SIERRAVILLE – After the tears and the scattering of ashes, Lacey Maddalena felt a sudden weight of the family's century-old ranch teetering on her 24-year-old shoulders.

As the only child and beneficiary, Maddalena now held 550 acres of alpine pasture north of Truckee, and all the haying, irrigating, bookkeeping, property leasing and upkeep that came with it.

Would she sell the multimillion-dollar property and find a more prosperous endeavor, a career without calluses? Or would she try to fill her father's tall boots and become the fourth-generation Maddalena to make a living off the gloriously undeveloped land?

She chose the latter.

"It's not about the money. It's about the love for the land. It's about looking out, seeing your progress every day."

Her words rolled gracefully, with a touch of country twang.

"Seeing the calves get big, watching the grass grow tall, knowing those calluses on your hands are the product of hard work and determination. It's about knowing that someday future generations like myself will be able to have something beautiful of their own."

A wide smile broke out across jesikah maria ross' face.

"Bingo!" ross cried, marking the end of a successful recording.

Maddalena is one of 10 ranchers and farmers whom radio producer ross and local farm adviser Holly George recently coaxed to the microphone for an innovative University of California, Davis, "digital storytelling project."

Called "Passion for the Land," the production aims to help media-shy residents of this middle-of-nowhere outpost make their case for preservation of agriculture and rural life on this challenging swath of land.

Sierra Valley is the Lake Tahoe of rangelands in California. Perched just under 5,000 feet in elevation, the valley covers about the same amount of territory – 200 square miles – and boasts an unobstructed, 360-degree view of mountains that glisten white in the winter sun.

"My dad is on that knoll, just to the right of that tree," Maddalena said last week in a windshield tour of her snow-covered ranch. "He put everything up there that meant anything to him – his good horse, his good dog. So that's where we thought he ought to go. Plus, he has a great view."

Maddalena's is a voice the public would not likely hear in California's perennial tug-of-war over land and water. Ranchers hay, rope and saddle up. They don't do talking points or PowerPoints. They don't open up easily.

"It's really hard for me to tell my story, no holds barred," she said of her daunting decision in late 2007, following the unexpected death of her "hero," Steve Maddalena. "At first I thought it was going to be kind of a pain. But then I realized I had a powerful story to tell."

"I worked hard to keep her," said ross, 43, who spells her name lowercase. "She articulated a very clear vision and her experience needs to be told to younger people."

On some levels, ranchers and farmers already are getting their message across. They have a strong herd of lobbyists grazing Capitol Hill and Sacramento's Capitol Park – the California Farm Bureau and the National Cattlemen's Beef Association, to name just two.

But, meanwhile, back at the ranch, no-less-powerful development interests dangle big bucks before aging owners to convert pasture to pavement.

Financial pressures, plus a steady migration of the young from corrals to cubicles, have resulted in the steady loss of farmland from coast to coast.

The 300,000-acre Sierra Valley loses an average 1,400 acres of grazing land every year, state Department of Conservation data show.

"If we don't have the people who are for the land being able to make a decent living, and we don't acknowledge their stewardship, we lose them," said George, the region's longtime livestock and natural resource adviser with the University of California Cooperative Extension.

What's needed, George and ross said, is for the public to hear the unvarnished voices of men and woman with dirt under their nails.

Call The Bee's Chris Bowman, (916) 321-1069.