I let my guard down on a Saturday evening with Dale. Dale runs concrete and iron-worker crews on high-rise office buildings. He's fearless. With good reason. Years ago he was a bouncer in a real country-western bar, not the kind where everyone's wearing new $500 boots. He comes from ranching stock in Colorado. We've been friends since seventh grade when he shoved me (I was the new kid) and I shoved him back.

We'd spent the day scouting deer habits for bow season. Back home on the deck, I told him about the Klamath Basin in Oregon, a situation that threatens the livelihood and sanity of farmers there. At the start of the 20th century, farmers had been lured to the desolate location by the federal government who assured them of water rights in perpetuity. This past summer that same government, at the behest of environmental groups, turned off the farmers' irrigation water to benefit two species of fish. Land values plunged from $2,500 an acre to $35.

"I've looked," I pointed out to Dale, "and I've been unable to find a definition of 'perpetuity' that meshed with 'until a species is declared endangered.'"

Dale just stared.

"I'm not making this up," I said.

"The fish and wildlife guys bring up the endangered stuff?" Dale asked.

"No. Yes. Well, kind of," I said decisively. "The one who actually turned off the water was the Bureau of Reclamation. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service at first said the fish should have more water. Then an Oregon group sued."

"But the fish and wildlife guys have their fingerprints on it?" Dale asked.

"Yeah, they have responsibility over all endangered species," I pointed out.

He kept staring at me until I got uncomfortable. "What?" I asked.

"You're as slow as an editor. These are the same guys that are behind the Missouri River deal," he pointed out. "You know, the ones who conveniently yelled endangered species when the water-skiers up north couldn't get the Corps of Engineers to manage the flood-control reservoirs for recreation."

I nodded.

"Their name ought to indicate where their loyalties lie," Dale said. "Anybody ever tell you that to a hammer, all problems look like nails? Once the fish and wildlife service gets drug in, people get drug out. They've probably got that written some place."

"That's over-simplifying the process," I said. "Don't you think?"

"Sure," Dale said with a straight face.

But I did have to admit he'd hit a nail himself. After all, I'd seen a Wall Street Journal editorial some years back in which the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service came in for pointed criticism. Those editors had called the agency personnel "suddenly powerful bureaucrats." They'd gone on to note the agency doubled its employees as well as its budget in the top half of the '90s. Stay tuned, those guys said, this agency will be flexing some serious political muscle soon.

And now they are. In today's political climate, identifying endangered species is equivalent to playing the race card or pointing out communists. Debate stops. Agencies get deployed. After all, in the late '80s endangered species weren't the reason for the intended revision of Missouri River management. Recreation up north was.

"Maybe the country is dealing with voters' lack of foresight," I admitted.

"Maybe?" Dale drawled sarcastically. "Last time I looked, the branches of government were executive, judicial and legislative. Regulatory hadn't been added, despite the way those smug rascals act."

"Matter of time," I muttered. "Unfortunately, it's just a matter of time."