at least 119 giant bucks, representing a minimum of 16,600” of horn, a mind-boggling quarter-mile stretch.

Who was killing the monsters of Kansas? Who triggered one of the wildest conservation busts on record?

“The sickest bunch of outlaws I’ve ever come across,” says retired game warden Tracy Galvin. “They came up here out of Texas and Louisiana, and raped our deer country.”

Sugar and Vinegar
In the rolling red gypsum hills and dagger-leafed yucca of Comanche County, a stone’s throw from the staggered flow of the Cimmaron River, with the nearest backup officer a lonely two-and-a-half hours distant, Galvin knelt beside a barrel-chested, headless deer. No shell casing, no tire tracks, and no physical evidence beyond the decapitated beast. Just Galvin and a mutilated buck in the back of beyond.

It was November 2003, and although illegal kills were part-and-parcel of the 25-year veteran’s world, the dead whitetail pricked his intuition. Random poacher? Hell no.

Kansas game wardens needed a U-Haul to carry home a freakish trove of antlers seized in Texas.

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

“There were several bucks killed in that time frame that struck me as connected,” he recalls. “But sometimes you just watch and wait for a tip, leak, or mistake.”

Comanche County, part of Kansas’ renowned Unit 16 hunting section, was loaded with groceries and cover for whitetails: Forested drainage, arid buttes contrasted by an abundance of irrigated crops, and 790 square miles of big spaces dotted by less than 2,000 people. The county also housed plenty of magnets for outlaws in the form of the biggest bucks in the Jayhawk universe. However, snagging a permit in cream-of-the-crop Unit 16 was highly competitive, especially for non-resident hunters.

The following year, in 2004, at his home office in the county seat of Coldwater, during the opening of archery season, Galvin fielded a phone call from a local farmer describing odd activity the night before: rifle shots and headlights.

Clad in green Wrangler jeans and gray shirt, with a .45 caliber Glock 21 on his hip, Galvin climbed into a full-size, four-door Dodge pickup and rumbled up US 183, with game warden B.J. Thurman riding shotgun. Responsible for a massive four-county expanse (Grant, Morton, Stanton, and Stevens) due west, plain-talking Thurman fit the classic mold of lawman. As a duo, Galvin and Thurman had remarkable presence—Galvin carrying a 300 lb. frame and Thurman solidly stacked over 6’1”, decked in boots and cowboy hat.

Tracy Galvin, left, pictured with a cougar taken by a landowner in 2007, alongside plain-talking B.J. Thurman, right.

(Photo by KDWP)

Arriving at the property location described in the farmer’s call-in, Galvin and Thurman eyeballed seven men, rifles in plain sight, gathered outside a temporary hunting camp.

Doling out sugar, rather than vinegar, Galvin and Thurman offered handshakes. The small group of men, most in their 30s and wearing tell-all grins, introduced themselves as humble visitors from Shelby County, Texas—600 miles southeast of Coldwater. Outwardly, they presented as a respectable hunting crew clad in camo holding non-resident archery permits, i.e., honorable outdoorsmen. In reality, outlaws.

The leader? James Bobby Butler, 35, of Center, Texas. “He was really friendly. Too friendly,” Galvin remembers. “He was super talkative. Too talkative. My radar was going off the charts. The more he spoke, the more suspicious I got.”

“We didn’t know it right then, but Butler had numerous criminal charges and convictions ranging from drugs to money laundering to gambling to wildlife offenses,” Thurman notes.

Soaking in the campsite’s incongruities, Galvin asked if the party knew anything about gunshots the previous evening.

Yes, that was us. We shot a wild pig last night. Nasty critters. Tear up jack. Thank you for asking.

“Sure as s***, they showed us a fresh hog they’d killed,” Thurman describes, his words flavored by a southwest drawl. “No. No. No. We weren’t buying it. We were close to the well-known Hashknife Ranch and some seriously big deer, and these guys were roaming all over Comanche County and surrounding counties. We knew something bad was going on because the entire setup felt crooked as hell.”

B.J. Thurman’s conspiracy tree used in Operation Cimarron to identify and link suspects.

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

Sincerely. Galvin and Thurman had just rubbed the edges of the most consequential poaching slaughter on Kansas record and one of the most significant busts in U.S. history.

“Burying and burning antlers, sneaking deer on airplanes, cutting off balls, moving drugs, and so much more,” Galvin exclaims. “All in the name of greed.”

Poaching Incorporated
Over the next two years, Galvin noted a consistent location shift by the Texas hunters. “They moved around in different spots of our area, and every now and then, a local would say something to us about strange things going on. But we had no probable cause—yet.”

Obtaining a permit in premium Unit 16 was highly competitive, especially for non-resident hunters.

(Photo by KDWP)

However, in roughly 2005, Butler and company dropped an anchor 5 miles southwest of Coldwater, establishing a hunting post on eight purchased acres composed of three trailers, several sheds, and an elevated bin, all fronted by a pole flying the Texas flag: Camp Lone Star.

Visiting hunters to Camp Lone Star flew in by private jet to Comanche County Airport, hopped in a Chevy Blazer parked permanently at the airstrip, and rumbled to the makeshift hunting base—reversing the process for the trip home. Butler paid big coin for farmland and pastureland leases, keeping Kansas landowners tickled pink. Yet, despite the gleam of cash on the barrelhead, people knew.

“Stories were everywhere,” Galvin notes. “We didn’t know specifically what James Butler was up to or where he was connected, but we sure as hell were digging.”

Camp Lone Star, aka Poaching Incorporated.

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

Poaching Incorporated was in session. Camp Lone Star turned Comanche County and its monster bucks into Grand Central Station for out-of-state hunters. “It’s important to realize this was all happening in Unit 16, where there was a limited draw on deer permits,” Thurman details. “I’m talking very, very competitive to get a tag, but Butler meanwhile was flying guys in steady on a King Air jet. He had something bigger than the Titanic going down behind the scenes.”

During the opening of muzzleloading season in October 2005, Galvin and Thurman, along with a host of other conservation officers, worked the Oklahoma-Kansas line, running a dragnet to snag Okie outlaws sneaking onto Jayhawk land. Following the border vigil, returning to Coldwater, Galvin suggested a slight detour: a courtesy stop at Camp Lone Star.

Pulling onto the property, the game wardens immediately eyeballed in-the-act violations. Two men, toting a bloodied cooler, were on the edge of an adjacent field, and in the main yard, a buck dangled on a skinning rack.

Officer Brian Hanzlik, with K-9 partner, Alley, at his side, snapped into action. “Brian was that guy,” Galvin says. “Always ready and he could handle anything. His dog caught the scent and went right into the field where two of the guys had just dumped a doe.”

James Bobby Butler initially was sentenced to 41 months in prison.

(Photo public domain, Facebook)

Galvin inspected the hanging buck and found no tag: “One of these camp guys piped up and said, ‘That buck was shot by a lady from Louisiana and she’s inside the trailer. She’ll sign the tag.’”

“Huh? Hell no,” Galvin says. “They had an unsigned tag, but it was too late. I seized the buck. We’d only been there for minutes, but it was obvious: Regardless of what they were up to, they were a pack of liars.”

While Galvin issued tickets, Butler ran cover, claiming his Lone Star group was “a bunch of old deer hunting buddies,” who pooled money and leased ground.

“Who is the woman? Who is the guy with the woman?” Galvin asked.

“I’m not sure,” Butler answered. “I think they’re from Louisiana, but I don’t even know them.”

Clear as mud.

“Butler was all over the place,” Galvin recalls. “In one sentence, he told me they were all great friends. The next sentence, he denied knowledge of who he was hunting with.”

Lies, half-lies, and all points in between, the particulars of Butler’s unraveling story were of secondary concern. More importantly, Galvin and Thurman had just obtained a steaming pile of probable cause. Gung-ho to follow Butler’s hot trail, the pair of wardens didn’t yet realize the stakes: They had a tiger by the tail.

Word was already out: Come to Kansas and get a monster.

Horror Show
Operation Cimarron, the coordinated sting of Butler’s poaching ring, went into high gear in November 2007. Lying in a depression at field’s edge adjacent to Camp Lone Star, Galvin, Thurman, Hanzlik, and other wardens began taking stakeout posts under cover of darkness, attempting to record license plate numbers and activity. Spooky as hellfire.

“We’d be there all night sometimes, just trying to catch a hint,” Galvin explains. “Their vehicle lights would cross you, and you’d breathe deep, wondering if you were exposed. There was a time or two when they sensed movement or something, because they threw spotlights over us, searching for anything out of place.”

There was more hidden behind the Camp Lone Star curtain than massive antlers. “Catching these guys became kind of like piecing together mob activity to track who was doing what,” says Thurman.

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

“We’d be watching from the other side of a fence,” Thurman concurs, “and they’d start spotlighting right outta the trailers, and we’d have nothing to hide behind except sagebrush. A spotlight going over your freaking head shined by bad guys with rifles is pretty damn uncomfortable.”

Meanwhile, Butler was leasing more land. Big ground: Box Ranch, Huck Ranch, Oasis 7 Ranch, and several smaller properties—over 50,000 acres.

And the jet at Comanche County Airport was eating plenty of fuel hauling hunting guests. Bottom line: Galvin and Thurman needed more than stakeouts.

The King Air jet: “Burying and burning antlers, sneaking deer on airplanes, cutting off balls, moving drugs, and so much more,” Galvin exclaims.

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

Thurman reached for a friend with a bigger badge. He called a USFWS agent and detailed the suspected poaching ring situation. In came the feds. The agent tapped a DEA contact in Colorado and obtained the loan of a high-end, digital surveillance camera capable of zoom and pan. In November 2008, technology in hand, Galvin and Thurman hid the camera in plain sight.

How? Under the guise of standard maintenance work. A local co-op crew “repaired” the electric pole directly outside Camp Lone Star. Wearing a hard hat and disguised in blue collar gear, a federal agent placed the camera inside a fake transformer atop the pole.

“It all looked so real that a couple of the Texas boys walked out while the work was going on and started a casual conversation,” Thurman describes. “They never had a clue. This was the first time in conservation investigation history that this particular camera was used and it was awesome.”

Part of the Butler’s antler haul after seizure by Kansas officials.

(Photo by KDWP)

The camera was the ultimate Trojan horse. Instantly, Galvin and Thurman had remote access to watch all movement around, in, and out of Camp Lone Star. A horror show in high def.

“Later, we would document them killing 119 deer at an average Boone & Crockett score of 159,” Thurman says. “At least 70 major trophy deer. One of the deer we later seized was a 185” 8-point. We learned that one of Butler’s poaching customers had first shot a 203” buck, and when he walked out to get it, the giant 8-point stood up—and he shot it too. They killed at such volume that it was becoming hard to find a true monster.”

There was more hidden behind the Camp Lone Star curtain than massive antlers. “They were stealing more than horns,” Thurman continues. “Catching these guys became kind of like piecing together mob activity to track who was doing what. That camera revealed a damn roadmap of crime.”

Extraction of Semen
As suspected, Butler was ringmaster. From deep East Texas, Butler managed High Roller Whitetails, a fenced deer farm in Center, a 17-mile jump from the Louisiana line. Without a guide license, Butler was flying scores of Texas and Louisiana clients to Camp Lone Star and charging $2,500 for archery hunts and $5,000-plus for firearm hunts.

Marlin Butler (dec’d) initially was sentenced to 27 months in prison.

(Photo by Nacogdoches County)

“If you flew up and killed three deer, that could be $15,000 in one go for Butler,” Thurman says. “And these clients made return trips.”

Butler’s younger brother, Marlin, 32, rode shotgun, receiving $500 per week as guide, tips from customers, and free hunting access.

“Marlin Butler (dec’d 2024), just like his brother, James, was a rough customer. Marlin had previous criminal charges from weapons to aggravated assault to resisting arrest to impersonating a public servant,” Thurman says.

Why did the Butler brothers choose Comanche County? Chickens and slots.

“I had always wondered how poaching rats located each other,” Galvin says. “In this case, we found out Butler had once been in prison for cock fighting. A local in our area, Huey Gray, was in the same prison for running illegal slot machines. They met in lockup and Huey told Butler all about our big deer. Butler came to take a look for himself and saw dollar signs.”

Behind Butler, Galvin suspected, was deep-pocketed Terry Bailey, a resident of Center and owner of High Roller Whitetails. “The Butler brothers handled the hunts, but we suspected Bailey was the money man who paid for the leases and owned the jet everyone flew on,” Galvin posits. “We were never able to prove Bailey had done anything illegal. He died (dec’d 2017) in a helicopter crash a few years later.”

“The Butlers came here at first to poach,” Galvin continues, “but then got into filming with a guy named Matt Moore, who had a hunting television show, Closing the Distance; and then came guiding; and then we believe came genetics and deer theft.”

To cloak illegal hunts, the Lone Star cabal used fall turkey permits, landowner permits, Unit 10 tags in Unit 16, doe tags, and a host of other false fronts. If checked in the field, Butler and company had the veneer of legitimacy. Essentially, a permit of any type was a master key to monsters.

“These dirtbags were going into nursing homes, paying old people $100 to put in for a permit, and then using it for their out-of-staters,” Galvin says. “It was beyond nuts.”

From left: Tracy Galvin, B.J. Thurman, and Brian Hanzlik—all integral components of Operation Cimarron.

(Photo courtesy of KDWP)

“They left no stone unturned when it came to violating deer hunting regs,” subsequently described USFWS Special Agent John Brooks.

“They had people hunting without permits, exceeding bag limits, hunting the wrong units, shooting deer with illegal weapons for the season, they trespassed, used spotlights, shot deer from roads, just cut the heads off and left the meat to rot. I don’t know what they didn’t do.”

However, the level of disdain for conservation skyrocketed when Galvin began finding deer carcasses missing more than heads and racks. As in, bucks with scrotums removed. The implication: Extraction of semen.

“We suspected Butler and the Lone Star gang were flying testicles of monster deer to Texas to inseminate their pen-raised herd,” Galvin explains.

“You gotta understand, that’s how wild this investigation was, and Butler knew to cover his tracks,” Thurman says. “He was wary. One time, he had a table at a show somewhere in Texas, selling hunts as an outfitter. Two feds showed up to book a hunt and Butler said, ‘No.’ He smelled them out. He always had his ears up.”

Galvin and Thurman needed a voice on the inside—an informant. They needed someone to get sour and jump the Camp Lone Star reservation. They needed the boy from Beaumont.

Kicking in Doors
Entirely independent from Camp Lone Star, a legitimate out-of-state bowhunter from Beaumont, Texas, who frequented south Kansas, befriended Galvin. The denizen of Beaumont, who had an acquaintance at Lone Star, would frequently provide Galvin with rumor-mill updates on camp activity. Second-hand info shared over a pot of coffee.

Coincidentally, Galvin and several locals often hunted farmland a half mile from one of Butler’s leases. During the 2007 rifle season, one of Galvin’s hunting friends, a Coldwater native, wounded a deer, and he and Galvin obtained landowner permission to blood-trail the buck onto a plot of land adjoining Butler’s lease.

Johnny Risinger, left, and Terry Bailey, two links in the investigative web of Operation Cimarron.

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

Butler spotted Galvin—and mistakenly assumed a stakeout was in process.

“What a lucky break,” Galvin says. “He thought we were out in that field coming for him and went paranoid. Butler was convinced one of his own guys had screwed him. They had a big falling out and one guy got all the blame. That one guy, who was buddies with my friend from Beaumont, was ready to talk to me.”

Days later, Galvin and a federal agent drove to Texas and let the canary sing. “Holy s***. He told us they were moving drugs. He told us all about the poaching. He told us they knew all the tag numbers on our vehicles. He told us they were watching us. He told us they’d tranquilized does and transported them alive to Texas.”

“He told us Butler was convinced I was flying around watching them from above, and so they had rules in the field: Kill a deer, take the head, and roll the body on its belly to hide the white from any air searches. Rules to be followed.”

The Butlers had turned Comanche County into a poaching mecca. “It was unreal,” Thurman says. “Butler’s right hand man was Johnny Risinger, a taxidermist from Center, and he was camera man for Closing the Distance, the hunting show. Butler transported deer to Risinger for taxidermy work, and those trophy bucks—illegally taken from Kansas—were hanging all over East Texas, and some in Louisiana.”

Galvin and Thurman were ready to pull the legal trigger on the Camp Lone Star wildlife crimes. “This case had so many rabbit trails, but we had to focus on the poaching,” Galvin describes. “We knew there were drugs involved and we searched their Blazer parked at the airport. A K-9 drug dog hit all over the vehicle, but we steered clear of that pursuit because if the DEA got involved, the drug charges would wash out the wildlife charges.”

By 2008, monster deer, once abundant in Comanche County, were getting hard to find. The Camp Lone Star shtick was wearing thin. “Even though Butler was still dumping money here, ranchers and farmers had finally had enough,” Galvin says. “Butler was making enemies.”

Despite video footage, eyewitness testimony, 159 names linked on a spreadsheet, and over 2,000 pages of documentation, Kansas authorities balked at prosecution. “They wouldn’t commit even though we had tons of evidence,” Thurman says. “But when Kansas declined, the feds said, ‘We’re in.’ Basically, our Kansas bosses got their hands forced. Suddenly, it was finally on. We had this s*** pinned down.”

Time to kick in doors.

The Brag Wall
In April 2009, 45 officers converged for a takedown in Center, Texas. Under Thurman’s direction, 15 Kansans, 20 Texans, and 20 feds covertly set up a command post outside of town in a house with a profile tree of photos, charges, and relationships pinned on the wall—in the manner of the mafia.

The brothers Butler Camp Lone Star turned Comanche County and its monster bucks into Grand Central Station for out-of-state hunters.

(Photos courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

Thurman had created a Rosetta Stone of the entire Camp Lone Star affair. He meticulously compiled an exhaustive breakdown of each suspect’s activity and association, all cross-referenced and tabbed to note every individual’s appearance in the overall record. The report was a major feather in Thurman’s cap, with the template later borrowed by the feds to peel the onion in other investigations.

Nothing was left to chance. In synchronized raids across three states, Thurman’s teams deployed in Texas, Kansas (Camp Lone Star in Coldwater), and Louisiana (Lake Charles and Monroe), hitting houses, sporting goods stores, and bars. “We seized mount after mount, and they didn’t even protest,” Thurman says. “They knew they were guilty.”

Once in motion, the law enforcement blitz was fierce: “It was intense as all hell,” Galvin says. “You’d pull up to a stoplight in Center and see two game warden trucks racing one way, and a third going another way. It was on.”

KDWP wardens prepare mounts for transport to from Texas to Kansas.

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

Carrying Thurman’s report for reference, three-man interview squads—Kansan, Texan, and fed—were deployed for each suspect, ensuring the right mix of piss and honey. “It was pretty damn wild,” Thurman recalls. “At 9 a.m., we hit the first 10 suspects, and then the second 10, and so on, in tiers.”

On the first day alone, 40 deer were confiscated.

As word of the conservation sting shot across Shelby County, Butler’s cohorts went into panic mode, burying antlers in the woods, dumping horns in ponds, and burning racks in pits.

Each hit was surreal, none more so than the bust at Center Municipal Airport, conducted by KDWP Officer Brian Hanzlik and Texas Officer Ellis Powell of Lone Star Law television fame. The duo spotted Bailey’s jet taxiing on the airport runway and made a do-or-die stop. Powell raced down the tarmac and pulled in front of the aircraft, forcing the pilot, Brandon Sapp, to stop the aircraft.

“Ellis stopped right in front of the jet and Brian hauled out the pilot,” Galvin describes. “They laid him out on the runway, and he was in the crouched position, bawling his eyes out, fessing up to killing 11 deer. We wanted to seize the jet, but we never able to prove Bailey’s direct involvement.”

However, when officers searched Butler’s home (owned by Bailey), Galvin witnessed a moment of reckoning. “I was guarding out front while officers went in with a search warrant and suddenly Bailey pulls up in a pickup. He headed for the house, and I stuck my hand out to shake his hand, looked him in the eye, and said, ‘My name is Tracy Galvin. I’m a game warden from Kansas. Coldwater.’”

“It froze him. He got this faraway look and just kept shaking my hand over and over, and repeating, ‘Colllllllllllldwater. Collllllllllldwater. I believe it was a moment of realization and he couldn’t hide his gut reaction.”

KDWP officers during the loading of mounts and racks in Texas. Galvin is seated center; Thurman is seated right.

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

All told, KDWP officers seized 133 mounts, averaging 160”. Anticipating a significant jumble of confiscated antlers, Galvin and Thurman had pulled a utility trailer to Center for the trip home. No dice. Too many horns. They had to rent a U-Haul to accommodate the trove.

“It was a moment of satisfaction,” Galvin describes. “Some of these guys were about to go to jail. But at the same time, looking at the truck filled with antlers made me sick to my stomach. These guys had total contempt for conservation. If given enough time, they’d have killed every big buck in our state.”

Back in Coldwater, the KDWP raid at Camp Lone Star added a pile of additional evidence. Butler’s brag wall told a tale. “Every frickin big buck they killed had a picture hanging,” Thurman details. “They were so proud of dropping our deer average from the 160”-170” range to the 140” range. All for money and greed.”

Poachers for Life
In March 2011, James Butler pleaded guilty to one count of conspiracy to violate the Lacey Act, one substantive Lacey Act count, and one count of obstruction of justice. Marlin Butler pleaded guilty to one count of conspiracy to violate the Lacey Act and one Lacey Act count.

Forty-one months in prison for James Butler and 27 months in prison for Marlin Butler, in addition to fines, restitution, and prohibitions from hunting and guiding activity. However, the siblings appealed, and a judge reduced the original sentences to 10 months and 8 months. Twenty-five of their associates also were prosecuted.

Conservation officers announce the conclusion of Operation Cimarron. Thurman stands second from right.

(Photo by KDWP)

Operation Cimarron, a six-year (three years of intense scrutiny, 2007-2009) poaching investigation, documented 120 federal felonies (beyond those lost to the statute of limitations), hundreds of state violations, 16,600” of illegal antlers, $500,000 traced to Camp Lone Star, 40 years of suspended licenses, multiple lifetime hunting bans, $80,500 in fines, $110,000 in restitution, and 119 mounts forfeited.

The groundbreaking case, from camera technology to the paperwork system used to track activity, permanently changed hunting violation investigations in Kansas and beyond.

“The judge let them off light,” Galvin, 75, says, “but this was the most worthwhile investigation of my career. It had to be done because what they were doing was intolerable. There were others involved we couldn’t get, and there was money we couldn’t trace, but this work was done to ensure nobody else tries something anywhere close to what Butler and his people did. B.J. Thurman and I were just doing our job, and we were only two guys among many making sure the bad guys went down. We were part of one big team across multiple agencies with so many people helping.”

Because Galvin and Thurman refused to spit the bit in the Camp Lone Star case, their tenacity ensured Kansas now has a trophy statute that puts a monetary value on deer and defines methodology to determine that value. “If this same stunt happens today, the poachers will do 10-15 years in jail,” Thurman says.

Part of the haul seized from the Butler brothers’ poaching ring. Thurman (second row, yellow shirt, cowboy hat) and Galvin (standing on Thurman’s right) bulldogged the Butlers and refused to let go of the case. “Don’t come to Kansas to poach,” Galvin says. “Stay the hell away.”

(Photo courtesy of B.J. Thurman)

“Think about what they did: Wholesale slaughter,” Thurman, 65, concludes. “These were the most reckless and lowest form of poachers. They were in the process of killing almost every monster deer in our area. It was devastating to our population and herd genetics.”

Poachers for life? Absolutely, Galvin emphasizes. “Doesn’t matter if you prosecute, those individuals never stop. You can slow them down, but they’re in for life. However, you do everything you can to expose and prosecute as a deterrent, because the message gets out to others and the next generation: Don’t come to Kansas to poach. Stay the hell away.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

City Gov to Seize 175-Year-Old Farm by Eminent Domain, Replace with Affordable Housing

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

Sisters of Farm Fraud: How 4 Siblings Fleeced USDA for $10M

Lowballed by Eminent Domain, ND Farmers Appeal Landmark Case to Supreme Court

Tue, 16 Sep 2025 11:52:03 GMT

In a stunning assertion of power, the federal government is forcing landowners to pick between two poisons. Accept lowball eminent domain offers for private property or drown in legal costs. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Leonard Hoffmann was offered roughly half the market rate for gas pipeline access across his pastureland, backed by the threat of eminent domain. He spent hundreds of thousands of dollars in court to contest the offer, but despite winning, Hoffmann received a financial hammer blow: pay all legal costs.

In a staggering ruling, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Eighth Circuit declared Hoffmann must foot the bill to challenge below-market land offers—even though he won on the issue related to the use of other pipeline easement transactions as comparable sales. He proved his case that he is entitled to recover fees, but according to the Eighth Circuit, if a landowner dares to challenge a government-backed gas giant, the landowner loses either at the get-go or the finish line.

Hoffmann, along with several other neighboring property owners, is taking his case directly to the Supreme Court of the United States, represented by the Institute for Justice.

“Where is basic fairness?” he asks. “Where in the hell did reason go?”

We Were in the Way
In 2018, in the process of pipeline construction, WBI Energy Transmission knocked at the farm gates of Leonard Hoffmann, Rocky Prestangen, Randy Stevenson, and Denae Hoffmann, all located in extreme western North Dakota’s McKenzie County. WBI asked for easement access and a 99-year lease from the landowners. The request was backed by demand: WBI operated with a federal permit, allowing the natural gas company to wield eminent domain. Sell or else.

However, the landowner foursome had long legs in North Dakota agriculture. Their acres, homesteaded by great-grandparents over a century in the past, were a mix of arid pastureland, along with wheat, oats, barley, and alfalfa, tucked a stone’s throw from Theodore Roosevelt National Park, and their locale had been in the bull’s-eye for oil and gas development for several decades.

“We didn’t even resist the eminent domain—all we wanted was for WBI to just be reasonable about our land value,” Hoffman says. “Instead, seven years of abuse trying to break us.”

(Photo by IJ)

In a nutshell, Hoffmann and the other third- and fourth-generation landowners had pipeline experience and already had multiple lines running beneath their fields. They understood rates and land prices.

WBI offered roughly half of market value for easement access. “People are appalled by the details of what has gone on,” Prestangen says. “WBI took our land, and on top of that, gave us half value because they knew they had eminent domain power from the government.”

“The average person is disgusted when they hear about this,” Hoffmann echoes. “WBI came at us with far less than the going rate; a 99-year lease which is three times what other companies ask; and a 100’ exclusive easement, instead of the 25’ sought by other companies, ensuring no other pipelines can cross without their permission. The numbers don’t lie: Landowners were getting less than 5% of the total project budget.”

“We were never about telling them, ‘No,’ because we knew they had eminent domain,” Hoffmann adds. “We just wanted them to pay the going rate and be fair. Didn’t matter. They just didn’t give a care because we were in the way.”

Catch-22
Hoffmann and Prestangen refused to roll. They went to court and paid attorney fees out of pocket, insisting on the right to rely on market rates to show the value of their farms and pasturelands. Three years later, a federal judge decided in their favor on the use of other easement transactions as evidence, and also ruled for 100% reimbursement of legal fees from WBI.

North Dakota producer Randy Stevenson is fighting a government- backed gas giant.

(Photo by IJ)

However, WBI appealed the reimbursement, and in 2024, the Eighth Circuit decided in favor of the pipeline company, forcing Hoffmann and Prestangen to pay all litigation costs. In essence, Hoffmann and Prestangen were forced into a vise sanctioned by the federal government: Either surrender money up front for your land or pay it later in court fees. Lose-lose.

On the hook for hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees, Hoffmann and Prestangen were bled out. No more cards to play. “That’s exactly what these big corporations want,” Prestangen says. “At some point, they know you won’t have the financial means to fight. They wait for your personal savings to run low. We were in deep with nowhere to turn.”

(Citing pending litigation, WBI declined all Agweb.com questions regarding the Eighth Circuit decision and the Hoffmann case.)

However, the Eighth Circuit’s massive ruling caught the eye of liberty-leaning Institute for Justice, and the law firm took the case at no cost. IJ attorney Matt Liles says the Eighth Circuit’s decision was a “Catch-22” for private property owners.

“Every federal court that’s looked at this issue has decided landowners should be compensated, and state law almost always entitles landowners to attorney fees. We got involved because this could eventually affect landowners all over the country if other courts follow. This ruling puts landowners in a position where a gas company can take your land at a bad price and you can’t even get your legal fees paid if you prove in court what the gas company is doing. The ruling ensures that landowners can’t resist at any stage.”

North Dakota landowner Denae Hoffmann waits to find out if SCOTUS will hear her case.

(Photo by IJ)

“Look at the four landowners (Hoffmann, Prestangen, Stevenson and Denae Hoffmann) in this fight,” Liles continues. “They represent property that’s been in families for over 100 years that required tremendous struggle to hold onto. The land is a symbol of survival, but now they’re fighting a gas giant.”

IJ appealed the Eighth Circuit decision to the U.S. Supreme Court on Aug. 7, 2025. The High Court will decide in October 2025 whether to officially hear the case.

In the meantime, Hoffmann waits. “It’s been nothing but extreme stress, depositions, testimony in court, meaningless negotiations, and strain on all our families since 2018,” he says. “We didn’t even resist the eminent domain—all we wanted was for WBI to just be reasonable about our land value. Instead, seven years of abuse trying to break us.”

The Battering Ram
Looming in the background is a lesson from the recent past.

This was not Hoffmann and Prestangen’s first go-round with WBI and eminent domain. The gas company took another easement across their properties in 2014.

“They ran right through us and listened to nothing we said,” Prestangen recalls. “Other pipeline companies I’ve dealt with were receptive about the location of my farmland or hunting ground, but not WBI. They charged through in a matter of weeks and didn’t care about the land, leaving potholes and washouts in my fields.”

“This is about arrogance of power, eminent domain abuse, and a terrible failure in the justice system,” says Rocky Prestangen, left, pictured alongside Randy Stevenson.

(Photo by IJ)

Hoffmann concurs and claims WBI’s restoration of the disturbed pipeline corridor on his land was a nightmare in 2014. “We asked WBI to minimize their impact to our farming and ranching by taking specific routes. They refused. We asked the crew for 10 days to get hay off our land before they went through. Two days later, it was all gone. WBI came across with whatever was easiest, quickest and cheapest for them.”

“Once WBI finished the line, a third-party company came in for reclamation to repair our land,” Hoffmann adds. “We literally had to stay on this company by the week to get them to show up. Reseeding in an arid climate can mean several years before grass grows again, but they didn’t do anything we’d been promised. The only thing WBI ever cared about was doing studies to avoid archeological areas and eco-nature because they were worried about federal regulations. But disturbing our farmland and pastureland production? They couldn’t have cared less.”

In August 2025, WBI was awarded a $500 million grant by the North Dakota Industrial Commission to build another pipeline. WBI is part of Montana Dakota Utilities (MDU). “That’s how it works,” Hoffmann notes. “WBI was created as a spinoff of MDU. Why? In my opinion, they needed WBI to take advantage of federal regulation to be able to use eminent domain. They had to have eminent domain in their hip pocket to cross lands like ours.”

WBI President Rob Johnson, while discussing the new $500 million grant, referenced eminent domain. “There are times where sometimes it’s necessary, but the goal going in is to not have to use eminent domain,” Johnson said. “That’s always our stance.”

“Are you kidding?” Hoffmann says. “Eminent domain is always on the table and the landowners know it. Eminent domain is the battering ram behind everything they do. For him to pretend otherwise pretty much tells the whole story.”

If the Supreme Court accepts Hoffmann and Prestangen’s case, a decision is likely in 2026. Attorneys general from 12 states are urging SCOTUS to accept the case: Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Indiana, Idaho, Louisiana, Nebraska, North Dakota, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, and Texas.

“Here’s what’s at stake,” Hoffmann concludes. “It’s now OK to force private landowners to accept minimal payment for property and then take more money from them if they protest and prove their case in court. That is fundamentally wrong.”

“This is about arrogance of power, eminent domain abuse, and a terrible failure in the justice system,” Prestangen adds. “They make you feel like nothing is yours.”

For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:

Family Farm Wins Historic Case After Feds Violate Constitution and Ruin Business

County Shuts Down 15-Yr-Old’s Bait Stand on Family Farm, Threatens Daily Fines

City Gov to Seize 175-Year-Old Farm by Eminent Domain, Replace with Affordable Housing

Ghost Cattle: $650M Ponzi Rocks Livestock Industry, Money Still Missing

Game of Horns: Iowa Poacher’s Antler Addiction Leads to Historic Bust

Farmer Unearths Lost Treasure, Solves WW2 Mystery

How the Deep State Tried, and Failed, to Crush an American Farmer

Sisters of Farm Fraud: How 4 Siblings Fleeced USDA for $10M

Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told