S. St. Paul lawmaker Rick Hansen isn't easy to categorize

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By Dave Orrick, St Paul Pioneer Press
dorrick@pioneerpress.com
Posted: 04/05/2014 12:01:00 AM CDT | Updated: about 22 hours ago


HARMONY, Minn. -- When it comes to killing a deer, Rick Hansen doesn't like to take chances.

"I lost a great big buck a few years ago," Hansen told me, referring to a scenario every hunter fears: wounding -- but not killing -- an animal and not being able to recover it. "Now I shoot again if I have a good second shot."

So when I hear two shots in rapid succession echo through the coulees of this southeastern Minnesota landscape, I think it might be Hansen's shotgun bellowing, and the day's hunt might be a success. Or, it might signal folly; sometimes multiple shots signal trigger-happy gunners taking ill-advised shots at deer out of range or on the run.

It will take me a while to find out. Hansen is several fields away from me, and the light of this overcast autumn day is fading fast.

Some hunters criticize a hunter who takes two shots. One well-placed shot is all that's needed, the reasoning goes, and a second shot will only alert the deer to the hunter's location, thereby sending it running and increasing the chance the deer will be lost. No doubt, some hunters reading this have already made the point to themselves.

But Hansen is no stranger to criticism.

METRO LIBERAL HUNTER-FARMER

Hansen is a state representative in his fifth term representing District 52A, which includes his full-time home in South St. Paul. He easily could be categorized as a metro liberal: "I never met a poor person who felt entitled," he remarked. But he's also a hunter, farmer and small-business owner, putting him in a rare category at the Legislature.

As a former research assistant with the Minnesota Department of Agriculture whose master's thesis was on the "effects of fly ash on irrigated soils" and as a landowner who has about 150 acres enrolled in conservation programs, he has first-hand knowledge on the technical aspects of conservation, perhaps more than any of his colleagues.

On paper, Hansen should be the best friend of conservationists -- those who hunt and those who don't -- pushing for environmental and wildlife habitat protections.

Which is why it's curious that in some conservation circles, he's regarded as an outsider, at best. And an obstacle if not enemy of the cause, at worst.

"Rick does line up well on a lot of issues," said Dave Zentner of Duluth, Minn., a past national president of the Izaak Walton League. "He partners on wetlands protections. I think Rick is an ally in terms of trying to find a way to work with agriculture for how we are dealing with the headwaters of the Mississippi River, dumping sediment into Lake Pepin and polluting the Gulf of Mexico. There are a lot of commonalities, but there are tensions, as well."

The deer-hunting outing, of course, was in the fall. These days, Hansen is as busy as any legislator at the Capitol. He chairs no committees, but he's carrying a number of bills, ranging from the roughly $100 million wildlife-habitat plan recommended by the Lessard-Sams Outdoor Heritage Council -- on which he sits -- to an obscure election-reform plan for rarely covered governmental bodies known as "dirt boards."

BUSY LAWMAKER

"I don't think anybody grasps how hard he works," said Rep. Jean Wagenius, DFL-Minneapolis, a close ally of Hansen who similarly finds herself at odds with some in the conservation community. "It's the time he spends, and it's taking on problems. We're problem-solvers. That is our basic responsibility. Some people take on a handful of issues; Rick takes on a bushel-full."

It has been speculated that Hansen has his eyes on the seat now held by Secretary of State Mark Ritchie, who isn't seeking re-election. Not true, says Hansen, 51.

"I think I could win," he said. "But I'd rather be right here, passing good policy. Some people come here to the Legislature to be somebody. I come here to do things. And I can see the impact right away."

Among his proudest achievements, Hansen lists lead roles he has taken in several endeavors.

He pushed for changes in sick-leave laws that allow workers to claim sick leave to care for parents, grandparents and siblings. He has been the lead author of several provisions to protect wetlands from erosion and farm runoff, and last year he was at the forefront of a successful effort to regulate frac-sand mining.

"There hasn't been any additional mines, has there?" he notes.

This year, he's continuing an effort he and Wagenius are leading to protect pollinators, such as bees, and their habitat. He's the lead sponsor of two pollinator bills: One seeks to regulate pesticide labeling to ensure that customers know whether pesticides are bee-friendly or not, and a second that would establish an emergency-response team for bee deaths in an attempt to determine what killed them -- and potentially compensate beekeepers for losses much like farmers are compensated for crop and livestock losses.

CONSERVATION CRITICS

Despite his accomplishments in environmental protections, he faces criticism from many conservation leaders, especially within the realm of the Outdoor Heritage Council, which vets and recommends how the outdoors portion of Legacy Amendment tax proceeds should be spent, about $100 million annually.

Hansen pushed for a dedicated funding source for the outdoors, but critics allege he never was on board the prominent role citizens eventually had -- a result borne out of distrust for lawmakers.

"I think the tensions are around the Legacy Amendment and the vision that many of us who worked very hard to get the Legislature to put the amendment on the ballot and are working to honor the gift," the Izaak Walton League's Zentner said. "That's where the road forks with Rick. I and others think there are rich opportunities for citizen input, and he doesn't agree."

Some would use choicer words, but let's be clear: Good luck getting anyone to go on the record criticizing a lawmaker whose vote is needed for funding.

Jim Cox, a past president of the Minnesota Waterfowl Association, stated his concerns thusly: "He authored a bill to dismantle the Lessard-Sams Council. That speaks for itself."

Indeed, in 2011, Hansen introduced a plan to establish the Legislative Environmental Commission. The failed plan would have eliminated the Clean Water Council (which recommends Legacy funds for clean water) the Legislative-Citizen Commission on Natural Resources (which does the same with lottery proceeds per a constitutional amendment approved by voters in 1988), and the Lessard-Sams council, which is dominated by citizens and enjoys strong support in the outdoors community.

Hansen would have replaced those three panels with one panel, consisting of 12 members -- all lawmakers. He defends the idea.

"I think there's a role for citizens -- advisory, but not authority," he said. "When legislators are on it, you see more questions asked because we understand what needs to be asked, especially when you're dealing with large amounts of public money."

It's this philosophy -- that legislators know best and power should rest with them -- that irks critics most.

About them, Hansen said: "Immediately after the amendment passed, there were people -- special-interest groups and associated good old boys -- they were looking for something to happen. They failed to recognize there's a difference between an enemy and an adversary."

Zentner said that goes both ways.

"Candidly, when people oppose Rick on something, he thinks there's a conspiracy against him personally. He can be a tough personality to work with."

RURAL ROOTS

Hansen, who is married and has a 9-year-old son, traces his roots far from the metro.

He was raised in Freeborn County, along the Iowa border, the oldest of two boys. His father was a school bus driver and farmer who "tilled 40 acres by hand;" his mother was a substitute teacher. There were 26 kids in his high school.

"I was in the 4-H and FFA (Future Farmers of America). I trapped muskrats in drainage ditches and shot ducks and pheasants with my 20-gauge single-shot. That was the small-town recreation," he said recently, sa nostalgic smirk drawing across his face. I tell him he makes it sound like Norman Rockwell.

"It was an idyllic small town," Hansen said. "Every farm had a kid on it. You'd ride your bike from farm to farm."

We're talking inside his office at the Capitol, where the phone rings every few minutes, and lobbyists or fellow lawmakers rap on the door. Hansen paused, then said: "I need to go down to the farm and ride the tractor every now and then just for therapy."

"The farm," as he calls it, is among a number of tracts of land in Freeborn and Fillmore counties owned by Hansen or co-owned by him and his brother Bob, who farms the land with a mixture of corn, soybeans, alfalfa and other small grains. In all, it's about 650 acres. Family ties to the land date to Hansen's grandfather, who homesteaded the area after the Civil War.

Politics came to Hansen by accident.

"I always envisioned myself in the technical side," he said, tracing his roots in policy to 4-H projects. He successfully ran for the Dakota County Soil and Water District, aka "dirt board," in 1996 believing his background in soil science could inform conservation policy. But he found himself increasingly active in DFL politics.

He recounts a stretch from 2002 to 2004 when the following happened: he punctured his leg while turkey hunting, requiring hospitalization; he got engaged; his mother was diagnosed with cancer that eventually killed her, prompting his father to move in with him; his wife completed her doctoral thesis, became pregnant and gave birth to their son; and he was recruited to run for the Legislature, which led to his election but at the expense of the honeymoon and his full-time job with the Ag Department, from which he resigned.

"Whatever stress happens here," he said, "I can match that. I can take a punch."

CONSERVATION LAND

"Come down to the farm, and I'll show you conservation," Hansen offered up once when I was interviewing him about ag policy. I took him up on it in late November, during the southeast deer hunting season.

I did not join in the deer hunt but instead explored the acreage with a shotgun on my shoulder under the guise of pheasant hunting. We agreed beforehand that I would give him any bird I shot, but I never squeezed the trigger. I flushed plenty of pheasants from fence lines, foodplots, cedar groves and prairies that host a mix of grasses and forbs.

Hansen said he has seen bobwhite quail on his land. (He's pushing a bill to force the state Department of Natural Resources to formulate a quail recovery plan.)

In short, the land is beautiful, and conservation is on full display, from lands enrolled in the federal Conservation Reserve Program, for which Hansen is paid federal dollars, to smaller field edges and buffer strips along waterways, for which he receives no payments.

When on the farm, Hansen stays on the land most recently owned by a late uncle. He sleeps in a heated outbuilding that has a composting toilet in an outhouse. The farmhouse is shuttered in disrepair.

Joining Hansen on the hunt is Peter Middlecamp, 34-year-old owner of Black Sheep Coffee Cafe in South St. Paul. Middlecamp isn't just prospecting for deer, but also for farmland where he could expand his urban farming practices. Before and after the hunt, while slurping coffee or Fitger's root beer, we're visited by a neighbor who also makes vintage muskets, and another neighbor -- an Amish man -- who needs to use the phone and talk business with Hansen.

Many of the farms south of Harmony are owned by Amish families. When Hansen's uncle died, Hansen inherited a herd of 170 cattle running loose on the farm. Hansen said Amish neighbors came to help put things back in order. Bonds were forged. Today, Hansen operates Harmony Cedar, essentially a retailer for a number of families that build Amish furniture.

DEER DOWN

As the temperature falls and darkness arrives, I, Hansen and Middlecamp bring Hansen's pickup to the edge of a wooded hillside. A deer is down. It's Hansen's. It's more than 300 cold, steep yards away, and bringing it back will have the three of us grunting for some time into the evening.

It's a big doe. Hansen shot it from 20 yards. He felt the first shot was true, but the deer was close enough and still close, so he squeezed off a second, for insurance. The deer ran only a short distance before collapsing.

While gutting the animal, it becomes clear: The first shot went straight through the heart, but the second was in the digestive tract, soiling some of the meat.

"Well, I didn't lose it," Hansen said.