Cliven Bundy, a local organic melon farmer, is one of those who resent the changes. To protect an endangered tortoise, Clark County has set aside habitat by buying and retiring all of the government grazing leases in Gold Butte. But Bundy still runs his cows through here, even though since 1993 he has been ordered to desist because he has no permit. Bundy says that his family has grazed here since the nineteenth century and that he doesn't recognize the authority of the federal government. He has threatened resistance if anyone enforces the court order to remove his cattle from the wilderness. "It's so blatant," says Rob Mrowka, a conservationist who works for the Center for Biological Diversity, in Las Vegas. "Anyone can go out there anytime of the year and see cattle. BLM employees trying to protect sensitive plants and animals are very frustrated. It's a problem that's been going on and on."

The next day, I drive in the opposite direction, west of Las Vegas until the sprawl quits at the doorstep of Red Rock Canyon, a 200,000-acre slice of dramatic red- and cream-colored rock that explodes out of the desert. It's a natural refuge from the green-felt jungle of Las Vegas, a cool oasis in the desert heat. More than a million visitors crowd the trails and picnic tables each year. "We're the star of the system," says Pat Williams, president of the Friends of Red Rocks, proudly, as we chat in the old visitors center, which is bustling with people. (The place is so popular that a new $20 million visitors center is being built.) "It's the most visible of all the NLCS lands," she says, "the crown jewel in the tiara."

But it ain't bake sales that have funded development here. The Southern Nevada Public Lands Management Act allowed the U.S. government to sell off chunks of hyper-valuable land to developers. Millions of dollars from those sales have gone into this place.

This is the pinnacle of what Norton Sr.'s foundation has in mind—a creative way to protect and enhance these far-flung landscapes. Without funding and someone to pay attention, protections are always in danger of collapsing. "Satan never sleeps," he says. "These places will always need more and better management."

A good example is Sloan Canyon, a treeless sepia moonscape on the edge of Las Vegas, which I hiked into. It is not as dramatic as Red Rock, but it's wild and famous for its well-preserved pictographs. Its undistinguished entrance, however, at the edge of a new subdivision, looks like a junkyard. There are mounds of old tires strewn around and piles of torn-up sidewalk, and someone has yanked a heavy metal gate off its hinges so folks can keep driving into the area to dump their trash.

Without friends, funding, and greater awareness, conservationists fear, the NLCS could be overrun. Even with the 15 Friends Groups for the biggest areas, critics wonder if the BLM is up to the task of protecting these lands. "The BLM has a mixed record," says Mrowka, who cites Sloan Canyon and Red Rocks as two points on the spectrum: Red Rocks has proceeds from the sale of federal lands, while Sloan Canyon doesn't. "Unless the land in question has a dedicated funding source, any commitment to protect it is a lot of lip gloss." But Babbitt is optimistic about the BLM. "The bureau is full of a new generation of people who see the importance of preservation," he says. "Put down whatever you're doing and go visit these lands. It might take a little bit of work on your part—there won't be an entrance gate or a ranger to guide you—but these are fabulous places."