OPINION
Native Son Teacher, activist, author--Denzel Ferguson was one of Oregon's most precious commodities. Many years ago, we journeyed to the far reaches of southeastern Oregon. A number of us planned to spend New Year's Eve under the stars at hot springs that sit at the edge of the Alvord Desert. Armed with beer and harmonicas, we planned to howl at the moon, soak in the baths and count our blessings for living in this piece of paradise called Oregon. At about 4 pm, not far outside of Burns, we ran into a raging snowstorm. It was clear that the hot springs would have to wait, but we were still in a party mood. We regrouped, climbed back in our cars and drove 3O or so miles to the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, home to sage grouse and sandhill crane--and Denzel Ferguson. Ferguson welcomed us into his home as if there were nothing odd about 10 people showing up unannounced on a snowy New Year's Eve. We broke out the Rainier (this was before micro brews), turned on the radio and danced till the sun began to rise over the Steens Mountains. That evening is but one of many reasons for our enduring affection for Denzel Ferguson, who passed away last week at the age of 69 after a short and vicious battle with cancer. We weren't alone in our admiration. You could fill the Rose Garden with those who became Ferguson acolytes after meeting this native son of Oregon, a man whose commitment to his ideals was exceeded only by the charity of his friendship. That you could fill another arena with his enemies only added to his mystique. Ferguson was a herpetologist by training, a Ph.D with a scholarly knowledge of reptiles and amphibians. But when he and his wife, Nancy, became managers of the Malheur field station in the early 1970s, he became, in effect, a travel agent for thousands of young people who were drawn both to the beauty of one of America's most prolific waterfowl breeding spots and to the charms of the Fergusons. During the '70s and early '80s, Ferguson became increasingly concerned about the use and misuse of federal lands. He became a regular contributor to Willamette Week, writing with grace and passion about Secretary of the Interior James Watt, federal mining policy and President Reagan's efforts to sell off public land. Ferguson had long gotten used to spitting into the wind, challenging Republican policy while living in the most conservative region in Oregon. (We remember the response we once got at the mention of our acquaintance with Denzel while we were sitting in a bar in Harney County. If looks could wound, we would have been hospitalized.) But he homered in 1983 with his and Nancy's publication of Sacred Cows at the Public Trough (Maverick Publications), a social, political and economic indictment of the Western cattle industry. Though the book was well reasoned and thoroughly researched, it was also blunt: "No industry or human activity on earth has destroyed or altered more of nature than the livestock industry. The slow-talking cowboy and his docile cows...are the center of a monstrous myth, a part of Americana that rests on concocted imagery and fabrication--an enormous falsehood based on profound ignorance." Ferguson ran for Congress in 1992, a quixotic campaign in which he captured 30,000 votes, less than half that of Republican Bob Smith, an incumbent and rancher who grazed cattle on subsidized federal land. It was his last public battle. For the last several years, Denzel and Nancy lived quietly in Bates along the middle fork of the John Day River. Until the end, he remained the genuine article: independent, damn funny and deeply committed to the prudent use of public lands. We're all better stewards of Oregon for having known him.
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