The Devils River is frequently described as the most pristine river in Texas. Flowing where the Chihuahuan Desert blends into the Hill Country and the South Texas shrublands, it’s a luminous ribbon of water in an arid land. It’s also a hunter’s paradise, with a rich ranching heritage, and home to globally significant cave paintings. And it’s an ecological wonder, a last stronghold for aquatic creatures that have vanished elsewhere.
Isolation has helped keep the Devils unspoiled. But its health is also a tribute to a fierce local culture of conservation.
The Devils River Conservancy is fighting to strengthen that culture – and to safeguard this singular place.
Romey Swanson is the Conservancy’s executive director.
“Of all the places in the state of Texas,” Swanson said, “this is one of the ones that should be cherished the most, because it truly represents maximal return on whatever you care about. If we can't protect this place, then nothing in Texas is really sacred.”
The nonprofit Swanson leads launched in 2011. At that time, Texas Parks & Wildlife was planning to acquire a new Devils River tract – by trading away riverside property it already owned. The river is almost entirely spring-fed, and the state’s older property includes springs vital to its flow. Alarmed that a new owner might tap or divert those springs, the Conservancy mobilized. The group helped raise $10 million, so the state could hold both properties.
Such activism remains central for the Conservancy. Last year, the group successfully lobbied for legislation banning the discharge of wastewater into the Devils. But while the state, as well as The Nature Conservancy, own property here, most of this land is private. And Swanson said committed landowners have safeguarded the river.
The effort has required sacrifice. Val Verde County, the heart of the Devils, leads the state in privately conserved land. Much of that has come through conservation easements. These legal instruments place permanent limits on development of a property – significantly lowering its market value.
But profit margins are narrow in agriculture, and landowners, many of whom have generational roots, can be pushed to the limit. The Conservancy works to connect them with resources – tax incentives, cost-share initiatives – to hold onto their land.
“We're opportunity brokers,” Swanson said. “We tell a good story, and we share how to get the outcome that we're all looking together, and we do it hopefully in a respectful, tactful way and built on trust and mutual respect.”
Because immense pressures face the Devils. Water marketers have proposed selling its groundwater to thirsty Texas cities. New electric transmission lines are slated here. And there’s the specter of water-intensive data centers.
No local entity manages the groundwater that sustain the Devils. If a single landowner chose to exploit that groundwater, the river could be profoundly and permanently damaged. That means constant vigilance, Swanson said.
“It feels sometimes like we're fighting fights that are not-in-my-backyard-type fights,” he said. “And that to an extent is true. But show me another place that's fighting as hard as we are, that has made all of those sacrifices.”
But Swanson is optimistic. As the state’s population grows, the wild Devils River only becomes more precious – to those who live beside it, and to those who boat it, or hike and camp at the Devils River State Natural Area. Swanson believes Texans can unite to protect this place – on Texas terms.
“And I think we have a huge opportunity to do something that doesn't look dissimilar to a national park,” he said, “while doing it predominantly through a private-lands lens and landscape. What a freaking story, man. What a Texas-appropriate story.”
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