The Banker on Horseback


His father had other ideas. The family owned the S A Ranch near Payson and on the Mogollon Rim north of Phoenix, grazing as many as 250 mother cows, calves, and 1,000 steers. A cowboy, Jones spent his summers in a log cabin without electricity or running water. He herded cattle on horseback and repaired fences.
His father suggested, “The local bank could use some good agricultural bankers. It might be a good career path.” This was fortuitous counsel, as at the beginning of his senior year in 1977, Jones was awarded the ASU Alumni Association Medallion of Merit, which included a full four-year academic scholarship.
Banking on agribusiness
“I’ve been blessed with careers in my field of passion and in positions where that passion paid off to benefit others,” says Jones, who recently retired as chief operating officer of the Soil Health Institute, a North Carolina-based nonprofit that advances regenerative farming practices.
After nearly 15 years in commercial banking with Valley National Bank, he held senior positions in two state governments: director of Arizona’s Department of Agriculture and deputy commissioner of Colorado’s Department of Agriculture. He then helped lead the Farm Foundation, a think tank known for bringing leaders together and for its nonpartisan economic and policy analysis.
Cultivating connections
Early in his career, word got around that Jones was not like other commercial loan officers. He spent more time visiting ranches, farms, dairies, and meat and produce packing facilities than in his office.
His ranching clients knew him as the banker on horseback.
“I’d help ranchers gather cattle even if there was snow or rain. I spent the night with them in their homes or other facilities. It made me a better banker,” says Jones, who traveled beyond Arizona to California and Colorado to learn clients’ needs firsthand.
One of his mantras was “to find your way out on your way in.” He wanted to learn everything he could about a client in case events jeopardized loan repayment. “Not everything works like it’s supposed to in life or banking,” he says. “If I had to play the heavy because things went south, I knew that if we’d already had critical conversations, we’d have a plan, and nobody should be surprised.”


Navigating state stewardship
“He wasn’t afraid to walk into the lion’s den and say, ‘You folks can be a lot more effective if we do the following,’ ” recalls George Seperich, a professor emeritus at the Morrison School of Agribusiness who taught Jones and followed his career.
“If he had a problem with an individual, he didn’t just call that person; he’d invite him to lunch, sit across the table to break bread, and ask, ‘So what’s the problem?’ He’s a good leader, a good communicator, and a very direct individual,” says Seperich.
Jones fielded phone calls at home nights and weekends. Home Depot and Lowe’s publicly displayed his signature on state licenses that approved the sale of agricultural products. “I had to be on my best game all the time because people were watching,” says Jones. “My name was everywhere.”
His biggest challenge as director of Arizona’s Department of Agriculture came during a crisis caused by Karnal bunt, a fungal disease affecting wheat. The federal government locked down the state’s crop when it found naturally occurring spores, not the malady. The state’s farmers lost millions.
Jones fought the quarantine. “At one point, the USDA in Washington, D.C., quarantined the Grand Canyon because feed eaten by pack mules that carry tourists was a potential vector for the fungus. It was absurd,” he recalls. “The craziness wasn’t going away.”
Other wheat-producing states did little to help. “They were willing to throw Arizona to the wind to preserve their wheat industries for export,” says Jones. The turning point came when he and the governor enlisted the help of the Professional Golfers Association, which needed annual ryegrass, also a vector species, from Oregon to beautify fairways at the Phoenix Open.
Jones told the golfers, “If you want green grass for the Open next year, you need to help us bring some common sense around this problem, because until we do, Arizona will not let in any annual ryegrass from Oregon.”
Sowing seeds of integrity
They met when Jones was working on his master’s degree in agribusiness at the Morrison School of Agribusiness, named in the Morrison family’s honor in 1998. Morrison was teaching a class on agricultural law and recalls, “What amazed me was he was working full time in state government serving the industry, and he was my best student.” Today, both men serve on the Morrison School of Agribusiness advisory council.


(BS Agribusiness Industry Management ’89, MS-AGB ’05)
The farmers were skeptical, even chilly. Then Herron said, “ ‘We have a mutual friend—Sheldon Jones.’ That changed the whole meeting. They said, ‘Well, if you know Sheldon, we’re glad to be here.’ Just mentioning his name helped me out.”
Grounded in greatness
“Everything that lives depends on that six inches of soil below our feet,” says Jones. “We need to take care of it, and there’s only one way to do that: empowering farmers to manage their soil.”
Now, after a lifetime dedicated to agribusiness and public service, Jones returned to his roots. He began his next chapter as the deputy director of Arizona’s Department of Agriculture on Oct. 15, where he first led from 1997 to 2002. “It’s a great opportunity to serve the agency, Arizona’s ag and food sector, and the state of Arizona.”
Jones’ dedication extended beyond his professional achievements. He and his wife, Corrina, have eight adult children and six grandchildren.