Public Lands Under Threat: Mountain Biking and Recreation at Risk
On any given spring morning in Gooseberry Mesa, the soundscape is a patchwork of zipping tires, clinking derailleurs, and the occasional whoop as a rider clears a rock garden with more luck than skill. This is public land – BLM-managed, free-to-roam, and for a few decades now, the unofficial church of the mountain biking faithful. The sandstone speaks in lines and ledges. You ride. You listen. You fall occasionally. You get up, usually with a new story and a deeper respect for gravity.
Now imagine this terrain parceled off like leftover birthday cake, handed to the highest bidder – likely someone who thinks a switchback is a financial maneuver. That was nearly the case this spring when a measure was quietly stapled into the pages of a sweeping budget bill, proposing the sale of 500,000 acres of public land in Utah and Nevada. Not leased. Not reclassified. Sold.
For those who ride, hike, fish, photograph, hunt, or wander these landscapes like modern-day Thoreaus with GoPros, the amendment felt like an ambush. And for a minute, it looked like it might stick.
House Republicans Propose Selling 500,000 Acres of BLM Land
This particular land grab began as a line item buried inside a nearly 1000-page proposal known, with almost comical bravado, as the “Big Beautiful Bill.” Sponsored by House Republicans looking to package a series of budgetary and resource initiatives into a single omnibus effort, the bill aimed to speed up energy development, streamline permitting, and yes, generate revenue through the outright sale of federal lands.
Authored by Rep. Mark Amodei (R-NV) and supported by Rep. Celeste Maloy (R-UT), the amendment called for the sale of 500,000 acres in Utah and Nevada. The stated aim? To fund infrastructure and housing needs in fast-growing Western regions. Amodei’s justification was that in counties where developable land is shackled by federal ownership, selling public plots could unlock desperately needed real estate.
“This is a real estate problem,” Amodei said in one hearing, referring to how counties like Washington County, Utah, are hemmed in by public land that can’t be easily developed. It’s the kind of logic that makes sense if you’re holding a spreadsheet and a zoning map – and not a trail map.
What the amendment failed to acknowledge was that those 500,000 acres weren’t empty. They were active. They were alive with use, with purpose. The red dirt may not house skyscrapers, but it holds decades of footprints, tire tracks, and cultural stories, many of which can’t be monetized without losing something irreplaceable.
A deeper dive into the parcels targeted reveals that many are checkerboarded near recreational hotspots or adjacent to conservation lands. The risk wasn’t just losing open space—it was fragmenting ecosystems, closing access corridors, and setting precedent for further disposals.
Why Lawmakers Wanted to Sell Federal Land in Utah and Nevada
To understand why lawmakers would propose selling off vast swaths of public land, you have to understand the long, simmering tension between Western land users and federal land managers – a tension that goes back to the days of sagebrush and manifest destiny.
The so-called “Sagebrush Rebellion” of the 1970s laid the ideological groundwork: the belief that states, not the federal government, should control land within their borders. That movement never really ended; it just changed slogans. Today, proponents argue that federal agencies like the Bureau of Land Management act like absentee landlords, slow-walking development and stifling local economies. Selling the land, or at least transferring control, is framed as a kind of libertarian emancipation.
There’s also a strategic component. By selling or devolving lands, some lawmakers aim to permanently reduce the federal government’s footprint – both physically and politically. This isn’t just about housing – it’s about reshaping the West into a more privatized, extractive economy.
And then there’s the money. In places like St. George and Mesquite, where populations are booming and housing is scarce, every patch of undeveloped land looks like a future subdivision. From that perspective, 500,000 acres of scrub and desert seem like a vast underperforming asset. But what’s missing in that ledger is the value of open access, the billion-dollar outdoor economy, and the ecological services these lands provide – carbon sequestration, aquifer recharge, habitat protection.
But land is not inventory. Not in this context. Not when it hosts trails like Jem, Bearclaw Poppy, and the Goose. Not when it functions as a refuge for species, a playground for humans, and a buffer against the relentless expansion of concrete.
Mountain Bikers and Outdoor Groups Fight Public Land Sales
The backlash was swift, and for once, it wasn’t just tree-huggers and gear junkies waving protest signs. Mountain bikers, conservationists, backcountry hunters, trail runners, bird watchers, and even a few dirt bikers found themselves aligned in shared disbelief.
Groups like the International Mountain Bicycling Association (IMBA) and the Outdoor Alliance issued immediate statements condemning the proposal. Online petitions gathered tens of thousands of signatures within days. Grassroots networks like Protect Our Winters and Public Land Solutions mobilized email campaigns, flooded congressional offices with calls, and coordinated testimonies from small business owners whose livelihoods depend on tourism and recreation.
But the real blow came from within the walls of Congress itself. Rep. Ryan Zinke (R-MT), no stranger to controversy as a former Interior Secretary, threatened to oppose the entire Big Beautiful Bill unless the amendment was removed. His stance was clear: federal lands should remain public unless there’s overwhelming support and a transparent process.
Zinke’s resistance signaled a turning tide. Suddenly, the amendment wasn’t just bad optics – it was a legislative liability. Lawmakers from both parties began to balk. Rep. Mike Simpson (R-ID) and Rep. Jared Huffman (D-CA), two of Congress’s most vocal champions of public lands, spoke out against it.
How the Public Land Sale Amendment Was Defeated
During a tense, late-night markup session, the amendment was quietly struck from the bill. There was no dramatic floor speech, no ceremonial torch-passing. Just a line drawn through the proposal, a political shrug that said, “Let’s not die on this hill.”
The behind-the-scenes maneuvering was more calculated. Sources close to the House Committee on Natural Resources say the amendment was pulled after internal polling showed widespread public opposition – even among conservative voters who typically favor land transfers. The optics of selling off public lands, especially with mounting climate pressures and a resurgent outdoor recreation boom, were too risky.
The bill moved forward, sans land sale, and passed narrowly in the House. For the outdoor community, it was a rare and tangible win – proof that coordinated pushback, even from outside traditional political channels, could redirect the course of policy.
“We don’t get many victories,” one IMBA rep said. “This one counts.”
Economic Impact: Why Public Lands Matter for Outdoor Recreation
Mountain bikers are a funny tribe. Half engineers, half adrenaline junkies, they spend their weekends turning blood sugar into vertical gain. But what unites them – and binds them to hikers, hunters, and climbers – is a belief that wild places matter. That access matters.
Public lands are not just scenic backdrops. They’re a democratic inheritance, a physical embodiment of the idea that some places should exist for everyone, not just the wealthy, the well-connected, or the resource extractors.
Economically, the argument is solid. Outdoor recreation contributes nearly $1 trillion annually to the U.S. economy. Mountain biking alone accounts for billions in tourism, gear sales, and local revenue. According to a 2017 study, mountain bike visitors spend an average of $416 per trip, supporting small towns from Fruita to Hurricane.
Ecologically, these lands function as corridors, buffers, and sanctuaries. They provide resilience against climate change, refuge for species under pressure, and natural infrastructure that would cost billions to replace if lost. And culturally, they give us stories. Not fairy tales, but real ones – about risk, exploration, and the moments when you finally clear that one techy uphill without dabbing.
This isn’t just about protecting access to trails – it’s about preserving a model of land use that places value on experience, not just extraction.
Future Threats to Public Land Access and Recreation Areas
The fight over this amendment is over, but the larger war for public lands continues. Other bills will follow. Other parcels will be eyed for sale. The same arguments will be made – that the land is unused, that it’s needed for housing, that local control is more efficient.
Already, whispers in legislative circles suggest that similar language could reappear in future appropriations bills or rider amendments. Advocates worry about “salami slicing” – the practice of carving off small chunks of public land across different bills to avoid public scrutiny.
And so the outdoor community must stay ready, must keep its maps handy and its voices loud. Because the next fight may not come with as much warning.
As for the current administration, the mixed messages continue. It’s a balancing act between economic growth and environmental stewardship. But as every mountain biker knows, not all lines are worth riding.
Protecting Public Lands for Future Generations
Out on Gooseberry Mesa, the sun is dropping behind Zion, and the light goes pink and gold across the rock. A rider – maybe 12, maybe 60 – leans into a berm with joy etched across their face.
The trail doesn’t care who you are. It just offers itself. For now. We should return the favor.
