Mike Jackson, leader of the Quechan Indians, looked out past his tribe's casino and the modern sprawl of Yuma and pointed to the sandy flatlands and the rust-colored Gila mountain range shimmering in the distance.
"They came this way," he said, describing how his ancestors followed the winding course of the Colorado River and ranged over hundreds of kilometers of what is now western Arizona and southeastern California. "There's a lot of important history here, both for the Quechan and the US."
And if it is up to him, that history will go a long way in determining the future of this corner of the West, one of the fastest-growing parts of the country and a place where developers are increasingly running up against newly powerful but tradition-minded American Indian leaders like Jackson.
PHOTO: NY TIMES NEWS SERVICE
As president of the Quechans for the last decade, he is leading a new kind of Indian war, this time in the courts. The battlegrounds are ancient sites like the religious circles, burial grounds and mountaintops across the West that Indians hold sacred and that are protected by federal environmental and historic preservation laws. After successful smaller battles, Jackson is challenging a bigger project, arguing that the construction of a planned US$4 billion refinery in Arizona could destroy sites sacred to his tribe.
What makes this case different from more traditional fights between Indians and developers is that the refinery is not on the Quechan reservation or even next to it. In fact, the refinery is planned on a parcel of land some 63km to the east, on the other side of Yuma and the Gila mountain range. But Jackson and the tribe's lawyers argue that before the land can be transferred to the company building the refinery, Arizona Clean Fuels, or construction can start, an exhaustive archaeological and cultural inventory must take place.
The Quechans are not a large tribe. Also known as the Yuma Indians (they prefer the name Quechan, which means "those who descended"), they number about 3,300. Their reservation on the California-Arizona border covers roughly 113km2, a small fraction of the size of lands the federal government set aside more than a century ago for better-known nations like the Apaches or Navajos.
PHOTO: NY TIMES NEWS SERVICE
Jackson has already stopped two planned projects - a low-level nuclear dump and a US$50 million gold mine on the California side of the border - both also well away from the Quechan reservation. This year, he helped defeat the nomination to a federal appellate court of a Bush administration official who favored the mine.
Like the land itself, the fight over the refinery reflects a tangle of cultures and centuries of bitterness between Indians and newcomers. Jackson says it is about respect for Quechan culture and a new willingness on the part of Indians to stand up to the local establishment after centuries of not having a say.
Business and political leaders in Yuma argue that it is little more than a land grab by Jackson, a dubious attempt by the tribe to block much-needed development and assert claims to territory lost long ago. What is more, says Glenn McGinnis, chief executive of Arizona Clean Fuels, a preliminary inspection failed to turn up evidence of ruins near the site, which was privately owned for decades by local farmers but was later bought by the federal government to acquire water rights.
In any case, McGinnis says he is committed to protecting any sacred remains that turn up once construction begins. But doing the more extensive survey sought by Jackson and the Quechans now would not only delay the project by months, it would also cost about US$250,000, which Arizona Clean Fuels would be obligated to pay.
The dispute is about more than money. It has also brought resentment of the tribe's newfound clout to the surface. David Treanor, vice president of Arizona Clean Fuels, calls the Quechans' stance "psychological imperialism" and compares Jackson to Hugo Chavez, Venezuela's left-wing leader.
Casey Prochaska, chairwoman of the Yuma County Board of Supervisors, said: "My grandmother probably went across here in a covered wagon. This country didn't stop because they walked over this land."
Indeed, the refinery is not even the main issue for some business leaders. "It's a question of how far does their sphere of influence go," said Ken Rosevear, executive director of the Yuma County Chamber of Commerce. "Does it go clear to Phoenix? To Las Vegas? The whole West?"
Rosevear may be exaggerating, but his fear illustrates just what is at stake. If the Quechans' lawsuit succeeds, it would bolster the efforts of other, larger tribes to block development on territory where they also once lived and prayed.
Already, in northern Arizona, Navajos, Hopis and other Indians have effectively stopped plans to expand a ski resort roughly 80km from the nearest reservation, after convincing a federal appellate panel in March that using wastewater to make artificial snow would desecrate peaks long held sacred.
Leaders of the Northern Cheyenne tribe, meanwhile, have been using similar arguments to block drilling for coal-bed methane near their reservation in Montana. Pumping water out of underground aquifers to extract natural gas will harm the spirits that inhabit the springs and streams where the Northern Cheyenne worship, says Gail Small, a tribe member who heads Native Action, an environmental group she founded after graduating from law school.
Adding weight to her argument is the American Indian Religious Freedom Act, passed by Congress in 1978, which acknowledges the link between native American religion and land both on and off the reservation.
"You're seeing a real renaissance of tribes becoming aware of their cultural resources and heritage and reclaiming that heritage even when it's off the reservation," said Robert A. Williams Jr, a law professor at the University of Arizona who has advised tribes on the legal issues surrounding off-reservation sacred sites.
And, thanks to the rise of casino gambling on Indian reservations, many tribes now have the money to challenge natural resource companies, real estate interests and other wealthy players who have long held sway in the West.
"Tribes no longer have to hope for or rely upon the efforts of outside environmental groups or pro bono law firms," said Joseph Kalt, director of the Harvard Project on American Indian Economic Development. "Not only are they much more sophisticated, but they have the money to fight for themselves."
Jackson does not dispute that the opening of the popular Paradise Casino on his reservation in 1996 has shifted the balance of power. "It's made all the difference in the world," he said. "We didn't have the money to hire attorneys before; we didn't have the tools. We also learned how to play the political game in America that's been played against us in the past."
During the winter, when snowbirds fill local hotels, it is hard to find a spot in the Paradise Casino parking lot on some nights, and the casino generates an estimated US$45 million a year in net revenue for the Quechans.
Jackson is not always against new development. The Quechans are considering building a second casino on the California side of the border, and he has faced protests of his own from tribal elders who argue the US$200 million project also happens to be on sacred ground.
In June, the Quechan police force arrested tribe members protesting at the site of the new casino. Yuma officials like Prochaska call that hypocrisy, but Jackson says it is not up to them to decide what is sacred to Indians.
The son and grandson of tribal leaders, Jackson, 60, said that in the past, "the government gave us funds just to survive and they didn't hear a word from our people." Now, he said, local leaders like Rosevear have to come to him. "They come, smile, and shake my hand but they don't like it. Too bad. That is how the process is now."
Glamis Gold, the Canadian mining company that sought to build the California mine, learned that the hard way several years ago. After investing US$15 million, the company watched Jackson tie up the project with regulators. It was finally killed when Gray Davis, then the governor, issued an emergency order.
Charles Jeannes, an executive at Glamis at the time, said the company tried to negotiate with Jackson. "We'd told them we'd discuss any number of kinds of compensation," said Jeannes, now executive vice president of Goldcorp, which acquired Glamis in 2006. "But we never got specific because they made it clear they wouldn't accept the mine."
Jackson has a slightly different recollection. "They came and offered money, trucks and other things," he said. "I told them I'm not going to take one penny, and to get out of my office."
In Quechan lore, dreams are sacred - a literal path to knowledge and power. So perhaps it is fitting that the refinery has been a business dream in Arizona for two decades, a long-talked-about project that, if completed, would be the first new refinery constructed in the US in more than 30 years.
It is also a vision that could prove hugely profitable. Refining margins in the Southwest are among the healthiest in the country, while gasoline demand in Arizona, Nevada and California has been growing at twice the national average. And until Jackson and the Quechans challenged their plans, the 567-hectare site seemed like the rare spot in America where a refinery might actually be welcomed.
The last fruit orchard on the site died out decades ago, after the federal government acquired the land and bought up the water rights. The nearest homes are miles away. Now the silence is broken only by the sound of passing freight trains and the occasional rumble from the Army's Yuma Proving Ground.
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