By Chris Dorsey
There is an old understanding in the American West—one that predates wildlife agencies, tag lotteries, and glossy brochures—that the land belongs to all of us. Not in the romantic, abstract sense, but in a very literal one. Millions upon millions of acres across states like Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, and Arizona are federally owned, held in trust for the American people, and paid for with federal tax dollars drawn from every corner of the country. The electrician in Ohio, the contractor in Texas, the machinist in Pennsylvania—all of them have skin in the game.
And yet, if any one of them decides to travel west to hunt elk or deer on that land, they will quickly discover a hard truth: ownership does not equal access.
The legal foundation for this reality was cemented nearly half a century ago in Baldwin v. Fish and Game Commission of Montana. In that case, the Supreme Court ruled that states could charge non-resident hunters significantly higher fees than residents—from 7.5 to 25 times more in Montana’s case—without violating the Constitution. The reasoning was straightforward, if somewhat narrow; recreational hunting isn’t a fundamental right protected under the Privileges and Immunities Clause. Therefore, states can treat residents and non-residents differently.
Is that legally sound? Perhaps, but fairness and legality aren’t always the same thing.
Fast forward to today, and the gap hasn’t only persisted—it’s widened. A non-resident combination big game license in Montana now costs $1,384. A resident pays $79.50. In Utah, lawmakers recently approved doubling non-resident fees, pushing a general season bull elk tag from $613 to $1,226, while residents pay just $56. Wyoming has followed suit, raising non-resident tag prices between 40 and 90 percent in a single stroke.
At some point, these disparities stop looking like reasonable cost allocation and start resembling something else entirely.
What makes the situation particularly difficult to reconcile is the land itself. Montana is roughly 30 percent federally owned. Utah is closer to 65 percent. Colorado sits around 36 percent, Wyoming nearly half, and Arizona is close to 40 percent. These aren’t marginal figures—they define the landscape. Vast swaths of the very ground where hunting occurs are not owned, maintained, or funded by the states imposing these fees. They are managed by federal agencies and paid for by federal taxpayers.
In other words, a non-resident hunter pursuing elk on Bureau of Land Management ground in Utah is, in many cases, paying a premium to access land he or she has already helped fund.
That reality is rarely acknowledged in policy discussions.
State wildlife agencies often argue that they bear the burden of managing wildlife populations, enforcing regulations, and maintaining the overall health of ecosystems. There is truth in that. Wildlife management is not free, and states rely heavily on license fees to fund their operations. But the equation is not as one-sided as it is often presented.
Federal funding plays a substantial role in wildlife conservation, most notably through the Pittman-Robertson Act—an excise tax on firearms, ammunition, and related equipment that generates billions of dollars for state wildlife agencies. These funds are not drawn disproportionately from residents of western states; they are paid by hunters and shooters nationwide. In recent years, Pittman-Robertson revenues have reached record levels.
So when agencies claim they are perpetually cash-strapped, it raises a legitimate question: is the issue truly a lack of funding, or is it how that funding is being managed?
In the private sector, a company facing budget pressure would be expected to examine its operations, identify inefficiencies, and make adjustments before raising prices on customers. In the public sector, particularly within wildlife agencies, the default response too often appears to be the opposite. Fees go up first. Scrutiny comes later—if at all.
And the easiest target, politically speaking, is the non-resident.
After all, non-residents don’t vote in state elections. They don’t sit on local boards or influence state legislatures. They are, in many ways, the perfect revenue source—until they aren’t.
Because there is a breaking point.
At what level do non-resident hunters simply stop coming? When does the cost of participation outweigh the experience? No one seems entirely sure, but the trajectory suggests we may find out sooner rather than later.
That outcome would not just affect hunters—it would ripple through entire communities. Rural economies across the West depend heavily on non-resident hunting dollars. These visitors book guides, stay in hotels, eat in local restaurants, fill up at gas stations, and shop in sporting goods stores. In many small towns, hunting season is not just a tradition; it is a financial lifeline.
Reduce non-resident participation, and those dollars begin to disappear.
It is a paradox that state agencies and legislatures often overlook. In seeking to maximize revenue per hunter, they risk reducing the total number of hunters—and, by extension, the broader economic impact those hunters generate.
There is also a longer-term concern, one that goes beyond economics. Hunter participation in the United States has been declining for decades. While there have been temporary surges—such as during the COVID-19 pandemic—the overall trend is downward. Recruitment and retention are constant challenges for the hunting community.
Raising barriers to entry, particularly financial ones, runs directly counter to efforts to sustain and grow that community.
It is difficult to encourage someone to take up hunting when the cost of a single out-of-state tag approaches or exceeds $1,000. For younger hunters, families, or those of moderate means, these prices are not just inconvenient—they are prohibitive.
And yet, the system continues to move in that direction.
Supporters of the current model often frame it as a matter of resident privilege. The argument goes that those who live in a state, pay state taxes, and deal with the day-to-day realities of wildlife—crop damage, vehicle collisions, land use conflicts—deserve preferential access and pricing.
There is merit to that perspective. Residents do have a unique relationship with the land and wildlife around them. But that argument becomes more complicated when applied to federal land.
If a significant portion of the hunting landscape is owned collectively by all Americans, should access to that land be so heavily skewed in favor of those who happen to live within state boundaries?
It is a question worth asking, even if the answer is not straightforward.
One possible approach would be to rethink how access to federal land is funded and managed. If the principle is that those who benefit from a resource should help pay for it, then perhaps that principle should apply more broadly.
What would it look like if there were a modest federal access fee for public lands—one that applied to all users, regardless of residency? Hunters, hikers, campers, and off-road enthusiasts alike could contribute to the maintenance and stewardship of the land they use.
Such a system would not replace state wildlife funding, but it could help balance the scales. It would acknowledge that federal land is a shared asset and that its upkeep is a shared responsibility.
Of course, any proposal involving new fees is likely to face resistance. Public lands have long been seen as a birthright, a place where Americans can roam freely without paying at the gate. That ethos is deeply ingrained and not easily changed.
But the current system is not exactly free, either—at least not for everyone.
Non-resident hunters are already paying a premium, often a substantial one, to access these lands. The difference is that the costs are unevenly distributed and, in many cases, disconnected from the actual management of the land itself.
There is also a philosophical dimension to consider. Public lands are one of the few truly unifying features of the American landscape. They belong to everyone, regardless of geography, income, or background. They represent a shared inheritance.
When access to those lands becomes increasingly stratified—when it depends heavily on where you live or how much you can afford—it begins to erode that sense of shared ownership.
That erosion may not be immediately visible, but over time, it has consequences.
It changes how people perceive public lands. It shifts them from a collective resource to something closer to a regional asset. And once that shift takes hold, it becomes easier to justify policies that further limit access or prioritize certain groups over others.
None of this is to suggest that states should abandon differential pricing altogether. There are valid reasons for offering residents lower fees, and those reasons should not be dismissed lightly.
But there is a difference between reasonable differentiation and extreme disparity.
When non-resident fees climb to 20 times the cost of resident tags—or more—it is fair to question whether the system has drifted too far from its original intent.
It is also fair to ask whether there are better ways to achieve the same goals.
Could states explore more nuanced pricing structures? Could they tie fees more closely to actual usage of state-managed versus federally managed land? Could they implement caps or safeguards to prevent sudden, dramatic increases?
These are not easy questions, but they are necessary ones. Because at the end of the day, the current path is not without risk.
If non-resident hunters begin to opt out, the immediate impact will be financial. Revenue will decline, and agencies will need to find alternative sources of funding. That may mean turning to general taxpayers—many of whom do not hunt—or seeking additional federal support.
In other words, the burden may simply shift rather than disappear. And if that happens, the same residents who benefited from preferential pricing may find themselves paying more in other ways.
There’s a lesson here, one that extends beyond hunting. Systems that rely too heavily on a single group for funding—particularly a group with limited political influence—are inherently fragile. They work until they don’t. And when they fail, the consequences are often felt more broadly than anticipated.
The challenge for wildlife agencies and policymakers is to recognize that fragility before it becomes a crisis. To step back and ask not just what is legally permissible, but what is sustainable. Not just what serves residents in the short term, but what preserves access and participation in the long term.
Because the goal, ultimately, should not be to extract the maximum possible revenue from each hunter. It should be to ensure that the tradition of hunting—and the conservation model that depends on it—remains viable for generations to come.
That means keeping the door open, not closing it with a price tag. It means remembering that the land, especially federal land, is not just a resource to be managed, but a shared inheritance to be respected.
And it means acknowledging that fairness, while sometimes inconvenient, is worth striving for. Even when the law says you don’t have to.
Chris Dorsey is a 30-year media veteran and founding partner of Dorsey Pictures.