‘Strengthening our relationships with tribes is a bonus’
“Here are the latest deposits,” said Arizona Game and Fish Department tribal liaison Jon Cooley, counting the stone-cold shells of desert tortoises. Dozens of them living at the department’s headquarters in Phoenix got sick and were euthanized.
But even in death, these frozen reptiles are finding new life.
“Without the repository, they would go in the dumpster. Then what?” Cooley said. “So there’s a missed opportunity, knowing that there’s a culture out there that really has [a] high interest in doing something productive with that wildlife.”
But until then, they’re stored in freezers scattered across Arizona: Pinetop, Flagstaff and Phoenix. He’ll typically take several trips each month to hand-deliver dead wildlife and parts, like teeth, antlers and hides, to tribal members, but travel plans “just depend on what’s available and who’s interested.”
Some affectionately refer to this collection of coolers as the “roadkill repository,” but Cooley explained that’s not entirely accurate.
“Because at the end of the day, we’re not just handing over smashed roadkill,” Cooley said with a laugh. “We just don’t pick roadkill up because it’s something somebody asked for. It’s got to be in good condition. Of course, they’re going to be using it for ceremonial purposes.”
But some are road-hit animals. Others are seized from illegal hunting, and some hunters donate what they legally kill, according to Arizona Game and Fish Flagstaff-based regional supervisor Larry Phoenix.
“They want the meat, but they don’t want the hide to go to waste,” Phoenix said. “So they will actually fill out a form, because it belongs to them. Then they donate it back to the department, to be then gifted to the tribes.”
He shared that a pair of hunters recently donated bison hides culled from the Raymond Wildlife Area in Coconino County, less than 40 miles east of Flagstaff. Now they’re stored inside an oversized black garbage bag, ready to go somewhere else.
The state agency has been strengthening its relationships with the Navajo Nation and Hopi Tribe, especially since his field office encompasses their reservations.
“Whether it’s an animal that’s hit on the highway or, in this case of the two buffalo hides, this is just one more avenue for us to be able to utilize those animals in a very beneficial way,” Phoenix added. “Those two hides that are in there might sit for years before we use them, whereas now they’ve been there for just a couple months, and will be utilized by Native people. Our staff know that the freezer is there, and they’re on the hunt for wanting to provide these animals.”
Here’s Cooley’s pitch to tribes: “If you have folks who are interested in items, here’s how they can make a request, and it’s not real, structured, procedural, bureaucratic red-tape stuff. Have them give me a call or send me an email, and I’ll put them on the list.”
A Hopi from Third Mesa, named Ivan, is among them.
Nearly 150 miles north of Phoenix in downtown Flagstaff, Cooley met him in a parking lot near University Auto Repair on South Woodlands Village Boulevard. He’s a mechanic and heard about the repository when a Game and Fish employee came to his shop with a flat tire.
Cooley unhooked his tailgate and likened his exchange with Ivan to a daytime drug deal:
“Here’s another bag full of them. You’re still good?” Cooley asked.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Ivan said.
“Here’s another bag of them. Still good?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Cause I still have probably three more of these.”
“Oh really?”
“I have another guy that said he’d be interested.”
“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve talked to one of my friends out on the ‘rez.’ I told him that I was going to have a bunch of these coming in, so no problem, he’ll work on them.”
'It’s good that we have open communication'
Before dozens of shells were handed off, Cooley asked: “And none of this stuff is gonna be used for commercial use?”
“No, no, this is all gonna be ceremonial,” Ivan answered back.
But Cooley cannot verify that everyone will use them properly.
“I don’t have the authority, the capacity or the manpower,” Cooley admitted. “That’s a lot of work. No way to know exactly what people’s motives are, but the message is delivered.”
With no guarantee aside from their word, there has to be lots of good faith and trust.
“To be honest, I don’t even know of any other state agency [that] does this with their tribes,” said Darren Talayumptewa. “I know different states have different political views, and their relationships aren’t always good with tribes, but I know some of them are starting to change their thought process.”
Talayumptewa is Hopi and a Southwest regional director with the Native American Fish and Wildlife Society, which bought the freezers for the state department in 2018. He’s also the Hopi Tribe’s former wildlife and ecosystems management program manager.
“Not only the Hopi Tribe, but I know the Pueblos of Acoma and Laguna have benefited from some of the items and other tribes,” Talayumptewa said. “Everybody’s been able to take advantage.”
With the 22 federally recognized tribes of Arizona managing more than a fourth of the state’s land mass, Talayumptewa insisted there’s a shared responsibility.
“It’s good that we have open communication,” he added, “because if it’s going to affect the tribe, it’s going to eventually affect the state land.”
That even applies to how the state should handle its dead wildlife.
Freezer space is typically in short supply. Carcasses from illegally hunted animals are often frozen until those criminal cases are adjudicated. Less cooler storage meant the state couldn’t save more wildlife by keeping it on ice for longer.
That’s why the Talayumptewa helped convince the Native American Fish and Wildlife Society to donate the coolers to Cooley for Arizona Game and Fish.
But even with the new storage space, animals have still been tossed out.
Cooley has to come up with his own calculation whether to keep or discard any item depending on its rarity and cultural value to tribes. At the same time, “I don’t like keeping things that end up stinking up the freezer, bottom line. It happens rarely.”
Before that, Talayumptewa’s national Indigenous-run nonprofit also purchased two freezers for Liberty Wildlife. In fact, Cooley adopted the Phoenix nonprofit’s approach by modeling his own statewide repository program from Non-Eagle Feather Repository director Robert Mesta, a member of the Pascua Yaqui Tribe.
“He has a very sophisticated inventory program and all of that,” Cooley said. “I do, regularly, go to Liberty Wildlife and I’ll give them carcasses or feathers or whatever that we've collected.”
While his agency can collect game, like turkeys, ducks and other waterfowl, it’s not allowed to distribute feathers and parts from federally protected species. So whenever they get hawks, owls or other birds, Cooley will bring them to Mesta and his team.
“This is kind of streamlining the process,” added Cooley. “Mesta was very helpful in figuring out how to do this. They get a lot of requests for game, and he goes, ‘We really don’t care to deal in that stuff, so if you guys want to do it, go for it.’ So that’s primarily what we focus on here.”
'Whatever cost that adds up to, I would say, more than pays off'
But the desert tortoises that Ivan just collected have been long protected by the Endangered Species Act. Native to the Mojave Desert, the Agassiz’s tortoises are federally protected in California, Nevada, Utah and Arizona populations west of the Colorado River.
This law makes it illegal to harass, harm or collect them. Desert tortoises often empty their bladder as a defensive behavior – whenever they are touched or bothered – but that sudden loss of water is life-threatening. Violators of the law can face up to a year in prison and fines of $50,000 per count.
However, Sonoran desert tortoises are not listed as an endangered species.
In 2022, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service ruled this particular reptile doesn’t warrant any federal protection, arguing that it’s not at risk of extinction for the foreseeable future with an estimated population tallying in the hundreds of thousands. The agency also stated that less than three-fourths of the Sonoran desert tortoise habitat in Arizona is managed by natural resource agencies or tribes.
The Desert Tortoise Council, Western Watersheds Project, WildEarth Guardians and Tucson Herpetological Society rejected those findings. The Western Environmental Law Center sent a 60-day lawsuit notice on their behalf against that federal agency and the Interior Department in May.
However, Mojave and Sonoran desert tortoises have been protected across Arizona by state law since 1988. But the American Indian Religious Freedom Act has given tribes an exemption from state and federal punishments since the shells are prized and cherished, especially among Hopis.
“Those are really coveted items,” said Talayumptewa, “so when we do get them, they’re used a lot.”
But this meetup in Flagstaff wouldn’t have been possible without Cooley.
He grew up on the Fort Apache Reservation, home to the White Mountain Apache Tribe, and figured that deceased wildlife can fulfill another purpose aside from decaying in a landfill.
“Any amount of time I spend doing this or traveling to meet someone is well worth the benefit,” Cooley said. “Whatever cost that adds up to, I would say, more than pays off. Strengthening our relationships with tribes is a bonus.”
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The Navajo Nation Zoo’s 4,000-square-foot Eagle Aviary and Education Center, touted as the only tribally owned and operated zoo nationwide, helps provide legally sourced eagle feathers required for tribal ceremonies. -
Wildlife conservation efforts, in part, criminalized Indigenous customs, but also led to a thriving global black market for wildlife parts. To counteract that illicit industry, a Phoenix nonprofit has been providing an alternative, legal source of feathers for tribal members in Arizona and nationwide.
