Archive for the ‘UNPUBLISHED OUTDOOR WRITING’ Category

UNCOUNTABLE COSTS: HOW MUCH IS THE BOUNDARY WATERS WORTH?

April 30, 2013

There is serious possibility of opening a sulfide mine in the Boundary Waters watershed, with politicians on both sides supporting it, because it will create jobs.  I haven’t heard much about the costs of such an mine.  Costs are different from money.  For example, we have spent more than a trillion dollars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  That’s money.  The cost, in dead, maimed, displaced, and ruined families is uncountable, but I would submit it is enormous. Because we can’t place a value on a human life, we don’t, so the money we were told we would spend–a laughable $1.7 billion–was at least four if not five orders of magnitude too low.  Before going to war, costs should be understood, but few in Congress understand costs.

Without doubt, the mine near Ely would provide jobs, although mining is more than pick and shovel work these days.  Mining requires engineering skills, knowledge of geology, and more important, knowledge how to do it safely, which means disposing of the waste in such a way that the environment is not polluted.

There are a few of us who think this mine is a bad idea.  A really bad idea.  One company that may be involved is not American; while that doesn’t make it necessarily bad, they don’t have the deep connection to the Boundary Waters that some of us have.  Worse, these types of mines have in every instance been shown to have left toxic metals on the surface that leach into the water and pollute it.

The name of the most beautiful wilderness in the Lower 49 is the Boundary Waters.   Connect the dots.  This region has some of the cleanest water on the continent.  I have drunk from the lakes on every one of my 62 trips up there. How many places can we still drink water out of a lake?

Fish live in water, too.  The second Saturday in May is a special day in Minnesota, for it is fishing opener.  I wonder how people will feel about the possibility of far fewer fish, should the mine pollute the watershed.

But the mine won’t be a problem, I have been told.  I will hear the good-looking young men and women, who sound so sincere, say that there is nothing to worry about.  The executives, who have so much money to gain from the mine, will say technology will make this mine safe, and there won’t be a problem.  The jobs that will be created will be so important to the Iron Range communities, where many are short on money and long on clean water and forests.  Everything will be just fine.  Listen to the reassuring voices.  Look at the handsome young people.  Watch the pictures of cute deer drinking out of a lake near the mine site.  Everything will be fine.

Until it isn’t.  Let me repeat that in a different way.  Everything is safe until it isn’t.  That goes for Challenger, Columbia, Tenerife, the Comet, Electra, and DC-10, shipping oil out Prince William Sound, pipelines through Arkansas, Deep Water Horizon, Chernobyl, Fukushima, and I suspect Keystone XL.

When the you know what hits the fan, suddenly people will be sorry.  “It’s an Act of God,” “we couldn’t have possibly foreseen this,” “we will do everything we can to make you whole.”  And the company will file for bankruptcy.  I wasn’t born yesterday. I could name dozens of other catastrophes.

But then it will be too late.  It will NOT be an Act of God, any more than rheumatic fever or tuberculosis was, death from infected hangnails, or acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Complex systems will fail.  It is a matter of statistics and probability, and there are not many who understand these concepts.

The questions I ask are quite simple:

1.  How much is the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness worth?

2.  What is the probability that the mine will pollute, and how are you computing that probability?

The first  question has no answer, and the second is difficult to compute.  We could do an Expected Value analysis on  the Boundary Waters.  We could add up the tourism dollars, the cost of the timber, the fresh water, the campsites, and multiply it by 1, since it already exists with probability 1.  We could have the money the mine puts into the hands of the people of northern Minnesota (not how much ore is there, but how much money goes to the locals, which is a much smaller number) and multiply it by the probability it will cause no problem, which from past experience, is fairly close to zero, and get another expected value.  We then compare the two.  But the first expected value is too low, because no price can be placed on the Boundary Waters. We can’t place a cost on certain things, like people’s lives, unless we want to use human trafficking as a means.  Is this what we’ve come to?

Because these mines have ALWAYS had problems, it is incumbent upon those supporters to show why THIS mine will be different.  But let’s get back to what we can’t measure–the  value of wilderness that is nowhere else this accessible, this pristine, and this transformative of people.  No, we can’t say what that is worth, but it sure is worth something.  It falls into the category of “It ain’t for sale at any price,” and that is what some of us are saying.

There are a few other things that ought to be pointed out as well.

First, Ely, one of the towns that would be impacted by this mine, was once populated by miners, whose kids went to work in the mines.  There is a community college in Ely–Vermilion Community College–where the last Thursday in April is a scholarship banquet, where $42,000 is donated to students.  I am responsible for 3 of those scholarships. 

In 2007, I gave a scholarship to a young woman, whose parents came to the banquet.  Her father worked in the mines on the Iron Range west of Ely, where the mine tailings are, for lack of a better word–ugly.  He was so proud of his daughter, whose education would have her not go into the mines, the way he did.

Now we are offering jobs back in the mines.  We seem to be going backward.

Second, many call the Boundary Waters “God’s country,” a term used for unspoiled wilderness, Up North, in Boreal Country.  I wonder how many believers up there think that mining in a sensitive watershed is in keeping with Creation.  Just a thought.  BOUNDARY WATERS_2007114

The third issue I have is one that we don’t discuss in this country, because the major religions don’t believe in it, and many people don’t either.  We need to have fewer children.  If we had fewer children, we wouldn’t need to find so many jobs for them.  The notion that somebody can finish high school, go into the mines for good money (so long as the mine keeps working), buy a truck, a snowmobile, a boat, have 5 or 6 kids, lots of debt, and expects the kids will be able to do the same thing–and their kids, too–just doesn’t apply any more in this country.

I’ve got skin in this game, although I have no kids.  I think we leave some areas off limits to mining, just as we limited the dams in the Boundary Waters, even though it was a matter of cheap power.  Really?  Cheap?  What would the cost have been had we destroyed Curtain Falls and flooded Crooked Lake and Lower Basswood Falls?  It almost happened.

Crooked Lake at top; Iron Lake at bottom.

Curtain Falls today:  Crooked Lake at top; Iron Lake at bottom.

DSCF0026

The Friends of the Boundary Waters, of which I am a member, is going to fight this mine tooth and nail.  So is Steve Piragis in Ely, for whom preservation of the water resource is his livelihood.  I will support them.  The Friends wants to expand its scholarships too, so that more young men and women are trained to do jobs that wilderness management requires.  That is where the money ought to go.

It’s a harder slog to fight this mine as it was recently for me to get into Angleworm Lake in 3 feet of snow. IMG_3096 I’m not young, handsome, or have a reassuring voice.  I am in the minority who dares say we have too many people and that polluted wilderness will not return.  I’m looking at 10-100 years, not next week’s pay check.  I’m thinking of those like me, who need wild country to find themselves and to think thoughts that can only be answered in God’s country. I may not win.

But I am going to the mat on this one.

LOOKER-UPPERS

April 1, 2013

Several years ago, out in the Sonoita Grasslands, southeast of Tucson, I saw a thunderstorm develop over in Rain Valley.  Several of the thunderheads were producing a lot of rain, but the southernmost one wasn’t.  Instead, it kept discharging cloud-cloud lightning, as if it had a choice to either rain or light up periodically, and chose the latter.  In any case, it looked like a giant lightbulb.  I thought that interesting, so I stayed out to watch it.  I often just sit somewhere and look up.  It isn’t wasted time.

I am a looker-upper.

As I continued to gaze, I noted Jupiter high to the right of “Lightbulb,” shining with a steady light, as planets do.  I knew the object was Jupiter, because of its brightness and location.  Now I had a gas giant in view, with its own clouds and storms, as I observed from a rocky planet with its own storms, all right before my eyes.

And “Lightbulb” kept discharging.

I was fascinated with the show, but I knew that storms don’t last too long in the high desert, and I began to think of going inside, grateful, as I always am, for any show that nature provides.  For some reason, however, I stayed out a little longer.  I’ve long known that a an extra minute spent just looking may occasionally be worthwhile.  Besides, I was absolutely fascinated with “Lightbulb”.

Suddenly, a meteor shot through the sky between Jupiter and “Lightbulb.”  There aren’t many times my jaw drops suddenly, but it sure did here.  I had a simultaneous show in three levels of the sky:  the troposphere, high above the stratosphere, and in outer space.  I said another thank you to the heavens, watched for a while longer, and then finally went inside.

There is one other place I have seen three parts of the sky come into splendid conjunction.  If one travels to the Platte River in March, near the Great Southern Bend of the river, one may see the Sandhill Crane migration.  I really should use three different verbs here: to see, to experience, and to transform.  Many people see the migration, some experience it, and a few–like me–are transformed by it.  Transformation of a person by a sight means that the person is never again quite the same.  Not many sights transform me: a total solar eclipse did, and so did a sighting of a wolf in the wild 12 feet away, with nobody within 10 trail miles.  That’s heady stuff, being transformed.

To see these spectacular birds, with their haunting call, darken the sky during a splendid Nebraska sunset and a full Moon rising in the eastern sky may transform a person.  I volunteer in Nebraska every spring, paying my way up there and working at Rowe Sanctuary, so I can go to the viewing blinds morning and evening.  It’s really selfish, but I do some work, too.  I work with other volunteers and Rowe Staff, all of whom are looker-uppers.

SUNSET CRANES

SUNSET CRANES

Sure, this conjunction may be explained by biology, astronomy and physics, but I doubt  many observers in Stevie’s Blind at Rowe Sanctuary on a March evening feel that way when twenty-five thousand cranes in the sky land right in front of them.  I doubt Stevie Staples, for whom the blind was named, looked at the cranes that way, either, and she was a teacher.

PART OF A FLOCK OF 20,000

Once one becomes a looker-upper, the person may become a bit of an astronomer, meteorologist, and birder, too.  Oh, I don’t mean the person can spot Andromeda Galaxy without optical aid, knows the difference between a Pied-billed and a Western Grebe, or can tell whether the sky is convectively active, but the person is learning.  I find myself looking up at the day sky, noticing where the deepest blue occurs.  There is a mathematical point in the sky where the sky is bluest, depending upon where the Sun is, but I don’t bother with the math.  I’m more interested in finding the deepest blue, and my 1x eyes are perfect for the task.

From blue sky, I started noticing clouds and weather, too.  Soon, I became as interested in the weather as I was in the night sky.  It’s easy to do, and as a guy who goes into the woods a lot, it helps to know how to predict the weather.  Oh, of course, I wasn’t a professional meteorologist, but I knew enough to keep myself more comfortable than I otherwise would have been.

I continued to look up and became a birder.  I won’t say I am a great birder, but I’ve seen many species, many of which I actually figured out on my own.  It’s often good to bird alone.  It makes a person a better observer, requiring spotting the subtleties that allow identification.  Other times, it is good to go with an experienced birder who can spot a particular bird and explain why and what it is. Birding is fun, but it is not a passion.

Looker-uppers aren’t necessarily experts; they just know where beauty lies.  And a lot of beauty lies above us, free for those who look.

SLEEPING PAIR OF CRANES

CRANE MOON

As I became a birder looker-upper after first being a star looker-upper, some birders come to my star parties after first being a bird looker-upper. They wonder how I know the night sky so well.  I wonder how they know the birds so well.  We all laugh.  We are all learning from each other, fellow looker-uppers, trying to get answers to questions we have about what is out there, what it is, why it is, who and why we are.

What I have learned about my fellow looker-uppers is that each of us finds our own faith in the sky.  Each of us has called the sky “the heavens” at some time.  None of us really knows what lies beyond, but we are all curious.  I don’t think there is a one of us who looks at the Sandhill Crane migration, Orion, Saturn, the rising of the full Moon, a Vermilion Flycatcher or a yellow-headed Blackbird

YELLOW-HEADED BLACKBIRD

YELLOW-HEADED BLACKBIRD

, a towering cumulonimbus, or a 2000 year-old Sequoia

STANDING BY A SEQUOIA, MARIPOSA GROVE, YOSEMITE NP.

STANDING BY A SEQUOIA, MARIPOSA GROVE, YOSEMITE NP.

without being filled with a sense of wonder.  I’m a deeply spiritual person, and a fellow looker-upper helped me discover that fact.

That same person, a wise man, a good friend, a fellow looker-upper, and a devout Christian, recently told me, “There are no atheists in foxholes and no atheists who watch cranes.”

CRANES LANDING AT SUNSET, 2012

CRANES LANDING AT SUNSET, 2012

Judging by how often I hear “Oh my God, they are beautiful,” when I take people to the viewing blinds, I think he is right.


CRANES LANDING AT SUNSET, FROM STEVIE’S BLIND

CRANES OVER FULL MOON, ROWE, 2013

CRANES OVER FULL MOON, ROWE, 2013IMG_2918

MR. POTTER

February 24, 2013

In the coming months I will visit two places which I will call Potterville, Nebraska and Potterville, Minnesota.  You won’t find these towns in a road atlas; they are first defined as if they actually exist, which they would today had Mr. Potter had his way, which so far he hasn’t.  For those who aren’t aware of Potterville, see the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life” next holiday season.

Potterville, Nebraska is a place where Platte River water is used for solely for recreation, irrigation of crops, and drinking.  Cottonwoods and invasives have turned the river into a treelined thin strip of water, often dry.  There are no longer any Lesser Sandhill Cranes there in March.  I’m not sure where they went.  Maybe they went the way of the now extinct Passenger Pigeon, which like the Sandhill Cranes, once darkened the sky.  But I’m talking birds, and to many, birds don’t matter, not if one believes man owns the Earth and all the resources that can be extracted right now, because now matters, and the future….well, that is Potterville, where the special places like the Platte disappeared, as does its water every summer.

Potterville, Minnesota has many resorts on nearby Basswood Lake, providing guiding and other low paying jobs to those in Ely, Minnesota, where good jobs are scarce.  Crooked Lake is huge, with drowned trees still visible well out from the current shore, the hydroelectric power from Curtain FallsCurtain Falls; Canada on Left, US on right. providing cheap electricity to the mines on the Iron Range.  Two beautiful islands, out in the middle, on the border, are deeply submerged.  I never saw them with the late Mike Manlove.  Nor is there an island near the border, where I would have heard wolves on 25 September 1992, had the island been there.  I never saw Basswood Falls, for it was flooded.   Nor did I see the pictographs that once made Crooked Lake famous, for they were also flooded.  Mr. Potter said 80 years ago we needed jobs at all costs, to support our ever growing population; having smaller families and preserving wilderness just wasn’t–well, an American solution.

Overhead in Potterville, Minnesota are many aircraft, the noise rivaling that of the Grand Canyon.  No executive order was given by Harry S Truman forbidding flights below 4000 feet over the wilderness, for it had never been done before, and new ways viewing the world and of doing things are not part of Potterville.  In winter, the sound of snowmobiles is heard all through the region.  The last wolf sighting was about 90 years ago.  A sulfide mine has created a lot of jobs, but the water has become extremely polluted, and the mine will close soon.  Unfortunately, the company has gone bankrupt and will not pay for the cost for cleaning up the pollution.  Many said that a mine would pollute and the cost to the environment would not be paid; they were shouted down at town meetings.  Funny how you can’t find anybody in Potterville now who said they were for the mine.    Curtain Falls

But there is no Potterville, Minnesota, thanks in large part to Sigurd F. Olson, one of America’s first wilderness writers, Bill Magie, and many others who fought Potterville tooth and nail, recognizing that the world had changed, and Americans needed wilderness, not to conquer, but to visit, to test themselves, to see sights they couldn’t see anywhere else, and to recover their senses.  Sig Olson knew that we aren’t all that removed from the land, and there are many for whom wilderness is not just an escape, but a requirement for their sanity.  I am one of those.  There aren’t many like me, and most don’t understand us, but we exist.

Sig was once burned in effigy in Ely, Minnesota.  Nevertheless, he persevered until his death in 1982, while snowshoeing near his home, which today is called “Listening Point.”

Because of Sig and others, Curtain Falls is a wilderness cataract, straddling the international border.  Mike Manlove and I saw the lovely two islands, and I heard wolves that September morning out on Crooked Lake.  Basswood River is untouched, and Lower Basswood and Wheelbarrow Falls are beautiful.

Because of a few who fought Mr. Potter in Nebraska, in March there will be a half million Lesser Sandhill Cranes–90% of the world’s population– along a short stretch of the Platte River.  There will be water for the birds, for 4 miles of shoreline are protected by Rowe Sanctuary.  Many thousand people will visit Rowe’s viewing blinds during the 5 week season.  These people will spend several million dollars in Kearney, Nebraska, providing a big boost to the local economy.

Cranes Landing at sunset, 2012

I will guide about 10% of those people, telling them about the cranes, what they mean to me, and how this is one of two great North American migrations.  I will go to Nebraska, paying my own way, sleep on the floor in the gift shop, so I can hear the cranes at night, and work 17 hour days.  I will come home exhausted but thrilled.  There is not a time in the 70 trips I have taken into the blinds where I have not learned something new or seen an absolutely mind boggling sight.

Cranes at sunset, Rowe Sanctuary, 2011

Cranes Landing in Platte, sunset, 2012

Experiences such as mine have no price tag; Mr. Potter thinks everything without a price tag has no value.  He is wrong.  I’m not a hunter, but I think every guy and gal who has sat in a duck blind, gone out in camo on a chilly autumn morning to get a buck thinks that the country they traverse is worth something.  They just can’t put a price tag on it, Mr. Potter.  I can’t put a price tag on seeing 50,000 cranes in the sky at once, watching a crane dancing 100 meters away, hearing the calls at night, watching them kettle, catching the south wind north on their way to perhaps Siberia.  No, I can’t put a price tag on seeing them in Bettles, Alaska, last August, north of the Arctic Circle.

No, Mr. Potter, I can’t put a price tag on making 20 miles in a headwind, hearing wolves at night, sitting by a campfire, not thinking of anything, seeing the Harvest Moon coming up over Lake Insula, hearing the call of a loon at 2 a.m., looking at the darkest skies in the US and being in the largest roadless area in the Lower 49.

Lake Insula sunset

Common Loon

Big Water...vast sweep of Agnes Lake.

Or seeing Curtain Falls, in its natural state.  These things are priceless, Mr. Potter.

In April, I will spend a morning with the Executive Director of the Friends of the Boundary Waters, before going up north to Ely to spend two days on Basswood, not expecting to see anybody, sitting by a campfire, thinking of nothing, and maybe hearing a wolf.  I will be able to drink right out of the lake. I will be by myself, alone in a vast wilderness, which I require visiting periodically to be the person I am.  It’s a birthright of Americans that these places still exist.  But preserving these places must be fought against the Mr. Potters.

The Friends have worked to protect the Boundary Waters, just as Rowe Sanctuary has worked to protect the Platte River.  Both of these organizations, together employing about 8 people, will get about half of whatever estate I leave behind.  After I come out of the woods, I will attend the Vermilion Community College Scholarship Banquet, where I will give 3 scholarships I have created or helped fund.  Supporting VCC means a great deal to me.  It is a special night for many students.  Jobs are scarce, and the father of a young woman who was the second recipient of our scholarships wanted his daughter not to follow him into the mines.  He is not alone.  Money goes a long way in northern Minnesota and rural Nebraska.

It can cause or prevent Pottervilles. I’m trying to prevent them, but the battle can not be lost.

Not even once.

ULURU

November 19, 2012

From 20 km, I finally saw the monolith, Uluru (Ayers Rock), that for years had been at the top of “The List,” of things I have wanted to see or do ever since I saw a wolf on Isle Royale, six and a half years previously.

 

The day after we flew in, we took a sunrise tour, where we saw the low rays of the Sun, in a few days to be briefly eclipsed by the Moon, strike the sandstone.  Then we approached it.

 

Uluru has been around for 350 million years.  What we see is the tip of a large uplifting, with rock extending about 2 km below the surface.  I didn’t know that, and that was only the beginning of discovering what I did not know.

 

For example, we visited numerous caves and inlets to the rock.  Uluru is not simply a rock with vertical faces; there are many places where water can collect, places where people can–and have–hidden, lived, and practiced their faith.  The aborigines, who were once shot on sight by the first white men on the continent, have been present in this area for 60,000 years.  That is roughly thirty times the existence of any other major religion on the Earth.  To them, Uluru is sacred.  There are places along the trail where one is not allowed to photograph, just as it is considered insulting and wrong to photograph an aborigine without their permission.  The visitor’s center is off limits to photography as well.

As one leaves the visitor’s center, there is a request–not a requirement, since there are no requirements at Uluru, only requests–not to climb what is considered sacred to the aborigine people, who never climb the rock.  There is a chain that allows people to climb the monolith, but the day I was there, the rock was closed because of high winds.  It didn’t matter to me, since I had not planned to climb it anyway, knowing it was sacred and ought not to be climbed.

 

Thirty-six people have died on Uluru from climbing, and for each the natives have required a ceremony to help those who died into the afterlife.  There are several memorial plaques that were placed on Uluru as well, although there are no new ones, because that affects the monolith, too.

 

Frankly, I found it good to go to a place where there were no extreme sports allowed.  There were no races up Uluru, no helicopter rides or hot air balloon rides to the top.  Indeed, the airspace over Uluru is also off limits.  There were no people BASE jumping, or using other conveniences to fly off the mountain.  Other than the chain fence, and the worn path into the Sandstone, there were no marks on Uluru other than a few paintings in the lower caves.

I can only imagine what Uluru would be if left to the white people.  There would be multiple routes to the top, the sandstone would be pockmarked with pitons, there would be ropes hanging off it, old campfires, tents, mountain biking, tours to the top, marathons ending at the top, races around the monolith, human waste and other litter.

 

I don’t have a problem with any of the above races, so long as they take place where it is appropriate, not one sacred to people who have existed in an incredibly harsh environment for sixty thousand years and have not destroyed it.

Theodore Roosevelt once said about the Grand Canyon, “You cannot improve on it.  Leave it as it is.”  We have not done that.  South Rim Village is large, although it is a relatively small area on the Rim.  There are trails, although they are limited as well, and they require a great deal of effort to walk.  We have, however, filled the airspace with fixed and rotary wing aircraft, creating a great deal of unnecessary noise.  By Uluru, one hears the wind, the birds, and very little else.

That evening, we took a sunset tour, again watching the change of colors that were a function of the Sun, the sandstone, the caves, and the black stripes where water drained off the monolith with each rain.  It was spectacular.  A group of Austrian tourists were nearby, and I practiced my German with them.  I lent them my binoculars so they could see parts of the monolith that I now knew something about.  It was the first time I had taught about nature while speaking only German.  I explained the pools along the rock that collected water and then overflowed to pools below.  I found words that I knew as I needed them.  It wasn’t great, but they understood what I was saying.  In two roles that I was comfortable in, teaching and nature, I was able to relax and speak.  It made the view even more magical.  How many different languages had been spoken at this site during the past six hundred centuries, I cannot imagine.  But one man spoke two that night, and for him, and that was special.

 

It’s nice for once to see something truly unique, virtually unspoiled, and will stay that way, except for the path to the top, which may some day be closed.  I hope it will be.

 

I went to Uluru to see the largest monolith in the world.  I came away thinking how nice it was that Australians, most specifically the most maligned ones–the aborigines–have not allowed the large numbers of people who have to show they are the best at whatever sport they decide they must do.  World class is to me an overused term, but at Uluru, the term is deeply appropriate.

What a blessing.

 

SPAMMED ON JACKFISH BAY

September 27, 2012

My wife and I got spammed on Jackfish Bay on our last canoe trip.  No, I didn’t have a computer; I saw a plastic bag in the forest behind the campsite, and it had three full cans of SPAM, the real deal.  Minnesota is the Spam capital of the world; for those who don’t know the etymology, it is shoulder of pork and ham.  When I first canoed, 50 years ago, Spam tasted pretty good.  Then again, in the woods, most things taste good, even pine needles.

On the same campsite were two empty beer cans and a burned out can in the fire area.  We carried all of this garbage out, along with our trash. The white pine in the center of the campsite had dozens of scars from people who had to chop at it.  Despite that, the tree was tall and had no signs of blister rust, unusual for a tree this age.  White pines are the most beautiful tree in the woods; the wood from them is prized.  Why anybody would deliberately chop at a tree that was likely a sapling when the Voyageurs came through 225 years ago is beyond me.

White pine (Pinus strobus), scarred by prior campers.

But, give a guy (usually a guy) an axe, and everything in the woods becomes fair game.

On the way out of the woods, we passed a campsite where somebody had cut a few dozen balsam pine boughs for a mattress.  There was a time, half a century ago, when we cut balsams down for tent stringers, used their boughs for mattresses, put cans in the campsite can pit (or in the lake), and threw axes at trees.  These days I thought were gone.  Having cleaned some 500 campsites in the Boundary Waters, those days are not gone.  Note to campers:  aluminum foil does not burn completely in campfires.  No, it does not.

The Wilderness Act of 1964 establishing the Boundary Waters (BW), made most of it, except for a few lakes, including Basswood, non-motorized.  Cans were not allowed, green trees were not allowed to be cut (they don’t burn, and there is no reason to do so), permits were required (and were free for more than three decades), and the number of people who could congregate at one spot was limited to 9.  The BW was and is the largest roadless area in the contiguous states.  This did not sit well with some, and Sig Olson, one of the first great wilderness writers, was burned in effigy in his hometown of Ely.

Sig knew, far before many, that wilderness was no longer something to be conquered or to be lived off but something to be protected.  It was a massive shift in thinking that many still have not embraced.

We now have lightweight and safer gear: air mattresses, chairs, small saws, rain suits, good tents, barbless hooks, food packaged in plastic, but not metal, that it ought to be easy to travel in the wilderness without harming it.

I write this to those who do not know the rules but wish to abide by them; I hope maybe a few of the others might think about what they are doing as well.  The BW is not pristine America post-glacial era.  Most has been logged, about a century ago, and it has been burned by natural and human-caused fires.  I’ve seen a third of the campsites with hot ashes or frankly burning fires and no inhabitants.  I’ve seen many other fires built outside the fire area.  Given the dryness of the soil–dig a latrine, as I have and you realize this fact–fires can spread underground.  Fire is a natural phenomenon, lightning sparked fires, such as the Pagami Creek Fire last year, clear the forest for new growth.

The debate should be about whether we let naturally caused fires to burn.  There should be no debate whether somebody should be allowed to leave an unattended campfire.

The BW is open to fishing and hunting.  Fishing has to change too, from a half century ago.  Catching large stringers of fish–or one huge fish, a breeder–has to stop, and catch and release, except for a meal, with barbless hooks should be done.  Is this inconvenient?  Sure.  But what about the upcoming generations?  BW lakes are not sterile, but the northerly climate makes them far less productive of fish than many lakes at lower latitudes in the US.

The world changes.  We are no longer voyageurs with canoes in an unmapped wilderness.  We are a quarter million annual visitors in the wilderness the size of Rhode Island.  While there is much room, large numbers of people put pressure on the wilderness with human waste, human trash, and other impacts.  Humans belong in the BW, but as our numbers increase, our impacts must lessen.  Even the best camper may break rules when caught out in severely inclement weather.  I’ve seen hundreds of pounds of abandoned gear.  The late Mike Manlove referred to this as “being out of one’s comfort zone.”

Wilderness is not only subject to attacks from within but from without.  Fish have mercury, lakes become acid.  Water quality may deteriorate from sources far from the wilderness.  Careless boaters can transfer invasive species from one infected lake to a previously normal one.   Heavily log or burn much of the forest, and streams and lakes will become muddy.  This affects fishing.  Eventually, such damage may clear.

Mining, on the other hand, is forever.  A sulfide mine, planned near the wilderness, is a huge concern.  Communities need jobs, but sulfide mines are particularly toxic to watersheds, and the BW is a watershed if ever there was one.  Another pillar of the local economy is tourism.  Destroy the watershed, and tourism will disappear.  I am told the mine will be safe; things tend to be “safe” until they are suddenly not safe.  Then, everybody is sorry, the money made, the rich folks gone.

One hundred fifty years ago, the virgin pine stands of northern Minnesota were thought to be inexhaustible.  Forty years later, the state was importing lumber.  Log enough, and the jobs eventually end, along with the forest.  Mine enough, the jobs eventually end, along with the surrounding area.  If we have an unemployment problem, one good solution would be for many families to have a lot fewer children.  The US population has more than doubled in my lifetime; we have one of the highest birth rates in the industrialized world.

This is the 21st century, and we need natural resources, wise use of land, and a lot fewer people than we are producing.  If we continue to act the way we did in the 18th century, nearly exterminating the beaver, the 19th century (the buffalo and the forest), and the 20th (treating wilderness like a playground), there will be a large emptiness in the 21st.

Nature can recover, but within limits, and often with very different outcomes than even the best biologists can predict.  Enjoy the wilderness, carry out what you brought in, and maybe a little stuff that others brought in, too.

SEASONS OF THE CANOE COUNTRY….AND LIFE

September 25, 2012

“Come on in,” called Dorothy Molter, as I had paddled up to shore on her island home on Knife Lake and knocked at the door.  Dorothy was a legend on Knife Lake.  She left nursing and Chicago around 1930 and lived on an island in Knife Lake, which straddles the border between Minnesota and Ontario.  Called “The loneliest woman in America,” Dorothy had hundreds of visitors every year.  She was grandfathered (or mothered) and allowed to live the rest of her life on Knife Lake after the Wilderness Act of 1964 required resorts to be taken down, power boats removed, limits on numbers of people who could go in, and even how low planes could fly overhead.

Dorothy was a legend.  She gave me some of her famous root beer, and as we talked, I commented that it was a little more difficult to canoe trip when I was 32 then it had been when I was 18, guiding canoe trips in Algonquin Park, wearing the coveted red neckerchief that only guides wore.

“Yes,” Dorothy replied, completely straight-faced, “I don’t paddle and carry as well as I once did, either.”  Dorothy had forty years on me and she would live for 5 more, her statement a lovely put down to my complaint about age.  I never forgot that.

In the ensuing 31 years and twice as many trips I have taken into the Quetico-Superior, not exactly easy from Arizona, I can count lots of things–wildlife sightings, fish caught, bear charges (1), aurorae seen.  What has fascinated me the most, however, has not been the three seasons in which I have paddled, but the changing seasons of my life with the canoe country.

I first put a canoe on my head 50 years ago, in the spring of my life.  I was an apprentice guide, and I carried wooden Old Towns, slept in canvas tents or under a canoe.  Nobody practiced Leave No Trace camping.  We had can pits, cut live balsam for tent stringers every night, and washed dishes in the lake.  I carried up to 140 pounds, dragged reluctant canoes down rivers, and fought waves so large they hurt, when the bow crashed down on the other side.

In my 30s and 40s, in the summer of my life, I discovered and then explored the Quetico-Superior, covering as much distance as I could.  I had a map on the wall in my office, and after each trip there was new ink on the blue and green splotches.  Miles mattered, new routes mattered, single carrying portages mattered.  I was up early, paddled hard all day, and slept well at night?  Rain?  I got wet.  Headwinds?  I worked.  Portages?  They were a chance for me to show what I had.

When I was 43, I volunteered in Ely for the Forest Service, spending six months away from my medical practice and 100 days in the woods between mid-May and mid-October.  I was a third again older than the guy who visited Dorothy Molter, in far better shape, but I now learned about the trees and the plant life that I had walked by, cut, and burned.  I learned that giving back to the wilderness was more important than having my own personal proving ground.

As I approached 50, I brought my wife along, a previous non-camper, and taught her how to travel.  She in turn taught me how to enjoy the woods–together.  I stopped single carrying portages in 2001, when I was 52.  I had nothing to prove and a lot I could hurt.  I enjoyed walking back in the woods for a second trip.

When I was 56, I soloed into Kawnipi Lake one more time.  Many of us who ply the canoe routes of Hunter’s Island feel Kawnipi is the most beautiful lake on either side of the border.  I may go back again, but it doesn’t matter now whether I do.  I have been there six times, love the place, and am thankful for what I’ve seen there.

“Bowling alley.” Kawnipi Lake.

The northern sweep of Agnes Lake, on the way to Kawnipi.

The year after, my wife and I sponsored a scholarship at Vermilion Community College (VCC).  We have no formal tie to the school, but Ely has given both of us a great deal, and we get great pleasure from helping the next generation of wilderness enthusiasts, many of whom not only live at the edge of wilderness but at the edge of poverty.  These young–and older–men and women are doing great work, and each year at the spring banquet, I meet them and hear their stories.

After 2003, my wife and I started base camping in Lake Insula.  I never thought I would base camp, but I enjoy the day trips where we explore side bays, sometimes finding trails that lead to interesting views.  It is nice not to have to set up camp every night and break it down every morning.  Do I miss the long days and the multi-lake trips?  No, I look back on them with fondness.  My pictures have faded; neither the diaries nor my memories have.

We’re now well into our 60s, the autumn of our lives, and every autumn we come up and base camp somewhere else.  We find a nice place, explore, relax, and forget about the “road, steel and towns” that Sig Olson wrote about.  We are in his “back of beyond.”  We enjoy canoeing and we work well together.  The lakes are old friends; the campsites second or third homes.  Every year we can come up is a gift–one more chance, one more trip, a few carries, the automaticity with which I put a canoe on my head, or deal with a 2 foot chop.  I have watched with great joy my wife become an excellent canoe tripper who also loves the woods, and helps me make a comfortable camp, in all sorts of weather.

Fall colors on Jackfish Bay.

We established a second scholarship at VCC and contribute to a third.  VCC has become family.  I come up for the banquet in April and take a solo trip for a day or two.  I don’t go far, I just want to be out there, alone, thankful for those who saved this wilderness from damming, clear cutting, and roads.  In the autumn of my life, I get to see others in the spring of their lives and canoe in spring, too.

We don’t know how long we will be able to canoe.  The autumn is a brilliant time in Ely, and it is a brilliant time in our lives.  This past trip, I saw Lesser Sandhill Cranes fly high over me on Pipestone Bay.  Next March, I will be in Nebraska, at Rowe Sanctuary, showing people these same birds during their spring stopover along the Platte, one of the two great North American migrations.

We will camp as often as we can in the Boundary Waters.  We know there are no guarantees reagarding ability or longevity.  We hope to canoe into our 70s.  I dream of going out in the winter of my life when I am 80; I took my father into the Quetico when he was 78.  We hope there will be enough of those with sense to guarantee the future of this region to those whose lives are not only drawing to a close, but those whose lives have yet to begin.

Eventually, we will die, like every living organism we have seen in the wilderness.  Our ashes will be spread in the area, finally being part of the wilderness we have travelled, loved and supported.

TRANSIT OF VENUS, 2012

June 6, 2012

I took my telescope, camcorder, and camera to the Pima County Medical Society, where I hosted about 100 people, maybe 30 or 40 at one time.  The first part was hectic, because ingress is what I really wanted to see, and that required getting the video camera set up and running on its own.  I filtered the lens with a solar filter from a pair of eclipse glasses.  That worked reasonably well. Then I had to use a solar filter over my camera and increase the optical to 35x.  I did a little push with the digital, and the camera focused on the Sun, not the Mylar, which happens if the Mylar is not taught.

In the meantime, I wanted to see ingress under high power in the telescope.

While all of this was going on, I was trying to answer questions, deal with people, make sure nobody looked at the Sun unfiltered, and showed them how to look at the Sun with binoculars filtered, since it is a new experience to see nothing through binoculars unless they are pointed at the Sun.

Just inside the Sun!

What was special was that many office workers stopped by, which is exactly what I hoped would happen.  A baby, probably about 9 months old, had his head put to the eyepiece.  I loved that.  His children will never see a transit, and his grandchildren will, only if they live to a very old age!!  This isn’t as spectacular as a total solar eclipse, but the rarity, and the chance to be alive when one of these occurred made it a very special experience.

I have about eight minutes of the ingress video, with comments of all sorts in the background.  I end the video with Venus in mid-transit.  This is also on CNN iReports (the picture, anyway).

BWCA, 2012. TRIP 60. SOLO TRIP 20.

April 29, 2012

I needed to get my head on straight.  Really.  I am one of those who needs to get into the woods, the wilderness, or take a long hike periodically.  How long I can go in between varies.  But I know all the signs.  I get angry easily, I am short-tempered, I get upset at minor issues, and there is a part of me that says “get away from all of this.”

In 2006, we established a scholarship in our name at Vermilion Community College, a 2 year school in Ely, MN, on the Iron Range, at the end of the road to the Boundary Waters.  VCC students live on the edge of the wilderness….and poverty.  I was at the age where leaving a legacy–the woodpile a little fuller than I found it–mattered, and the scholarship was awarded at the annual VCC scholarship banquet, held in Ely.  I have attended 5 of the last 7 banquets.

In 2009, I partnered with the Friends of the Boundary Waters , one of those small organizations that has a few dedicated staff and leverages a lot of volunteers, to create a second scholarship.  I offered to pay for the scholarship myself; the Friends matched it, and this year, with a new employee in the Northland, he would present it, and I no longer would, which suited me fine.  The Friends kept a tall cellphone tower away from Ely, so it would not be visible from the wilderness.  Unless you have spent time in wilderness, it is difficult to explain how sounds and sights from civilization can degrade the experience.  A cell tower would degrade the wilderness, where cell phones read “No Service,” and one is on his own.

Worse, PolyMet is trying to build a Molybdenum mine in the area, which is of great concern to the water supply, due to the toxicity of the element.  It is jobs vs. wilderness, except the wilderness gives jobs.  The outfitter got money from me, and so did restaurants and motels I used, before I went into the woods.  We are going to risk the cleanest water in the US for mining something that is safe until it suddenly isn’t?  (Prince William Sound, 1989, Chernobyl, 1986, Fukishima, 2011, Challenger, 1986).

The third scholarship was the Brekke/Langhorst scholarship, named for two brave young men, cousins from Moose Lake, Minnesota, who died in Iraq…or as a result of Iraq.  One died 7 April 2004, which was almost certainly in Fallujah.  The other died from complications of PTSD, which should have been anticipated before we went to war, which was unnecessary and probably illegal.  But that is another story.  Young men are often the pawns of old white men, most of whom have never spent a day in uniform or served in harm’s way.  As a veteran, I wanted to contribute to a scholarship for veterans, and the family honored me by allowing me to do so.  No family member has presented the scholarship; I and a few others have.  This is a very deep honor for me.

So, I had plenty of reason to go to Minnesota in late April.  In 2010, I took a short trip, stayed about 3 hours from Ely, and in the space of one day drove to Ely, rented a canoe, did an eleven mile day trip in to Pipestone Bay, came out, presented the scholarships (there are about 50, now), and drove 3 hours back to my hotel.  That was a bit much.

In 2011, I wanted to go into Basswood Lake, and the ice went out the day before I arrived.  However, the weather was not at all cooperative, with high winds, big waves, and frigid water.  Not being in paddling shape, I thought in unwise to go into the woods, and camped at Fall Lake Campground, where I was alone, did some day hikes in snow, saw a Pileated Woodpecker, among other birds, and enjoyed myself.

This year, I decided to go in overnight and look at the results of part of the Pagami Creek Fire.  My wife persuaded me to spend two nights, in case of inclement weather, which turned out to be a wise idea.

I flew to Minneapolis, did the usual 4 1/2 hour drive up north, and got settled in Ely for the night.  The next day, I got the rest of the equipment I needed, put it on the car, and drove out to the Lake One landing.

I got on the water on a bright 60 ish day (16 C), and in an hour found a decent campsite about 3 miles  (5 km) in  .  I was going to rest that day, but the forecast was good for that day and not so good for the next day, so I had lunch, hopped in the canoe, and portaged twice into Lake Two.  I expected a wasteland, but it was a mile before I saw any sign of fire.  But there were signs.  The campsites at the west end had some burned areas, and the beautiful white pines on the west end of the channel into Lake Three were no more, as that area had been subject to a back burn.

Channel between Lakes Two and Three, with tall burned white pine.

I paddled into Lake Three and was pleasantly surprised again not to see a wasteland but a significant part of the forest was burned.  There were mosaics of green amid blackened trunks.  The water was more turbid than usual, especially by the campsites, but also along the shore in general.  It will take some time for this to clear.  Some of the islands were scorched, others were completely untouched.  The south end was heavily burned, although campsites survived fairly well, in large part because most of the fuel in this area has been picked over by campers for their evening fires.

The wind was a little worse than I liked, and although a 2 foot chop is not difficult to handle, I needed to realize I had about 5 hours to explore, including time to get back to my campsite.  Wind, muck , and rapids are three things that can stop a solo canoeist, so I turned back to the north end and started to head back, stopping at one campsite that bordered the fire area.  The wind abated, so I took an open channel at the north end of the lake, which I had never before seen open, and went into the northeast bay.  The one campsite the late Mike Manlove and I had stayed at in 1993 was in the middle of a heavily burned area, and the north shore was fairly heavily involved.

Northeast Bay of Lake Three, heavily burned.

I had told everybody I would not go into Lake Four, and I believe firmly in never deviating from one’s itinerary, when one is solo. A lot of bad things can happen in the woods, and solo, what may be minor can become life threatening.  I looked around, took some pictures, and then headed back to the campsite on Lake One, the whole 13 miles (22 km)  or so taking me a little over 4 hours.

I had nothing to do when I returned so lay in the tent, not sleeping, but actually encountering a few mosquitoes, at least five weeks earlier than I am used to.  After dinner, the lowering clouds suggested that the next day might not be so nice, and I was really glad I got into the burn area when I did.

Indeed, I was awakened to the sound of rain, and I awoke under darker skies although no rain.  It was noticeably cooler, too.  I hung around the campsite for a while and then paddled about 1 1/2 miles down to Pagami Creek, far back in the depths was where the fire started.  I took a look at the western sky, and while the barometer had not changed, I did not think going further was a wise idea.  I turned around and paddled back to camp, arriving about 10 minutes before the first onset of rain.  It rained off and on through dinner.

I was really, really glad I hadn’t gone into Lake Three that day–wind, rain and cold weather would have made the trip a bad idea.  I have long learned never to squander good weather in the woods, be it 5 minutes or 5 hours.

I spent the evening looking along the shoreline for anything I could find.  Such scanning has found moose, beaver, otter and other animals.  This time, it was a raven and two crows who provided the entertainment.  The raven flew across the lake and landed in a jack pine across the small channel.  Two crows were beside themselves and called at him, each other, and probably to the general universe.  Periodically, the raven called, too.  I videoed the event, catching the raven flying off, still harassed.  Random scanning is often interesting.

The next morning, the tent was hard, as like a rock, and I went outside to see ice on the tent and snow on the ground!

Spider Web with frost

The stove was out of fuel, and while I had another cannister, it was cold, I was coming out of the woods anyway, and I had enough to eat.  I broke camp, got in the canoe, and paddled back to the landing.  The hardest thing I had to do was horse the canoe up on the car and tie it down.

I got my head back on straight.  I was out 2 days, and it felt like a week.  I saw the burned area, and next year, I have to go back one more time to Lake Insula, as sad as seeing the south shore will be for me.  I haven’t given the lake a proper good by, and who knows?  Maybe we can do our September trips there again, if I find the area isn’t too depressing.  One thing is clear–I need to tie the scholarship banquet in with a camping trip.

The banquet went well.  I met Ian Kimmer, the Friends’ person in the North Country, who presented the Friends scholarship.  I presented my two, stayed for the whole banquet, then headed south.  We’ll be back in September, headed out Fall Lake into Jackfish Bay on Basswood.  It will be a good trip.  All BW trips are.

Burned area.

Canoe with snow on it.

ROWE SANCTUARY, 2012

April 12, 2012

This was my fourth year volunteering at Rowe, and the crane viewing was the best I’ve seen.  I flew into Kearney and was picked up by Margery Nicolson herself, the widow of the man for whom the center is named for, Iain Nicolson.

I hit the ground running.  Three hours after arrival, I was guiding a group to Stevie’s Blind, the first of the 19 consecutive tours I would guide.  We were busy; for the first time, I experienced all 5 blinds being open simultaneously.  I was in Jamalee 7 times, Stevie 5, East 3, Tower 2, and North 2.  All the trips were good for crane viewing.  I got to see cranes in the fog one morning, which was very special, as the birds appeared like ghosts in fog as the light slowly increased.  A few took off, but it was special, and there were remarkably few birds we saw, although we heard thousands more!!

Crane taking off in fog.

As a guide, I speak with my co-guide before we go to the blinds.  In the evening, we have a lot of time, because we usually arrive at the viewing blinds 30-45 minutes before the cranes land.  I try to show my enthusiasm at the beginning, then mention why the cranes come to the Platte every year.  Then, I go through crane viewing etiquette.  We have to be silent, nothing can protrude through the plane of the outside wall, and if anybody needs to use the Portapotty, they have to ask permission, so we can open the blind door quietly.

We return in the evening as a group.  Once people are in the blind, they must stay there unless there is a medical emergency.  Those take priority.  Personal inconvenience does not take priority over crane inconvenience.  Those who are hungry, cold, bored, or otherwise not interested, thankfully a very small number, have to live with being on a tour for two hours.

Photography is a big issue and at times a problem.  All flashes must be turned off and even taped, if there is any question.  The automatic focuser must be taped, so no light can show.  This does not affect the photography.  I ask for automatic rapid fire photography to be shut off, and only manual shutters to be used.  I have had photographers brag about 8 GB of photos taken, and one person told me that he had taken 3000 pictures during one blind session, averaging 40 a minute.  I have to wonder how many of these pictures are ever looked at over and over again, and how many pictures one needs of a Sandhill Crane, if that individual is an amateur.  I find the sunsets striking, and the great flocks of birds flying at sunset are wonderful to see.

On the river and a large group overhead.

The problem with photographers can be severe at times.  In 2011, one man had his camera lens protrude about 15 cm (6 inches) outside the blind window.  I told him 3 times to bring it inside, and he got upset each time.  The third time, he was visibly shaking with anger, and his wife had to calm him down.  I have the right to make him sit down and take no more pictures.  That is a personal inconvenience, not a medical emergency.  If we spook the cranes at night, they may hit nearby power lines and die.  That must never happen on my watch.

I have had people get angry with me for taping their camera, when they think all is fine.  I ask them to point the camera at me and shoot a picture of my ugly face.  If I see any light, I make them tape the camera shut.  I have that duty.  We put post-it notes over the LED screens, to decrease reflection off the face.  The problem we are dealing with more and more is the sound from cameras, which clearly detracts from the experience of hearing the sound, at least until it gets too dark.  There are three, two-person individual photography blinds at Rowe, but they are booked in advance, and the waiting list for cancellations is equally heavily booked.  We don’t have a solution to this problem yet.  Cell phones must be turned off as well.

If we have time in the evening, once we arrive in the blinds, I can talk about crane facts.  In general, however, more and more I allow people just to look and experience the phenomenon for themselves.  The good guides I trained with did that, and I try to emulate them.

Mornings are more difficult, because we need to get to the blinds early, before it gets light.  Therefore, about the only things we can say are welcome, this is a wonderful experience, few know about it, and these are the rules.

Large flock of cranes. The true words for plural are sedge, siege, or herd. But we use flock.

In the blinds, if people have questions, they ask me, and I will spend as much time as I can with them, so long as they are interested.

In the evening, we must leave as a group, because the cranes are on the river.  In the mornings, we leave at 0830, but often, I or my co-guide will stay until 0900, for those who wish to view longer.  After that time, there may only be two or three people, and so long as they are quiet, most of the birds are off the river, and it is not a problem for them to leave alone.

I have other pictures, the best I shot, at the following link.

Cranes over setting Sun.

I love the guiding, for I get to teach and watch cranes, and there isn’t much better in my life in Nebraska than those two things!!

LOONS, WOLVES AND OTHER NATIONS

March 13, 2012

Years ago, loons were killed in Minnesota, because they had the gall to eat fish that fishermen wanted to catch.

Anybody who has traveled the boreal wilderness knows that without the sound of the loon, the scenery would still be there, but the experience would be lost.  I have awakened on hundreds of nights to hear the sound of loons calling.  They have four different calls, and I love each of them.  Those who have not heard a loon in the wild, and that would be most, have missed one of nature’s great sounds.  Gavia immer is a heavy bird, because its bones are solid, not porous, so it can dive and stay underwater for a significant time.  The bird needs a few hundred meters to get airborne, but flies at 60 knots.

The wonderful ability of the loon to do so much is not unique.  To me, animals are other nations, not something we should destroy.  Loons are superbly adapted to the boreal lakes.  What will happen to them as we continue to overpopulate the Earth and damage their habitat, may spell their doom.  It’s just a bird, some say.  Well, there are many Americans who dehumanize humans by calling them Kaffirs, ragheads, and words I will never dare say to myself, they are so ugly.  Femi-Nazis has been used by Rush Limbaugh, along with his other vile comments.  Dehumanizing your enemy is perhaps a great way to win arguments and wars; however, the cost is horrific, not just in war, but how it has polarized American society.  Another way, common in my experience, is to take their words out of context, and deliberately replace them with charged words.  A lawyer did that to me one time in court, and I called him out on it each time. He finally threw a book at me.  In court.  Literally.  But I have others who do the same, former colleagues, some of whom owe me a lot, for what I have done for them, and I call them out on their language, too.  Words are important.

Fortunately, in the case of the loon, a few wildlife biologists did some good science to show that fish eaten by loons really did not adversely affect overall fish population.  Nature regulates populations well, and nature will regulate us, too, should we fail to do so ourselves.  What did affect the fish population were those who caught and didn’t release large fish, the breeders, who kept the population alive.  I know some guides, if they have a client do this, quietly go to another area on a lake to ensure their client catches nothing more the rest of the day.

During the Great Leap Forward, the Chinese killed the sparrows, only to realize later that sparrows kept insects in check.  Before one disparages the Chinese, we kill coyotes, which keep rodents in check.  Most everything belongs, including wolves, since they are, after all part of the ecosystem.  What is remarkable is the number of people, who profess being religious and patriotic Americans, who believe removal of predators a good idea.  In Alaska, people killed the national bird, the Bald Eagle, which is remarkable for a group that prides itself on being “real Americans.”  How many of you have seen a Bald Eagle or a wolf in the wild?  Perhaps it doesn’t matter, any more than reading a great book or listening to great music.  But I am better for having seen eagles, reading books, and hearing music.  Seeing a wolf in the wild, both of us alone, 4 meters away, was one of the best experiences in my life.

We face tough choices.  We have too many invasive species, and we must decide how to handle them.  None of the answers is easy.  We can bring in species to kill species, but new species can become a problem.  We can poison lakes, kill the fish, and then restock, hoping to remove invasive species.  Tucson Arundo removal is trying to remove one invasive plant.  Alone, over 10 months I removed 20,000 buffelgrass plants, another invasive species, in 8 acres, battling snakes, and heaving heavy bags up a berm.  Buffelgrass was imported from the African savannah into Mexico for forage about 80 years ago.  It was a bad idea.

Three months after I finished my work, it was like I had never been there.  Nobody cared.

There are no easy answers.  Sadly, there are plenty of talk show radio hosts and others who act as if there were.  Most of their answers are less government, which frightens me, less taxes, and more freedom.  Having seen how people trash the wilderness, even when they know the rules, I am frightened when I think what would happen without regulation.  Without regulation, we would have lodges all over the Boundary Waters and have dammed Curtain Falls, ruining Crooked Lake.  How many of you have seen Curtain Falls?

We would have logged every bit of forest, and we would have cell towers everywhere in the wilderness.  As I write, PolyMet wants to put a molybdenum mine in the headwaters of much of the country I love.  The company lawyers and managers say it will be safe.  Everything is safe, until suddenly it isn’t.  There won’t be an accident with the pipeline from the Canada tar sands to Texas, either, until there is one, and the Ogallala Aquifer is destroyed.  The Alaska pipeline was safe, until 1989.  Three Mile Island was safe, until 1979.  Unregulated, we would trash the forests, pollute the wilderness lakes, cut down all the trees, mine, and get rid of every government regulation, because people will do the right thing.

Yeah.  Right.  Have somebody tell you what it is like on opening fishing day for salmon in Alaska.

Eventually, of course, like the forests world-wide, the salmon, and the cod, the biomass will disappear.  A few will become very rich, support those who lie their way into public office and keep the cycle going.

Glad I won’t be around when the bill comes due.  Also glad we don’t have children who would ask why I didn’t stop it.  “Because I couldn’t” seems pretty weak.