In 1994, Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge in eastern Oregon was closed to cattle grazing. The decision was a victory for conservationists, but it didn’t have an immediate effect on the landscape. Along with compacted soil, trampled streams and invasive nonnative vegetation, there were highly visible remnants of ranching days: more than 300 miles of barbed wire fencing that crisscrossed the refuge, preventing the antelope from roaming free.

“Antelope won’t jump a fence they can see through,” says George Reynolds, a volunteer here since 1991. “They scoot under but the bucks often get tangled in the wire.”

Reynolds, seventy-three, has devoted more than 10,000 volunteer hours, the equivalent of a half-time job, to the refuge. His pet project is getting rid of the fences. Working with volunteer groups from the Sierra Club and Wilderness Volunteers, it’s possible to take down five to six miles of fence a week, but he does it alone, too, at a much slower pace. His persistence has paid off. After ten years, about seventy miles of fence remain.

When Reynolds moved to Lakeview twelve years ago, he hadn’t thought too much about the effect of cattle grazing on public lands. The retired U.S. Forest Service worker had visited Hart Mountain over the years and looked forward to living near the refuge and taking advantage of the area’s fishing and hunting. Just about the time he and his wife settled there, a furor over grazing erupted when a lawsuit filed by environmental groups forced an environmental impact study to document the effects of cattle grazing on the range.

Reynolds attended town meetings, and got a sample of the local reaction, which was mostly pro-livestock and hostile to any restrictions on public land grazing. Initially, he thought that ranchers and environmentalists could come to an agreement by limiting grazing, but as he learned more about the issue, he came to realize it was all or nothing. When Hart Mountain was closed to grazing for a fifteen-year study period, he was elated.

In the spring and summer, Reynolds often takes a small travel trailer and stays on the mountain. In addition to removing fence, he helps with vegetation and wildlife counts and annual activities like fawn spotting.

“Catching the fawns is the fun part,” he says. In early spring, volunteers find the fawns by following the mothers, who are easy to spot as they forage for food. When a mother heads back to nurse the fawn, the fawn spotters can note the fawn’s location for the catcher team, which comes in and takes vital statistics needed to monitor the general health of the herd.

When Reynolds is working, or when he gets a chance to fish, he can observe firsthand the restoration process that followed the cattle removal. The grasses, weeds and wildflowers that deer and antelope love to feed on are returning. Aspen groves flourish as the young shoots get a chance to grow. Along the streams, Reynolds and other volunteers have planted willows, and government crews have worked to restore natural bends and braids. Increased vegetation and slower stream flows provide better habitat for the more than 300 species of birds and mammals that frequent the area.

He works hard on the mountain, but he gets as much out of it as he puts into it. On Friday nights in the summer, his wife often travels up from Lakeview to join him at the picnics and barbecues the staff and volunteers hold weekly. He enjoys the company of others who share his feelings.

“There’s public land grazing all around the mountain,” he says. “It’s nice to have one little area free. Not having cattle there is a joy.”