Vermont’s wildlife-corridor debate isn’t just a talking point; it’s the result of Act 171, a 2016 law that requires towns and regional planning commissions to identify and protect large forest blocks and the “habitat connectors” that link them. Since January 1, 2018, every new or updated town plan has had to include these mapped areas to “minimize forest fragmentation.”

On paper, it sounds sensible — preserve connectivity for wildlife, maintain biodiversity, and protect the state’s green character. But in practice, it’s created a new flashpoint between conservation goals and private property rights. Landowners say they’re the ones footing the bill for Vermont’s environmental image: paying full taxes and maintenance on land that regulators increasingly expect them to keep undeveloped for the public good.

The Myth of the Fragile Wilderness

Talk of “wildlife corridors” often paints Vermont’s landscape as delicate and dwindling. But the evidence tells a different story.
Wildlife biologists track movement patterns using GPS collars, camera traps, and DNA sampling — and what they’ve found isn’t a wilderness on the brink. It’s a robust ecosystem filled with adaptable species making smart use of human infrastructure.

Black bears, coyotes, bobcats, moose, and deer all use old skidder trails, snowmobile routes, and logging roads as energy-efficient travel corridors. They’re not moralizing about fragmentation; they’re optimizing calories. Bears and moose wander those dirt tracks at night because they’re quiet and easy. Deer browse along sunny edges where brush and young trees flourish. What’s called a “corridor” on a map is often just a glorified trail system that humans built, and wildlife figured out how to use.

A Rewilded State

By almost any measure, Vermont’s wildlife is thriving compared to a century ago.
In the mid-1800s, when 70–80 percent of the land was cleared for pasture, moose were gone, bears were scarce, and deer nearly extinct. As farms were abandoned and forests returned, so did the animals.

Today, according to the Vermont Fish & Wildlife Department, black bears number 6,800–8,000, far exceeding the agency’s target range of 3,500–5,500. Deer herds are strong, bobcats and fishers have rebounded, and moose remain common in the Northeast Kingdom despite tick pressures. Even wild turkeys and beavers — once wiped out — have multiplied beyond expectations.

If there’s a wildlife crisis in Vermont, it isn’t about scarcity. It’s about who controls the land where this abundance lives.

Mandates Without Money

That’s where the conversation about fairness begins. Conservation planners talk about “maintaining habitat connectivity” and “reducing fragmentation,” but those goals often translate into restrictions on private land.
When a property falls within a mapped wildlife corridor, regional zoning or Act 250 review can limit what an owner can build, subdivide, or even log. Yet the state offers no compensation for that lost flexibility. The public gains open space; the landowner eats the cost.

It’s an old Vermont story in a new costume: environmental virtue paid for by rural people’s property rights.

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The Equity Hypocrisy

If “equity” is the guiding value of modern policy, then rural equity ought to count, too.
Equity means that those who benefit from a public good share in its costs. But in Vermont, wildlife protection and open-space preservation have become unfunded mandates — public goods privately financed. Landowners are expected to shoulder full taxes, insurance, and liability while surrendering economic use of their property for the sake of someone else’s aesthetic or ecological agenda.

It’s one thing when a landowner chooses to sell a conservation easement and gets paid for it. It’s another when planners designate corridors that reduce land value without offering a dime. That isn’t stewardship; that’s quiet expropriation.

A Better Way: Paying for What We Value

If Vermonters want uninterrupted forest and healthy wildlife populations — and most do — then the solution is straightforward: pay for it.
Other regions are experimenting with “Payment for Ecosystem Services” (PES) programs that compensate landowners for measurable benefits like carbon storage, clean water, and habitat maintenance. Maine and New York have tested pilot versions; countries like New Zealand and Sweden run them statewide.

Such a system would put money where the rhetoric is: public benefit, public payment. Instead of penalizing those who live closest to the land, it would reward them for keeping it intact.

The Cultural Divide

There’s also a growing cultural rift. Vermont’s rural landowners — loggers, sugar-makers, farmers — see themselves as the real conservationists. They’ve kept forests productive and open for generations. Yet they’re often excluded from planning discussions dominated by urban professionals and nonprofit advocates who neither work the land nor pay taxes on it.

When policy ignores that lived experience, resentment builds. The result is exactly what’s happening now: people who’ve spent decades maintaining forestland feel demonized for wanting fair treatment.

The Real Question

At its core, the debate isn’t about bears or moose — it’s about honesty and balance. Vermont’s landscape thrives because of human management, not in spite of it. If planners want to restrict that management for ecological reasons, they need to stop pretending that moral obligation is enough.

Conservation without compensation isn’t “shared sacrifice.” It’s a one-way transfer of value from working Vermonters to the public at large.

Dave Soulia | FYIVT

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