Conservation in Red Country: When All-or-Nothing Means Nothing Gets Protected

In Montana, I worked on a forest protection project where a difficult question came up: should we offer younger, non–old-growth forest to the timber industry in exchange for permanent protection of old growth? The project moved forward, but the question revealed a deeper concern—whether any concession would be perceived as weakness. That tension—between holding the line and negotiating strategically—is one conservation often struggles to navigate. In regions where timber is tied to cultural identity and local economies, insisting on absolutes can shut down conversations before they begin. When everything is off the table, sometimes so is protection.

Yaak Valley, Montana (photo by K. Africanis)

Over the past decade, I’ve lived and worked in some of the most conservative regions of the American West and Southeast. I’ve come to understand that what many in conservation interpret as anti-environmental sentiment is often a reflection of place-based values: independence, resourcefulness, legacy, and economic dependence on extractive industries. These communities aren’t seeking to degrade ecosystems—they were raised to see land as something to be used and managed for human benefit. These values are rarely questioned because they’re deeply embedded in daily life and generational identity.

This context is often invisible to professionals trained in environmental science, conservation policy, or natural resource law. That’s where the conflict begins. When conservationists enter a place with a rigid agenda—such as no logging ever—we walk straight into a values clash. Even when environmental science supports strict protection of old-growth forests (and it does), failing to acknowledge cultural realities can trigger resistance. Environmentalists are often seen as outsiders imposing top-down decisions on landscapes rural communities have lived with for generations.

The irony is that many of us advocate for these landscapes because we cherish them. But that message often gets lost. Conservationists can be viewed as obstructionists or elitists, particularly when we refuse dialogue. Likewise, we may paint local land users as villains—anti-science, anti-nature, anti-progress. This binary has done more to divide than to protect. We’re often seen not as collaborators, but as enforcers of restrictions that threaten livelihoods and identity. And when our advocacy comes across as morally superior, it deepens resistance.

Ecologically, old-growth forests are irreplaceable. They store more carbon, support more biodiversity, and provide habitat younger forests cannot replicate. Their protection is essential for climate change mitigation, wildlife conservation, and ecosystem integrity. But that doesn’t mean our approach must be inflexible.

The idea of allowing selective logging in younger stands—carefully planned and outside sensitive areas—is sometimes raised as a middle ground. It’s an uncomfortable option for many conservationists, and rightly so. Risks include habitat fragmentation, road-building, and altered microclimates. It can also set a precedent that compromise is always on the table—even when urgency demands a firmer stance.

Yet in conservative, resource-dependent regions, rejecting all negotiation can result in total stalemate. The challenge isn’t whether compromise is ideal—it’s whether refusing to consider it achieves better outcomes. Sometimes, partial protection is the only viable path to safeguarding core habitat.

These are not easy choices. As someone deeply committed to strong environmental protections, I grapple with these questions daily. Living in one of the reddest states—Wyoming—I’m immersed in a culture where environmental regulation is often viewed with suspicion. In an era shaped by Trump-era rhetoric and ongoing anti-regulatory sentiment, I must ask: what is the most effective path forward? Conservation must learn to navigate ethical ambiguity—not by abandoning principles, but by examining how we apply them in socially complex situations.

We must ask ourselves: is it better to cling to moral purity and lose the forest, or pursue a negotiated outcome that protects what matters most? This isn’t compromise for appeasement. It’s about recognizing that political and cultural systems shape what’s possible. In Montana, collaborative conservation isn’t new. What’s often missing is the willingness to see negotiation not as weakness, but as strategy.

Environmental science should guide us, but social values shape how our work is received. Ignoring the emotional and cultural dynamics of red country risks alienating the very people whose cooperation we need. Conservation that’s place-based, honest about tradeoffs, and being open to dialogue isn’t less ethical—it’s more effective.

We don’t have to abandon our principles. But we must recognize that how we hold them often determines whether the protections we fight for ever take root.