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Joe isn’t that way. He’s the kind of guywho takes care of problems before they catchup to him. In his 68 years on this piece of landat least 25 miles apart from anybody else, hehas dealt with winters of 10-foot snows,droughts that last half a decade, and peoplewho breeze in off the road looking for spacecritters rumored to be in the area. He and hiswife Susie have raised and homeschooledthree brilliant daughters, all of whom nowhold graduate degrees and potential careersthat might never bring them home again, ifhome was anything less than Twin Springs.They all have nursed sick calves and founddead cows, refilled 150 mile-distant watertroughs, rebuilt remote fences and adopted ajoyful muttery of six well-loved dogs thatsomehow get along together in the front yard.They’ve seen rustlers and drunks, lonely losttravelers, and at least one damn fool reporterwho blew past Twin Springs all the way toRachel—where they celebrate the dead aliensat Area 51—before he could make his cellphone work and call back.Joe worries about them all, usually only

long enough to do what he can to fix theproblem, but he does worry. It’s like a small

dark spot on the cheerful apple of his cheek-cracking good nature that has won him afriendly and generous reputation all over thestate. Still it’s not those little, practical thingsthat worry Joe Fallini Jr. so much. It’s thehorses that make him lose sleep.Unless the Bureau of Land Management

(BLM) finally lives up to its promises and to acourt order this September, wild horses—mustangs, if you must—may finally ruin allthe years the Fallinis have invested in makingTwin Springs a balanced and productiveranch that is much more than a relic of west-ern freedom.There were horses here on the long sliding

slopes of sage that run off from the rocky highmesas and hidden box canyons when Joe’sgrandfather, Giovanni, arrived in this countryin the 1860s as an awkward teenager born inthe Alps near Switzerland, ready to do justabout anything he could to get by. He sawplenty of horses, maybe more horses let looseor lost by missionaries or venturing settlersthan there were cattle on the open range.More horses than were useful to miners busycracking out a wealth of silver and gold andbuilding hopeful new cities like Goldfield and

Tonopah. Those two towns, about 70 mileswest of Twin Springs, haven’t changed much,except for the deep coat of dust that coversblank windows of once stately hotels and thedark empty nights on scruffy forgotten streetswhere there at least ought to be ghosts.Tonopah, along Highway 95 leading to LasVegas, still has the nearest gas station to TwinSprings.Out where Joe began growing up during

World War II has always been the wild part,locked off from the dip down into Death Val-ley by its own high shoulders of peak-clippedvolcanic mountains running south like afortress wall. Joe’s grandfather and his threesons, soon known and still remembered allover the region as Fallini and sons, had thebellies of the miners and soldiers of the pass-ing war to feed in those days as they builtupon what might seem a small empire today,added acre by acre to a size beyond all thehorizons around them.It never occurred to Joe Junior, as they still

call him, that he might go somewhere else.This was all he ever expected to want, hiswhole world where he knew every crease andcrop of grass, where he climbed into theancient caves once occupied by long-lost clansand tribes and from where he could spot therunning antelope in the valley as the Indiansthemselves must once have done. It wasn’tjust home to Joe, it was the center of the uni-verse, and everyplace else might just as well be

The Horses of Joe Fallini’s DreamsWords by Tim Findley. Photos by Tim Findley and Fallini family.

You might say Joe Fallini worries too much. Then again, those 662,000acres of classic rangeland surrounding his Twin Springs Ranch on theeastern edge of Nevada’s Great Basin command enough concern tomake anybody lose a little sleep now and then.

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the moon. So in the 1950s, when he watchedhis father and his uncles begin confrontingsomething new in the attitude of federalauthorities he hardly even thought aboutbefore, Joe started learning that all that feelingof freedom he had could be made to fade.Typical of Nevada, where at least 85 per-

cent of the land is federally managed, TwinSprings’ deeded property consisted of only2,000 acres. The rest, a humongous stretchknown as the Reveille Allotment, was underthe purview of the BLM, a low-budgetedfederal bureaucracy in the1950s that man-aged at a usually helpful part-time distance.When Joe’s father, grandfather, and hisuncles needed to make changes on theland—installing new water systems or rotat-ing grazing regions or keeping the wild horseherd down to what they saw as a manageablesize of about 145 head—they worked withthe Nye County commissioners. But startingin the late ’50s, the BLM began taking a full-time role, often with fresh-out-of-schoolconservation agents who had taken advan-tage of the GI Bill of Rights. For the Fallinisand other ranchers in the Great Basin, it wastheir first encounter with “outsiders” takingtheir own authority a little too seriously. Atthe same time, what was left over from thejust-finished war seemed to be shipped toNevada to practice for the next one.Just over the mountains to the south of

Twin Springs, they could see the flash and thelingering glow periodically from the NevadaTest Site while above-ground nuclear testingwas still permitted. Joe Junior still believes itwas wind-drifted fallout from those tests thatcontributed to his father’s death in 1979.That, and the long battle with the BLM justbeginning.“I had an old [war surplus] PowerWagon my dad gave me in those days,” Joeremembers, “and I could get around justabout anywhere, feeding the cattle, fixing the

fences, just enjoying it all. But, now and then,I’d go with them to BLM meetings and, evenas a kid, I could feel the tension building up.”Nobody could doubt the Fallinis were

good stewards of the land. Old Giovannicounted on caring for his family’s livelihoodin a way that would preserve it for many gen-erations. Thus, he mixed a program of feedand grazing meant to create a balance thatincluded the numbers of wild horses that hethought the range could handle. It is not theamount of grass consumed by horses thatworries ranchers; it’s the shape of the horsejaw that, unlike cattle, cuts into the soil andpulls the grass up by the roots, ruining pas-ture for at least a season.The Fallinis admired the wild spirit of the

horses and understood it better than theromanticized film stories. They figured theycould maintain a herd of 145 or so in the

canyons and arroyos apartfrom the 2,000 head of cattleon the ranch. When thehorse herds grew large, Gio-vanni or one of his sonswould request permission ofthe county commission togather up the excess animals,giving away all they could toanyone who could breakthem and selling the rest. Itseemed to work well until1976 when amendments tothe Federal Organic Actbegan expanding theauthority of the Department

of Interior to manage government lands formultiple public uses. Times were rapidlychanging.By then, Joe Junior had been off to his

greatest adventure away from home, earninghis degree in agricultural mechanics from theUniversity of Nevada, Reno, learning to flysingle-engine airplanes, and making 197sport parachute jumps. It was the 1960s, afterall, and Joe had his own style of craziness. Itwas also when he met his roommate’s sister,Susie, the pretty girl of German extraction hetook home as his wife.They have been married 44 years now, yet

you can hardly take a picture of them togeth-er in which she is not looking at her man, orbe near them both for long before noticingthe gentle, reassuring rubs she gives his shoul-ders. That’s a team, the heart and soul of aclose family and the durable spirit that reallymakes a place like Twin Springs not justhome, but a vital organ in all their lives, defin-ing their place in humanity.With his grandfather gone and his father

and uncles all feeling the weight of time, JoeJunior stepped in smoothly to the long andunwanted fight with the BLM. Neighbors allaround him were becoming famous in therebellious West for their own struggles withthe federal land agency that was pushing,pushing, to limit grazing on federal lands.The government wanted Wayne Hage’s allot-ments to expand the bizarre railroad tonowhere to be called The MX Missile DefenseSystem and they wanted Ben Colvin brokenas an example for any rancher who would

Giovanni Fallini arrived in this country in the 1860s as an awkwardteenager born in the Alps near Switzerland, ready to do just aboutanything he could to get by. His son Joe, right, worked just as hard.

Joe Junior and Susie with daughter Anna, son-in-law Ty, and baby Giovanni, at home at Twin SpringsRanch in Nye County, Nevada. OPPOSITE: One small bunch of free-roaming horses on Joe’s outfit.

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defy their new limits on numbers of cattlepermitted and stand in the way of their con-trolled burns. Eventually, the BLM would set-tle for a fine paid by Colvin, while Hage won afederal ruling against the taking of his cattle. Itwas a moral victory for them, but the years-long fight took a sad toll on their lives. Evennow, four years since Hage died, the feds arestill stalling payment on an estimated $9 mil-lion takings penalty ordered by the U.S. Courtof Claims. With the Fallinis fingered asamong the most troublesome of Nevadaranchers, the BLM appeared to use anothertactic—they would let the horses eat Falliniout of business.

“When I was a kid,” Joe says, “I rememberseeing people driving out from the cities orsomeplace around roundup or branding timeand stopping on the road just to watch theroping and the cowboys. Then I rememberonly a few years later people who would driveby the ranch and cuss at us. I couldn’t under-stand at first what made them mad.”

It was the new politics, inspired in part bythe BLM itself which did nothing to disputethe widely told lies that all ranchers wereovergrazing the western range in a greedyattempt to expand and enrich their herds.The government knew better, especially aboutthe generational ranches like Twin Springsthat had long ago devised plans to preservethe stingy land that was their livelihood. Butwith “The Misfits” movie, starring ClarkGable and Marilyn Monroe, and with thecampaign of a Reno secretary who becameknown as Wild Horse Annie to enlist school-children in a campaign to save the “BlackBeauties” of wild mustangs, the governmentloaded another weapon in what was becom-ing the war on the West.

Joe’s mother, Helen, was near enough tohear at one point when Thelma “Annie”Johnston returned from a helicopter ride withBLM officials over the Reveille Allotment andthe Tonopah Bombing Range saying she was“thrilled” to see such an area “perfect” for the

horses she hoped to save as living nationalmonuments. Perfect, except for the long-heldrights of the Fallinis. “There are other ways toget it done, Annie,” Helen overheard the BLMofficial say. “Other ways.”

The BLM had never formally objected tothe Fallinis’ management of the horse herds,but especially after the passage in 1971 of theWild Free Roaming Horse and Burro Act, ittook its responsibility for the mustangs to befirst a responsibility against the ranchers. TheFallinis were even denied permission to gath-er their own branded 25 horses from therange. Joe rented a small plane and began ayear-by-year inventory of the herds. In 1971,it was a manageable 126. By 1973, the BLMitself counted 260 horses in the allotment. By1982, when the BLM issued its Reveille Stew-ardship Allotment Management Plan, Joehimself counted 2,052 head of horses on theallotment, some grazing right up to the cor-rals at the ranch, even attacking their domes-tic stock and ranch hands.

Other ways had apparently been found inwhat was hatching out as a BLM plan toestablish a federal wild-horse range just whereWild Horse Annie had wanted it. It worked itsinfluence in Washington along with pressureon the range. As early as 1976, Joe Junior hadreceived a call from an aide to Sen. Paul Laxalt(R-NV) asking him “why we wanted to sellout.” A hearing ordered in Tonopah revealedthat the BLM wanted not only Twin Springs,but the Colvin, Clifford, and Meyer ranchesto encompass this plan. The ranchers werefurious but Gene Nodine, BLM district man-ager who had shown Wild Horse Anniearound, merely shrugged. He had enoughtrouble with Hage and others to get in a fightover his little secret at Twin Springs.

Over the years, the Fallinis repeatedlywent to federal courts and other federal hear-ings seeking peace, but the BLM went toextremes, even to absurdly accuse the familyof hiring gunmen to kill horses. The horseswere dying—of starvation, thirst andlocoweed—but it was the “other ways” theBLM used to encourage their overpopulationthat was to blame. Legal costs and repairs torange water and feed facilities might break theFallinis anyway.

A management plan approved by theBLM itself in 1982 had provided that thestewardship plan would reduce the herd backinto the original area of use. But the BLMpleaded that it lacked sufficient funds to carryout its own plan. Instead, the feds tried tocancel the Fallinis permits for range improve-ments, alleging that establishing gates around

Branding at Twin Springs, June 2010. Back row, horseback: Anna Fallini Berg, Erik Jackson, CorrinaFallini Jackson. Middle row: Doug Jackson, Rheanna Jackson, William Haas, Lorinda Fallini Haas,Joanna Haas, Suzie and Joe Fallini. Front row: Ty Berg, with children, Dustin, Giovanni and Sage. ABOVE: Ranch headquarters. OPPOSITE: Joe uses the Bell helicopter to move cattle on the desert.

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water sources was discouraging horses fromdrinking. Damage done to their stock water-ing facilities by now had cost the Fallinis morethan $135,000 to repair. It was becoming awar of attrition until 1986 when a federalcourt ordered that the BLM begin removinghorses from the allotment by March 1987.The BLM stalled, contending that it did nothave an accurate account and that a portionof the range should be excluded from thegather. Again and again and again the Falliniswere forced back into court, spending thou-sands to win legal rulings the BLM simplyignored. “My dad told me he just couldn’tunderstand it anymore. He had always triedto be fair, but they just wouldn’t let up,” Joesays. “I think he just got too tired.”

In the 1990s Joe bought and learned to flyan aging Bell helicopter of the bubble-nosedvariety familiar in “M*A*S*H*.” He used it towatch his Herefords, the BLM’s horses, andthe government itself. “I kinda felt it put meeven up with them and their excuses,” Joesays. “And it worked, too.” In finally doing acourt-ordered gather, the BLM still draggedits bureaucratic feet, claiming some parts ofthe allotment were separate managementareas, accusing the Fallinis of not maintainingtheir fences, and generally hinting to Joe thatthere was still a long battle ahead. It was just avariation on the same tactics being usedagainst other ranchers.

At last, in 2002, the federal court orderedthe BLM to take an annual census of the wild

horses in the allotment and when themanagement level exceeds 138 hors-es, a gather be conducted within 120days to reduce the number of horsesto the management level. That wasbasically what the Fallinis had been

doing even before the BLM. But despite thecourt order, no census of horses on the allot-ment was taken other than that by Fallini inhis own helicopter until 2009, when the BLMcounted 213 head. Another count in February2010 made it 231, exceeding the allowednumber of 138 and demanding a gather beinitiated by court order within 120 days. TheBLM said it could not put together such aplan before September.

Maybe Joe Fallini worries too much, butthis time if some horses aren’t removed, he’sworried they may claim the winter feedingground he has reserved for his cattle. It’s justthat over these years, he has learned not totrust the BLM. So he worries.

Not too much, though. Joe’s youngestdaughter Anna has become a pilot herself inaddition to earning a degree in bio sciencesand agricultural engineering. She and herhusband Ty live at Twin Springs now and aresharing the delight of their two-year-old sonwith Grandpa and grandma. The bright andprecocious toddler loves feeding the calvesalmost as much as he loves to fly in grandpa’shelicopter. Romping ahead of them or swing-ing happily on the arms of Susie and Joe, thelittle boy reminds them of someone else wholoved this place—a charming little kid whosename, of course, is Giovanni. ■

Tim Findley, investigative reporter for RANGE,lives in Fallon, Nev.

Another sequel...No wonder Joe Fallini loses a little sleep nowand then when federal land managers keepcoming out with sequels to their previousnightmares.

The latest was the return of Jim Baca lastspring, years after the rancher-smashing for-mer chief of the Bureau of Land Managementspent nine months on the job rampagingagainst multiple use of federal lands. He wasthought to have been sent to a political grave inNew Mexico before he suddenly re-emerged inReno last June.

Baca seemed to scare even current InteriorSecretary Ken Salazar by proposing Nevadabecome the national refuge for wild and feralhorses. Salazar had proposed to move at leastsome of the out-of-control herds to new pas-tures in the Midwest, but Baca argued that, “Itdoesn’t make sense to send them to the Mid-west when you already own the land youalready need.” Nevada is more than 85 percentmanaged by the federal government.

The once-discredited BLM boss is appar-ently working with wealthy socialite MadeleinePickens, who has emerged like the ghost ofWild Horse Annie to campaign for the horsereserve in Nevada. Their methods include con-verting cattle-grazing allotments in the state forthe exclusive use of horses. Now, with so manyhorses in BLM holding pens in Fallon, Nev.,that they can’t keep them all alive, the horseadvocates are demanding that the BLM do acomplete inventory of wild horses running freein Nevada.

Joe Fallini and Twin Springs are supposedlyprotected by court order, but what will you betthis September that Joe will have more toworry about? ■

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