"YES, BUT CAN WE SAVE FRAN?"
Recently, Fran Mainella, Director of the National Park Service issued a memo outlining a draft plan to comply with President Bush's Competitive Sourcing Initiative (CSI).
The purpose of CSI is (A) to deliver government services more cheaply and efficiently and (B) reduce the number of federal employees.
Exactly how much would the federal work force be reduced?
Well now, that's an interesting question, neighbors.
Grover Norquist, the philosopher of the Greedhead wing of the Republican Party once stated that "We hope to get the federal government small enough so we can strangle it in the bathtub."
Not to worry, friends. Rome wasn't disassembled in a day.
However, Fran, reluctantly or otherwise, has identified 2,223 jobs out of some 14,000 full time positions that could be privatized.
Of the 2,223 positions that are regarded as vulnerable by federal unions (and an opportunity by Greedheads), around 900 would be privatized immediately. Around 800 positions would be put up for competition between private contractors and federal unions as to who could do the job most effectively, the feds or the contractors. (Your editor likes this part as it smacks of a gladiatorial contests--perhaps the contractors could sell tickets!) The remaining 515 jobs would be left in a sort of bureaucratic limbo, their fate to be decided.
Director Mainela admits that this reduction in force could have "serious consequences" for visitor services.
The reason that visitor services will have to be curtailed is not so much that the visiting public has an overwhelming desire to talk to an NPS accountant or NPS sewerage plant operator, but rather that the NPS must raise some 3 million dollars to pay outside consultants to referee which jobs should be privatized! (The Chinese Communist government uses the same logic in charging the next of kin for the bullets used in executing their relatives!).
The most ready source of a quick 3 million is to lapse seasonal positions, mainly interpretive, but some law enforcement and maintenance. This will quite definitely result in "serious consequences" when the taxpayers show up at the gates to take a look at their parks under the Bush stewardship.
Is it a good idea to lapse interpretive positions? Well now, if you regard parks as a "frill" in a capitalistic economy, then logic follows that an interpretive ranger, gunless chap that he/she is, is basically a "frill upon a frill" and thus disposable.
But not so fast! Jim Brady, former Chief Ranger of Glacier Bay NP and 'Greenblood" par excellance, once remarked to me that "Interpretation is the most important thing we do!" He is correct. The canny Mr. Brady realized that most people do not come to parks to be searched and rescued or arrested. Indeed,most taxpayers do not require the services of the protective arm of the NPS. However, most of the taxpayers gladly partake of the wisdom of those who orient them toward the fun and interesting things to do in the park. They fondly remember that interesting combination of public relations and education that the NPS has traditionally been very good at. They often share such fond memories with their elected representatives. These warm sentiments can result in a bigger budget for the NPS (or at least a stalemate in the constant war with budget eroders)
On the other hand, lack of money for "interpretation" and maintenance (nothing like a dirty restroom to frost the American public) can lead to feelings of "Why are we here?" and Why is the government supporting this boondoggle?" on the part of the taxpayer. Why not privatization, as the Cato Institute suggests. (We hear the spirit of Grover Norquest saying "You're beginning to catch on, kid!")
Now then, if Director Mainella really believes that the Competitive Sourcing Initiative (CSI) will result in "Serious Consequences" to the American people, she could complain to her boss, Secretary Norton. After touching that useless base, Fran could then phone up Barbara Walters and ask Barbara if she would be interested in hosting a prime time television resignation of the first female director of the National Park Service with attendant interview.
Is this likely to happen? No, you are confusing a political appointee with the captain of the Titanic. Fran is not going to go down with the ship. Not only will she be first into the lifeboat, she will actively bang on your fingers with an oar if you try to climb into the lifeboat.
All this makes Fran sound like a very bad person. She is not. She is simply a political appointee obeying orders. The orders being to reduce the crew, one of whom may be you. Sorry. Nothing personal. Just business.
Is counteractivity indicated? Well yes, if you would like to save your job and/or the Park Service.
If you are in an interpretive or maintenance position that is vulnerable, you might resurrect a long suppressed interest in law enforcement and go about getting a commission.
The American Philosopher, Richard Pryor, once observed. "In America, you can get anything you want, anytime you want, as long as you have money or a gun." Pryor has a point. The commissioned right to carry a firearm apparently guarantees your right to tenured employment with the federal government. The Administration has repeatedly said that Park Police and commissioned rangers would not be affected by CSI.
So as job insurance, it might be a good idea to look into getting a law enforcement commission
If law enforcement is not your can of beans (or even if it is) there is another alternative. This is, to coin a phrase, regime change.
As a fellow Republican and a fellow dyslexic, this pains me, but George W. Bush must be put out to pasture.
It is not just that his mental processes are slower than moss growing on the south side of stump (and about as interesting), it is that the conclusions he arrives at are detrimental to both the economy and the environment.
Even Senator Grassley, the Ranger's Friend, and conservative Republican from Iowa, is beginning to have some reservations. Senator Grassley is a 4th generation working corn and soybean farmer. (The Senator thing is just a hobby to pass the time during the off season of the Iowa winter) Anyways, the Honorable Chuck has some reservations about the $500 billion tax cut.
To farmer Grassley, the idea of a massive tax cut during times of war induced deficit spending is sort of like inducing a drought and then going out and buying a lot of high ticket farm machinery on credit--It just doesn't make much sense to an Iowa farm boy.
Liberal environmentalists are predictably upset about the Bush attitude toward Nature, but so are the Green Elephants, (Republicans for Environmental Protection or REP), a growing group of Republicans who realize that they have to live in the environment as well as make money in it.
So what to do? The most obvious solution is not to permit a Bush candidacy, that is to head George off at the primary pass by asking someone else to run for President on the Republican ticket.
THUNDERBEAR'S choice would be the witty, brave and brilliant Senator from Arizona, John Mc Cain in the Presidential slot, with former New Mexico governor Gary Johnson riding shotgun.
Along with his other myriad practical ideas, McCain would like some sort of guest worker program that would allow our fellow North Americans to enter this country in safety and dignity to work for a spell and return home. This would benefit both countries and peoples and preserve the border national parks from the wear and tear of illegal entry.
Gary Johnson is on record as favoring the end of America's losing multi billion dollar "War on Drugs" by treating drug addiction as a medical not a criminal problem. Domestic US production of opiates, marijuana, and cocaine would not only eliminate the vast criminal syndicates that corrupt the governments (and environments) of third world nations, it would eliminate the increasing problem of the growing and transport of marijuana in the national parks as well as attendant dangers to the rangers, public and the environment.
We will shortly approach Senator McCain as to his intentions for 2004 and will report back to you with hopefully good news.
Gary Johnson will be a bit more difficult to approach as he is currently climbing Mount Everest but as soon as he returns, we'll have our New Mexico rep query him concerning 2004. We will let you know how things work out on THUNDERBEAR'S talent search for a new Republican nominee for the presidency. Our only questions to our readers is "Do you want to save Fran?"
THE SIGNATURE EXPERIENCE AND THE AMATEUR CANADIANS
Every country has at least one of them, depending on the size of the country and the sophistication of its tourist industry.
I am referring to the Signature Experience.
It can be a hike or a boat ride or a view that is the National Signature, without which your visit to the nation will be incomplete and you will have to go back to square one and start over.
With Australia, it is Uluru, (Formerly Ayers Rock, now politically incorrect) With New Zealand, it is the Milford Trek, With the U.S., it is Grand Canyon, with China, it is the Great Wall.
In the case of Viet Nam, one of the Signature Experiences is the Perfumed Pagoda Trip.
Geographically, Viet Nam is a land of quiet beauty; no one thing to knock your weejuns off. No snow capped mountains, no world class white water, no towering waterfalls, or particularly big trees, or thundering herds of quadruped.
Viet Nam makes do very well with what it has; mists wraithing through the valleys, 500 shades of green, the incredible shapes of the hills, and of course, the Vietnamese people.
The Perfumed Pagoda is ostensibly the goal. It is a Bbuddhist shrine of no great artistic charm located in a huge limestone overhang, complete with stalactites "improved" upon with coats of varying color paint by the devout.
This is a working shrine with thousands of pilgrims seeking merit visiting every day during the March-April Spring Festival, an event you should arrange to miss unless you are a Mount Rushmore Park Ranger and miss the press of crowds.
Actually, it is the journey rather than the goal that makes the Perfume Pagoda trip worth while. You go to one of the backpacker cafes in the Old Town section of Hanoi and talk to the Australian, Kiwi, or Brit middleman who will set you up with a package which usually consists of a couple hour bus trip from Hanoi to the little village of Ben Duc.
The bus ride gives you an introduction to the rice culture of the flat as a frisbee Red River delta, the grocery basket of northern Viet Nam. Arrival at Ben Duc gives you an introduction to capitalist fervor reminiscent of West Yellowstone or Gatlinburg as the locals try to sell you an experience or an object.
What you do need, even in December Vietnam, is a sun hat. They have them for sale of course, so buy one, a wise investment. They are those conical peasant hats made of woven split bamboo that you remember from either your military tour of duty or from any movie on China. They are the signature rural hat of Southeast Asia.
Although the hat sort of pegs you as a rustic, they are incredibly light, comfortable, cheap ($1.50) and practical, something that the Park Service "Smokey Bear" hat never was. I must convince Fran Mainela to replace the "Smokey Bear" Stetson with the conical bamboo coolie hat; it could be her most memorable contribution to the Service.
There was a discussion in market English between Joan and the hat vendor when Joan chose a man's hat over the more feminine (but less broad brimmed) lady peasant's hat
"Dot Mons! the lady haberdasher said disapprovingly.
"I KNOW it's a man's 'cause its BETTER! That's why I'm getting it!" said Joan defiantly.
Joan feels that entire woman's clothing industry, First World or Third, is a plot against women from hats to shoes. We had been over this ground before as it is a pet peeve.
"First of all," Joan explained, " Women's clothing costs about twice as much as men's clothing for similar material; secondly, it's shoddily made compared to men's clothing; men's clothing does not wear out, it only gets replaced when the wife gets tired of looking at the same suit for ten years. Men are allowed to have real, useful, put-things-in pockets. Women's pockets are shallow and decorative.
Then (final insult!) in a store, womens' clothing is arranged by brand name rather than by size, forcing the female shopper to fight her way through everyones' brand whereas the no nonsense male shopper goes directly to his proper size. Men wont put up with this crap", argues Joan.
Now, the nice Vietnamese lady did not understand the subtleties of American feminism but as a good capitalist she was beginning to sense that she might lose a sale, so she shrugged, backed off on the "Dot mons" argument, accepted the money, and Joan got her broad brimmed hat.
Next, we went down to the banks of the Swallow River where most of the women of Ben Luc stood in their boats waiting for passengers,
Despite the heat, they were swaddled from head to toe and masked as effectively as the James-Younger gang. (A deep outdoor tan is not a mark of beauty in Southeast Asia,even, apparently, under the communists, where one would think a peasant's tan would indicate one¨s solidarity with the working class. We Americans spend millions and risk skin cancer to achieve the kind of tan these women seek to avoid: Interesting commentary on human nature that Marx and Lenin never could seem to understand.
The boats were of the traditional design for northern river boats: Broad beamed high prowed and rowed standing from the stern. Although the design was a thousand years or more in the making, the boat building material was steel not wood. (These are practical ladies and a boat pulled out for recauking or other repairs was a boat not making money--tradition be dammed!
Our fellow passengers were two bouncey, gregarious Canadian women in their late 20's. They were from Saskatchewan, a province even more desperate and forbidding than Eastern Montana, upon which it squats. (Montana's celebrated herd of writers tend to clump in Western Montana around the college towns, not caring to face the surreal Highline country of Eastern Montana for any length of time: There are two exceptions, Sandra Day who wrote "The Lazy B" the story of a hard, punishing upbringing on a ranch in Eastern Montana and Judy Blunt, who wrote "Breaking Clean", the story of an even more narrow life as a rancher's daughter and, abused wife of a rancher. Sandra Day later married a chap named O'Connor and got herself a job on the U.S Supreme Court, which requires no heavy lifting and going out in sub zero blizzards to rescue ungrateful livestock).
The two Canadians were not high plains cowgirls, but professional women out to see the world before settling down. Cheryl was a nurse and Susan was a computer maven. They were cousins and had known each other forever and had promised each other over and over that someday they would do a trip around the world and now they were doing it.
"We're sort of like 'Thelma and Louise' only without the guns", laughed Susan.
The trip was sort of a Voyage of Personal Discovery for Cheryl who was using the trip to decide whether her boyfriend should be promoted to fiance.
"He's desperate to marry her"! interjected Susan.
And Cheryl?
"That's what i"m deciding¨ said Cheryl Ï'm 27. I know women are having babies into their 40"s, but the older you get, the more risk of complications, and as a nurse I see the results.¨
(Ah! The bird in hand syndrome! And what of the prospective fiance?)
"He's good looking, steady, loyal, dependable, kind, hard working, and faithful" responded Cheryl, ticking off his virtues as sort of a marital Boy Scout's Creed‹or a particularly devoted St. Bernard.
"He's all that and more!" Susan said, intimating she would not mind him as a cousin-in-law.
(However, I could see a "BUT" as big as Devil's Tower looming on the horizon.)
"But?"inquired Joan, reading my mind.
"Well, he is a bit dull" Cheryl said reluctantly, as if letting down the home team.
It seems that he had never been out of Canada and never been to a big city and didn't particularly desire the experience. Despite these limitations, making considerable amounts of money in the oil and gas industry had never been a problem for him.
Cheryl, on the other hand, was one of Life's rangers, She had gotten into the nursing profession for the usual goody two shoes, Mother Theresa reasons, but the main reason that it afforded her a chance to see those far away places with the strange sounding names.
Nursing is one of the few professions where you can throw a dart at a wall map and get a job at the nearest land that the dart hits. Within reason, you can also state your salary. So Cheryl had ranged about the English speaking world and some of the non-English speaking world as English is getting to be the universal language of medicine.
All the time she had kept in touch with the prospective fiance through the modern miracle of e-mail
"Some of his e-mail is pathetic!" sniffed Susan "All clingy and lonesome!"
"Didn't score many points with those! " admitted Cheryl.
On the other hand, through all her associations with doctors and other medical personnel on four continents, Cheryl had never met anyone quite like dear old dishwater-dull David.
Cheryl found this perplexing and cousin Susan found it amusing.
"Maybe you're just destined to work your way through a forest of guys to find Dave at the end!" teased Susan.
"Maybe so!"agreed Cheryl.(but not without a fight. It is the normal way of women to wish modify their men,) usually in the direction of tameness and domesticity. Except in her case, she planned to make him wilder, more adventurous, more spontaneous.
Before departing on her round the world trip, Cheryl laid down an interesting challenge to David. When she returned from her trek, she would take David to California and introduce him to San Francisco for his first big city experience. Cheryl had nursed there and knew the city like a native. They would spend a week in the Bay Area, staying with friends, and then go on to Sequoia National Park where Cheryl had arranged a week's back pack trip.
If David passed both the urban and wilderness tests, then he would be promoted to full fledged fiance with a marriage date set.
I admired Cheryl's thorough practicality, though I am not sure if that is what John Muir had in mind when he said "Climb the Mountains and get their glad tidings!"
Although I'm sure it's not original, my father once advised me that before going into any sort of partnership or business deal, one should take the prospective partner on a camping or fishing trip. "Things tend to go wrong", he said, "you will see how they react. The sun doesn't always shine, sometimes it rains, you will see how they handle it."
I was about to compliment Cheryl on her wisdom, when Susan cried out "Look!"and pointed like Ahab at the horizon.
Looming out of the mists were mountains like none in North America. They were like a child's drawing of mountains, steep sided, serrated like teeth in a saw. Like the Tetons, they rose out of the plain without foothills; unlike the Tetons, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, all conical, all about the same height.
These fairy tale mountains were the products of a limestone moist karst plateau, extending from southern China into Viet Nam. These are the type of mountains that you see in ancient Chinese silk paintings of Buddhist or Taoist pilgrims, staff in hand climbing an improbable trail up an improbable overhanging mountain covered with bonsai like pine trees toward an improbable shrine or monastery cantilevered out over a misty gorge. The interesting thing is that the improbable is reality in this kind of geography.
The most famous of these karst formations is the Li river valley in Southeastern China, not too far from Hong Kong. The Li River float trip is one of China¹s premier tourist attractions, ranking right up there with the Great Wall. The Viet Nam Karst mountains are not so well known, except for the limestone mountains that march right out to sea in Halong Bay, to form impossibly picturesque islands.
Our flotilla of female propelled boats shot rapidly up the Swallow River toward the base of the mountains and the start of the walk. But not swiftly enough for a 6 foot four fellow American in an adjoining boat. He boasted to the party in his boat (which included a pretty young woman) that he bet he could out row all the other boats and beat us to the landing. On the face of it, this was not a bad bet as the Viet women rowers seemed to average about 5 feet and around a hundred pounds. The Viet boat woman let him try.
The results were a sort of metaphor for American involvement in Viet Nam. Things are not as easy as they look. The American powered boat shot ahead--into a sandbar. Much backing and hauling and recriminations. The American continued caroming over the opposing river banks and splashing the passengers. His boat was now dead last in convey when the boat woman took over the oars again and the chagrined Yank sat down.
We shortly reached the landing. If Ben Luc had been a miniature West Yellowstone, then the boat landing was a miniature Gatlinburg with all manner of food, drink and souvenirs for the pilgrim.
We were given three hours to make our pilgrimage and be back at the boats. The party, mostly young, charged up the slippery cobblestone trail. We brought up the rear, increasingly, as Joan had a bad knee.
The Canadians remained with us, perhaps to demonstrate North American solidarity. Both women wore small Canadian flags on their shirts and had the emblem of Canada sewn to their day packs.
I complimented the young women on their patriotism and love of country.
Cheryl blushed under her tan and Susan giggled.
"Well, actually, Cheryl explained tentatively, "it's not that we're so up on Canada, it just that, umŠ..
"She means that we don't want to be mistaken for you in case there is a problem" laughed Susan.
I understood completely. The girls preferred not to be murdered by fanatics who mistook them for Americans . A completely understandable preference.
We Americans and Canadians look so much alike and talk so much alike (except for the French Canadians) that one could be inconveniently murdered in a case of mistaken identity. As it is unlikely that a Canadian will encounter a fanatical Quebec separatist in Asia or Africa, it is only prudent that they wear the national emblem for safety.
Being number one in the world does bring out the anti-yank animosity in quite a number of people, some of whom are willing to take direct action if they can catch the occasional gringo. Canadians, on the other hand, are regarded as one of the world's most harmless people by just about everyone, even terrorists.
I laughed and told the young women that in several tense situations in Africa, I had considered becoming an amateur Canadian and had been quite touched when several Canadians in our party volunteered to back up my story of Canadianess. Fortunately, I was not called upon to test my acting ability or knowledge of Canadian history, geography and politics.
It is indeed a moment of truth when the lads with the black ski masks and the AK 47's stop the train or bus you are on, and say in broken English. "Americans step to the left, all others step to the right!" One could be excused for experiencing a strong yearning to become a Canadian.
We all know what John Wayne or Bruce Wills would say or do in this situation.
Unfortunately, all the good lines like "Give me liberty or give me death!" and "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country" have already been used. (Plus the fact that the lads in the black ski masks have the will and the means to make these statements come true with depressing speed.)
Pessimists once said "Better Red than Dead" during the dark days of the Cold War. Nowadays, faced with terrorists, American pessimists might be saying "Better Canuck than out of luck".
So I asked Susan if, in a pinch, an American could pass as a Canadian.
"Well" she said doubtfully "I don't know" For one thing, we say "oot" for "out" and "aboot" for "about"
"And" chimed in Joan, "You often put an "A" with a question mark at the end of a sentence.
"That we do, A?"laughed Cheryl.
I had the confident feeling that if I remembered these things, I would soon be speaking Canadian like a diplomat.
"Remember, the terrorists will ask you where you're from in Canada. You'll have to have a home town" reminded Susan
"You can borrow ours! said Cheryl "We'll clue you in on Moose Jaw".
I could not believe that a town of that name existed outside of a TV sitcom, but Moose Jaw is as real as Washington DC (Some would say realer)
"The terrorists might ask you to sing the Canadian national anthem. Can you do that?" asked Susan mischievously.
I allowed as how I couldn't.
The young women came to mock attention and provided the opening verses of "O Canada!".
I admitted that we had a lot to learn to pass as Canadians.
"Fortunately, Canadian sports are not too much of a problem" remarked Susan "Pretty much like yours. It's not like you have to know rugby or cricket or Aussie rules football, which could trip you up, you just have to remember a few players on the Toronto Bluejays, and, of course, who won the Stanley Cup. Nobody, not even a terrorist, will ask you about curling."
"On the other hand, what if the terrorists ask to see your passports?" practical Joan interjected.
I had to admit this would be a move that would be hard to counter. One could tell Abdul or Mohammed that you had left the passports at the hotel, but I'm afraid that would be as convincing as telling teacher that the dog ate your homework.
I imagine that you would have to go the SOLDIER OF FORTUNE route. In the want ads in the back of this magazine that is designed to appeal to military Walter Mitty characters, there are ads for "imitation" passports, complete with visa stamps, correct color of cover and space for you to insert your photograph and pertinent data. They are sold only to "collectors" or for use as theater props and never, never should be used for border crossings. I trust one could pick up a reasonable facsimile of Canadian passport that, while it would not get you past Canadian immigration at Toronto, it just might get you past a 19 year old Jihadist in poor light.
Joan took this in with considerable interest. She had escaped assassination in Cairo by about 12 minutes, three fellow guests of Egyptian government were not so lucky.
"Is this legal?" Joan inquired.
"Well, I suspect that terrorists would consider it dirty pool and unethical behavior on our part, but it beats being dead.! I remarked.
"Then better order a couple!" said Joan pragmatically.
The girls concurred in our plans for dual citizenship, John Wayne be damned.
The trail to the sacred pagoda wound up and over the mountains into a valley and repeated that theme more times than we cared to enjoy.
"Is there anyway we can cheat?" asked Susan, the least fit of the two young women.
"Well yes," said Joan, who had been holding out on us. "One of the guides told me that if you take the first trail to the right it will lead you to a cave that has its own image of the Buddha and its very own hermit monk, who for a small donation will pray with you, give you a cup of tea and see that you get the same amount of merit as if you walked all the way to the Perfumed Pagoda; All the merit at half the effort." "Can't beat that! Let's do it! said Susan
So that's exactly what we did.
THE PROBLEM WITH NATIONAL PARKS
The Spring, 2003 issue of PEER REVIEW, a publication of Public Employees for Environmental Responsibility (PEER), that year round gadfly of politicians and public land managers, printed an interesting article on farming in Cuyahoga Valley National Park
Farming in a national park?
Well, yes. The NPS has quite a few "farmer Jims" and "Rancher Bobs" in its list of permanent residents.
Usually, it was a case of eight-tenths of a loaf being much better than none. America, particularly rural America, has a knee jerk reaction on property rights and you better have a willing seller, so some farms and ranches were "grandfathered" into the park with the stipulation that the land would remain in farming, and, when the owner and spouse were finally called home to Jesus, the land would revert to the NPS, presumably to revert to whatever ecology God had selected for that region. This is what happened to the Gray ranch in Organ Pipe National Monument and what is unlikely to happen anytime soon to the holdings of a former Wyoming senator in Grand Teton National Park. Point Reyes National Seashore, also has considerable farming and ranching inholdings.
Cuyahoga Valley National Recreation Area was established with the goal of providing the citizens of Cleveland, Ohio with public lands to enjoy nature and recreate. This being the East, the land was privately owned farmland or third growth woodlots. Nice, but nothing special from a world heritage standpoint.
Cuyahoga Valley NRA proved immediately to be one of the most controversial parks in the system, mainly due to land acquisition problems, sparking a Television special by TV reporter Jessica Savitch (whose names some NPS types slurred to "Savage", as the series was not particularly favorable to the NPS.)
Although the citizens of Cleveland enormously enjoyed their recreation area, many of the inholders remained virulently opposed. The witty and very cleverly done anti-NPS television commercial "BIG PARK" was inspired (and funded) by some of the dissidents.
Then, according to PEER, along came superintendent John Debo with a plan to lease 7% of the park to private, for profit farmers to create something called "The Countryside Initiative". As this will require chopping down some of the recovering forest to establish the farms, this would seem to be controversial Now when your esteemed editor, The Christian Bureaucrat, read of these plans, I immediately called up retired Congressman John Seiberling, the Father of Cuyahoga National Recreation Area (Like you and I, all parks have mommies and daddies, sometimes more than one.) I asked if the farming project was happening.
Congressman Seiberling replied as if I had inquired about the probability of the next sunrise. To let the Congressman off the hook, I suggested that the farms would be historic demonstration farms, illustrating the evolution of Ohio agriculture from ox or horse drawn equipment to steam thrashers, to primitive turn of the century gasoline tractors and so on.
"You can't make any money on that sort of thing!" growled the Congressman.
"Then it will be modern farming?" I asked
"Of course!" said Congressman Seiberling
"In a national park?" I asked, somewhat incredulously.
"Read the legislation!" said the Congressman somewhat irritably. "Of course, you have to have farming! If you don't have farming, all the trees will grow back and you'll have nothing but a huge, unbroken forest!"
Oh. I hadn't thought of that!
"Read the legislation"! he remonstrated, rather grimly and we parted company.
The problem is: What exactly is the legislation? When Seiberling had created Cuyahoga, it had been as a national recreation area, with the usual casual attitude to the environment. Recently, however, it had ascended into national park status, presumably higher and more pure, a place of rare scenic and natural interest where even God takes off His shoes before entering and angels are instructed not to drop any feathers from their wings as they fly over.
National Parks were supposed to be something special. Sometimes, in order to get a rare jewel, you had to put up with an agricultural inholding for a time, but you eventually hoped to eliminate it.
But going out to create a farm in a national park, that must be something new. I suspect that like most superintendents, that Mr. Debo is a very clever fellow, and that he has talked to a number of people, including Congressman Seiberling, and they have given their assurances that the park legislation has a big enough loophole that you can drive a John Deere tractor through it, but that doesn't make it right.
Perhaps former NPS Director James Ridenhour was correct. In his book THE NATIONAL PARKS COMPROMISED: PORK BARREL POLITICS AND AMERICA'S TREASURES, Ridenour suggested that we are "Thinning the blood and blurring the lines" in our administration of the national patrimony. Perhaps we need to spell out in marble or bronze letters exactly what a national park is and what can and cannot be done in said national park.
Perhaps we should think about it.
EDEN AGAIN
Television viewers who watch the current Gulf War cannot help but get a geography lesson.
When you look past the tanks and the earnest young Marines toward the horizon, you will notice that you are looking at the flattest, driest, most barren pile of kitty litter in God's creation.
This is true desert: Not like the complex, picturesque Sonoran or Chihuahuan Deserts with all those neat plants and animals. The Iraqi desert is mean desert. This is the kind of desert that is coming to get you, like the Sahara. This is the kind of desert that people speak of when they're talking about desertification. This is not the kind of desert people are trying to preserve in national parks.
If you were to plunk that old desert rat, Ed Abbey down in the middle of this blank page of geography, chances are that even with enough food and water, within a week he would be begging to be taken to Hoboken, New Jersey at the earliest possible convenience.
Strangely enough, God used to live there. He doesn't anymore. The Garden of Eden used to be there. Abraham, the father of both the Jews and the Arabs (A little hanky panky with a servant girl accomplished the latter) was born and raised here. More recently, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon was a great tourist attraction. Still more recently, the city of Baghdad awed the hicks from the mud and wattle huts of Paris and London in the 12 th century.
So what happened? True, the Mongols didn't help. (They sort of defined the concept of unpleasant guests in the 13th century). However even before the Mongols, overgrazing and deforestation began its insidious toll. It has been said that plow agriculture with its emphasis on annual grasses like wheat is not a long range good idea. Iraq is where this kind of agriculture was invented. Well before the dawn of the 20th century, the three Ottoman empire provinces that were to become Iraq already had that desiccated kitty litter look we've come to know and love through the miracle of television.
No matter how bleak an environmental situation is, there is always someone who, with a little imagination and creativity, cannot make it infinitely worse.
About the only bright spot in Iraqi ecology were the great marshes of the Tigris-Euphrates delta. Like most wetlands, they were immensely productive, supporting a wildlife and fishery rivaling that of the Florida Everglades. It was big: about 20,000 square kilometers, an incredible liquid and plant world in a sandbox. The marsh was part time home to much of Eurasia's migratory bird species as well as non migratory bird life. Some of the wildlife was endemic such as Maxwell's Otter (Many readers, including your editor, remember reading Gavin Maxwell's delightful books about his adventures with otters as described in "Ring of Bright Water" and "A Reed Shaken by the Wind", Maxwell's story of his life among the Marsh Arabs and the discovery of the otter that bears his name.
The Iraqi marshes were one of those relatively rare places in the world where large numbers of God's wild creatures and humans lived together cheek by jowl in something approaching harmony. Some 200,000 Medan or Marsh Arabs called the marsh home. They hunted, raised water buffalo for milk and meat, grew vegetables on tiny islands and fished the productive waters, supplying Iraq with most of its fish protein. They lived a sort of EARTH FIRST! lifestyle that would have charmed Henry David Thoreau, weaving their strangely beautiful houses out of the 20 foot reeds, which also provided material for boats and baskets.
The Serpent in this Garden of Eden was Saddam Hussein, inadvertently egged on by "Eve" in the form of Bush The Elder, whose administration sort of suggested that it would be a good time for the Marsh Arabs to rebel against Hussein right after the First Gulf War. The Marsh Arabs followed Bush's advice, which would have been a wise move if the Bush administration had followed through with massive support.
There is a romantic fallacy that guerrillas can overcome a regular army. This is true only if the guerrillas have support and bases outside the country, as was the case in Viet Nam. Bush the Elder and his advisors should have known better.
Mao Tse Dong remarked that "The people are the water in which the guerrillas swim". He was speaking rhetorically, regarding the "water" as an eternal constant.
Saddam Hussein, however, was speaking literally when he ordered the marshes drained, as the water was the source of life for the reeds and other vegetation that supported (and hid) the Marsh Arab guerrillas. He than napalmed the dried out marsh into the salt encrusted wasteland that it is today with the acrid dust blowing in the faces of the Marines. (Readers of Edward Abbey will note an eerie parallel to Abbey's thesis that authoritarian governments always feel a need to "raze a wilderness" lest it become a sanctuary for dissidents)
The United Nations called the destruction of the marshes "One of the greatest environmental disasters of the 20th century. (The Bush and Clinton administrations said "Gee!" and "Shucks!" collectively, and nothing was done.)
According to the UN, the criminal draining of the marshes led to:
This was picked up by Tony Blair, (who plays Tonto to Bush's "Lone Ranger", and who, like the original Tonto, is a lot smarter than our Lone Ranger) Early on, Mr. Blair stopped prattling about non existent "Weapons of Mass Destruction" and started talking about mass murder (which I believe is illegal) and planned environmental destruction (which should also be illegal).
Even if Saddam had "weapons of mass destruction". So what! Everyone else does: the U.S. the U.K. China, North Korea, Pakistan, India, Israel, and probably that weird high school kid that lives down the street. The fact was that Saddam was a psychotic anti-life despot and we had the opportunity to take him out and, praise the lord, we did so. Thank God and hurrah for our side!
Bush, embarrassingly continues the essentially selfish argument about the absent "weapons of mass destruction" whereas Mr. Blair points out, correctly, that we are the good guys who rode in and saved the town from the bad guys, and will shortly ride out.
This seems to indicate that (A) Bush does not listen to his advisors or (B) His advisors are dumb as he is.
It also seems to indicate that you should send your children to Cambridge (Mr. Blair's alma mater) rather than Yale (producer of the two Bushes)
There are a few loose ends to tie up before the Good Guys ride out of town and that of course is the EDEN AGAIN project; the restoration of the marshes.
This is not some pie in the sky THUNDERBEAR project. It is being pushed by the Iraq Foundation with funding from the US State Department.
Like the restoration of the Everglades, this project is going to cost billions. Like the Everglades, it is not a simple matter of closing some floodgates or filling in some canals. Unlike the Everglades, which are primarily intact, the marsh is down to less than 40,000 acres. Almost as difficult as the biological restoration will be the cultural restoration of the unique way of life of the Marsh Arab. All in all, the restoration will be an exhilarating example of William James' "Moral Equivalent of War".
We and the world should have a good time doing it!
Should you wish more information, you can check out
http://www.grid.unep.ch/activities/sustainable/tigris/marshlands/
Should you wish to offer your wetlands expertise, you can contact the EDEN AGAIN project director, Dr. Suzie Alwash at (714) 606-2955 or e-mail her at salwash@elcamino.edu
Enjoy!
Joan doesn't believe it ever will, so she keeps after me to throw things away as she is a Tidy and I am a Sloppy. "If you don't use it, you don't need it" is the Tidy motto. (Tidys always believe that Sloppys are plotting against them, or against the Sacred God of Neatness) This is not true. Sloppys have no prejudice against neatness, it's just that we have more important things to do.
Like accumulating things in boxes.
Sorting through the stuff in the boxes is a losing proposition as the reason I kept them in the first place is that they piqued my curiosity. So, asking me to sort through a box of old books or magazines is sort of like asking an alcoholic to sort through a liquor store and pour out the unnecessary stuff. You will shortly find him "engrossed".
Sometimes a box will contain a stray THUNDERBEAR of long ago. I must admit that I usually do not remember the contents of a particular issue unless I scan it through. Much of it, like your home town newspaper is only of local or topical interest, but sometimes in rereading old issues of THUNDERBEAR, I will come upon an article that causes me to remark "Say, that's really not bad!" (Granted,that as the editors of the NEW YORKER or ATLANTIC did not nod in agreement with me, but someone had to say it)
Some articles remain timely enough that they should be resurrected from pulp and reprinted in cyberspace to go flitting through the universe to be snagged by various search engines. You may have some "Golden Oldie" favorites of THUNDERBEAR. If that is the case, tell me the title of the article and number of the issue and, if others agree (mainly myself) we'll reprint it in cyberspace.
What of my favorites? Well now, here is one from issue #170 that illustrates a favorite NPS topic, the Treachery and Perfidity of Management. It was called:
Strangely enough, the attacker was not one of the oil companies (who are generally contrite and remorseful as befits recovering sinners) rather the attack came from a member of a fellow federal land management agency. The attacker (who was speaking as a private citizen and not a rep of his agency) wondered why were picking on defenseless oil companies, extracting huge damages which would sure drive the cost of gas up at the pump, all for the loss of a 'few birds 'n fish" in order to provide publicity for "environmental extremists who wished to destroy the American Way of Life".
Now , Mike allowed as how the fellow had a right to his opinion under the First Amendment, but he sort of wondered if the lad had not made the wrong choice of professions, that perhaps he would be happier working in closer proximity to say, Rush Limbaugh.
I assured Mike, that from the fellow's point of view, he had made exactly the right career choice, he was a lizard foot.
"A lizard foot!" exclaimed Mike, "What's a lizard foot?"
"A lizard foot" I said instructively "is a person who works for a government environmental or land management agency but who has strong pro-development and exploitation views. The Federal Land Management agencies are full of lizard feet". I concluded pleasantly.
"But where did the term 'lizard foot' come from?" Mike inquired.
Actually, it's a THUNDERBEAR coined word derived from watching campy 1950's science fiction movies."
"Old Sci-Fi movies?" said Mike, dubiously.
"Yeah, there were hundreds of them made, all cheap, all with the same basic plot, they were hilarious! The plot gimmick was always some sort of lizard feet.
"Lizard feet"? Mike questioned.
"Yeah" I said nostalgically, "The movies always opened with this middle class American family on vacation in the Mohave Desert (it was always the Mohave Desert because El Cheapo Films could use BLM land and not have to pay for a permit.) The family was always tooling down a back country dirt road in the 1955 Buick (The one with the portholes in the fenders) The family consists of George, his wife Martha, their two cute kids, Dick & Jane, and the family dog, Spot. You know nothing serious is going to happen to Spot as he is always one of the cute, perky toy breeds like a Yorky and besides, he the smartest member of the family.
There is always a road block. George always asks what the problem is . The Sheriff's deputy (or National Guardsman) always tells George he can't go no further "cause a flying saucer has landed on the road. (Now that would have been enough information for me, neighbors, but not George!) George has got to see the flying saucer and has some boho identification that lets him through the road block.
The flying saucer is sitting in a crater, still smoking and steaming . There is an ominous looking trap door visible. The Sheriff (or the national Guard) has the saucer surrounded.
Moving the plot along, the Sheriff (or the colonel) always says
"cover me, boys", and climbs up on the flying saucer and bangs on the trap door with the butt of his colt .45. The trap door always opens S-L-O-W-l-Y, but silently. Turns out that the flying saucer is just chock full of poisonous lizard people and one of 'em hawks up some poisonous lizard spit and hits the sheriff (or Colonel) full in the face with it. The Sheriff or Colonel dies as gruesomely as the primitive 1950's special effects and low budget will permit. The deputies (or national guard) manage to get off a few ineffectual rounds before they too are hit by lizard spit.
Meanwhile, old George has decided that the family has had enough tourism for the day ("Back in the car, kids!) and plans to boogie on back to L.A. He floors the Buick and we get the classic Sci-Fi scene of the hero's rear tires R-R-R-R ing hopelessly into the sand, right down to the axle, while the monsters approach.
"GEORGE! THEY'RE COMING!" says Martha. (George, to give him some credit, is aware of the problem.)
"Quick!" say George, "Into this convenient abandoned gold mine! They won't think to look for us there!"
Bad choice, George. The abandoned mine is really the command center for the lizards! The family is taken prisoner. The Chief Lizard explains to them that the lizards really mean no harm, that they plan to help earthlings live a more "orderly" life by removing their brains and replacing them with lizard brains so that the beneficiaries will be able to bask in the sun all day, reproduce without effort and not have an original thought (Come to think of it, neighbors, that DOES sound like the present day Southern California lifestyle!)
Now the family are patriotic Americans and vow to escape to warn America. With the aid of intrepid Dick, Jane, and Spot they escape from the mine and make their way across the Mohave to The Town. Although The Town is small it has an F.B.I. field office, staffed by Special Agent Harkins (An Efram Zimbalest Jr. look alike) The ragged, dirty family stagger in and start spilling their guts about flying saucers and hollow mountains full of poisonous lizards.
Agent Harkins, square jaw and all, looks properly concerned and tells his assistant, Miss Blake, to call Washington immediately. He continues to reassure the family, but Spot has started to growl (and the soundtrack music is getting sinister!) Little Jane drops to the floor to see what Spot is growling at, looks under the desk and sees that Agent Harkins has...LIZARD FEET!
She is able to impart this information to the rest of the family, and, on the count of three, the family escape by jumping through the window, just barely evading a barrage of deadly lizard spit from Agent Harkins and Miss Blake.
The take off in the FBI car and make it to a U.S. Army base. Even more dirty and disheveled, they tell the commanding officer that they just escaped from poisonous lizards disguised as FBI agents. The Colonel believes that and tells the family that he will notify the Pentagon immediately. However, Spot starts to growl and a closer inspection of Colonel Jones' shiny "boots" reveal them to be...LIZARD FEET!
After escaping from the army base in a hail of lizard spit, the family is understandably in need of religious solace. (I mean, if you can't trust the FBI or the US Army, then you'd better find God, PDQ. Fortunately, He's residing right around the corner in an Old Spanish Mission. The Mission is presided over by a kindly Franciscan padre who asks what's the problem.
George tells the good padre about flying saucers, hollow mountains full of poisonous lizards, and FBI and military zombies. The Padre agrees that this a case for Higher Authority and tells them to wait right here and pray, while he notifies his bishop. Before he can leave, alert Spot tugs at the Padre's cassock and reveals...LIZARD FEET!
After another close brush with lizard spit, even George is getting reluctant to spill his guts to every authority figure before carefully checking out the stranger's loafers. Who can you trust? What can you do?
Now, friends, we are 3/4 through the movie and who is going to save the world? It looks like you can't trust anybody in authority. Fortunately, we have old fashioned American Goodness & Ingenuity as embodied in Dick, Jane & Spot, plus the monsters always have some Achilles heel that can be exploited (An aversion to dog hair, or books, or something else mundane. Anyway, the monsters are always vanquished, but we are always left with the warning from the Good Scientist that the Lizard Feet are out there, somewhere, pretending to be something they are not.
Of course not! The National Park Service is not science fiction.
On the other hand, Boys and Girls, you never can tell.
I refer you to page 41 of an article on National Parks in the October, 1994 issue of NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC. The author of the piece describes a debate held in Moab, Utah, concerning the fate of Arches National Park.
"The preservationist forces are led by Ken Slight, a rancher and river runner. Though he is personally engaged in the tourism industry, Slight believes that unrestrained tourism will ultimately be the undoing of the region's wild lands in general and Arches National Park in particular. "That roaded corridor up in Arches is a sacrifice area" he says "What we have to do now is hold the line. We've already compromised so much away, why pretty soon there won't be anything left."
The more voluble Harvey Wickware is a 34 year veteran of the Park Service retired to Moab after his last post as Superintendent of nearby Canyonlands National Park. So there will be no confusion as to where he is coming from, Wickwire proudly tell me (the author) that the Reagan Administration dispatched him to Canyonlands in 1987 "to take the park back from the environmentalists".
Wickwire goes on to say "The citizens of this country have a right to use their parks. If Canyonlands would just be properly developed, 400,000 visitors a years, that current use--could be increased to four million without in anyway hurting the resource (that word again! ed ) Sometimes the best way to protect a resource is to develop it (Didn't we hear something like that about VietNam --ed) A popular place like the Windows , in Arches, needs to be heavily structured--up to the point of concrete walkways with handrails so the visitors can't wander off."
(Now neighbors, I am sure Harvey did his very best for President Reagan, but I am wondering if he stretched the difficulty of his assignment a bit. In more than 20 years in the NPS, I have never encountered a unit that had been taken over by environmentalists)
However, I have repeatedly warned you about the danger of using the work "resource" or "visitor" (They're not "visitors",they're taxpayers and they own the place!) "Resource" and "Visitor" are lizard foot vocabulary.
Was Superintendent Wickwire a Lizard Foot? Well, I guess that depends on your point of view.
On the other hand, friends, just to be on the safe side, you might ask your superintendent and chief ranger to pull up their pant legs at the next staff meeting. You can't be too careful!
Now the torture and murder of scores of thousands of real and imagined opponents of the Saddam regime, plus the destruction of one of the world's great natural areas, easily justified the war.
GOLDEN OLDIE
Every so often, Joan will ask me to get around to throwing away boxes chock full of stuff that I am sure to need one day, providing that day ever sees sunrise.
"LIZARD FEET"
One day I was chatting with a friend from one of the federal regulatory agencies. He had just returned from an interagency conference on oil and hazardous material spills. We will call him Mike Goodguy, because he is one. He had been startled to find that the noble goals of oil spill prevention and restitution were being attached by one of the participants in the conference.
Are there any Lizard Feet in the National Park Service?