THE COASTER
Freighter travel always has a romantic tang of adventure that you don't find on a cruise ship.
Cruise ships are vast, bloated floating Retirement Homes on voyages to nowhere in particular for people close to hearing that Final Call from Up Yonder
Freighters, on the other hand, are the down to earth, no nonsense, working class of maritime world. Scruffy, battered, and decidedly unpretty, their main goal is to land or acquire their cargoes in the optimum amount of time.
Freighter passengers are a grudging afterthought. Permissible if they don't get in the way and/or ask questions...
A voyager, who wishes to travel by freighter to odd corners of the earth, must have lots of disposable and flexible time as the ship's itinerary may suddenly change. Increasingly, the freighter passenger must also have a considerable wad of disposable income as freighter travel is no longer the dirt cheap travel preference of missionaries, hippies, college kids, and writers.
So is the romance of freighter travel forever denied the casual tourist?
Not necessarily. At least not in Canada.
Canada, you see, is one of the last stands of the Coaster, small mixed cargo freight and passenger steamers that once served the coasts of North America.
Once there were hundreds of these sturdy, dependable little ships servicing the coasts of Canada and the US. Now they are almost all gone; scrapped or turned into floating museums.
Perhaps there are still American Coasters in service; I don't know, but to assure yourself a voyage on a working Coaster, your best chance would be to go to Canada.
Through a fortunate combination of history, geography and climate, Canada has wild, rugged, and undomesticated coasts on all four of its shores. One of the wildest of such coasts is that of Newfoundland. Though earnest developers have been trying to civilize Newfoundland since the time of Leif Ericson, the island remains delightfully wild.
So wild that some of the fishing villages are not connected to civilization by roads. These are the famed Out ports, villages accessible only by sea. The villagers get their supplies, mail, and companionship delivered by the sturdy little coasters.
Although fishing is not what it used to be in Newfoundland, and indeed, the 400 year old cod fishery has collapsed completely due to suicidal over fishing, the "fisher folk" still live in their isolated villages, remote as Lhasa. They are supported by Canada's generous welfare system and by selling handicrafts and souvenirs to the tourists who arrive on the Coasters. The locals ham up the crusty, contrary stereotype of the "Newfie" right down to the nearly unintelligible dialect and the "Jiggs dinner." (Sort of Irish cooking with everything boiled.)
The American tourists are delighted by the wild, craggy remoteness of it all and the Canadian tourists sentimentally regard the Outporters as the last, true Canadians, holding out against the American homogenization of their country, and the Newfies enjoy the money. and the Coasters make it all possible.
Happily, over on the West Coast of Canada in British Columbia, and particularly on Vancouver Island, the Coasters also still survive. They serve the remote logging, fishing, or mining camps beyond the road network. In addition, they also pick up and drop off sea kayaker and long distance hikers on the famed West Coast and Nootka trails.
We were camping at Strathcona Provincial Park and decided to pick up the Coaster UCHUCK 111 outside the little town of Gold River near the end of one arm of Nootka Sound to get a taste of Coasting in British Columbia.
The UCHUCK III is a veteran of World War II, a converted mine sweeper built entirely of wood, (double planked 3 inch Douglas Fir planks on laminated oak frames, everything held together by bronze pins), the whole idea being to avoid the attention of magnetic mines.
The Coaster is driven by two 8-268A Cleveland Diesels using 25 gallons of fuel at its cruising speed of 12 knots per hour.
We trooped aboard with no disappointments. (Unlike the BC Ferries, it is generally necessary to book ahead for a trip on one of the Coasters such as the Uchuck III or the Lady Rose or you may indeed be disappointed. as some were.)
Coasting is perhaps the most civilized form of travel known to man. Air travel may be compared to being a sardine crammed into an aluminum mortar shell and fired at your destination. The security hassles and crowding have long since placed air travel at a comfort level not far removed from that of a Greyhound bus. Trains are nice, but there are not many of them anymore and they are remarkably expensive. Automobiles are serviceable but not civilized. If you fall asleep or are inattentive, you are instantly killed or maimed; too harsh an outcome to qualify as civilized travel.
As noted, cruise ship travel is neither fish nor fowl as every effort is made to convince you that you are not on a ship but rather on a floating city. With the exception of storms, the mid ocean scenery is a bit dull.
Coasting on the other hand is rarely out of sight of land as the coaster maneuvers up inlets, sounds, passages and so on, with an ever changing panorama. You watch the comings and goings of cargo and passengers in the little ports of call.
I tend to choose the side of a ship with the best mountain view, get a cup of hot chocolate and settle down with a good book, often one about the scenery that is slipping past. I am by nature an amiable solitary type. I will be glad to engage you in conversation and even gaze admiringly at pictures of your grandchildren, but I will not seek you out.
My wife, on the other hand, is an inveterate and indefatigable explorer of human relations. She loves people and loves discovering their interests, their opinions, and what makes them tick. An anthropologist by trade, she is trained to ask personal questions in a sweetly unconfrontational manner; questions that would earn you or I a punch in the nose if we asked them. I am always amazed at the amount of information Joan is able to extract from total strangers in a chance meeting in very short order. In a shipboard or other captive group situation, Joan acts very much like a Border collie, herding interesting, like minded people together into an affinity group -- all without being the least bit pushy. It is a trait that I admire but do not possess.
I gave Joan about 45 minutes to work her magic. In the interim, I contentedly watched Nootka Sound and environs slip past; all blue water and green velvet western Cedar and Hemlock, reading a chapter in the definitive book on the subject, David Pitt-Brook's CHASING CLAYOQUOT. It is a "wilderness almanac" of 12 months spent in the Clayoquot Sound country on the West Coast of Vancouver Island by a Canadian National Parks biologist. CHASING CLAYOQUOT is sort of a moist version of Joseph Wood Krutch's DESERT YEAR.
And moist it is. On average, 3.3 meters of rain fall in a year's time. (That's more than ten feet in Christian measurements!) It is not the place for folks with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). Off to Arizona with them!
But for those who can stand the sweet melancholy of short, rainy, overcast days and thunderous winter sea storms tossing 80 foot pieces of driftwood onto the highways, it's just the ticket; the glorious, cloudless (generally!) month of July being a lagniappe.
July of course is when most of the visitors come to Clayoquot and Nootka Sounds.
According to David Pitt-Brook, "They come with an urgency that borders on desperation, these refugees, searching for wonderment and beauty in the natural world, qualities rare in their ordinary daily lives. They come for understanding and enlightenment. They come to experience an alternative life style, seeking some acceptance in this place, if only in the modest capacity of observers. They come to touch the earth, looking for an antidote to their growing isolation from the natural world, the bane of modern urban existence...It is a heroic landscape, like something out of a Norse Saga, but with that special indefinable flavor of Canada's Pacific Coast."
Ranger Pitt-Brook is correct. It is a heroic landscape; great green forests sweeping up to jagged snow-clad peaks from the sapphire blue fjords. It is a stage for giants to perform upon. Unfortunately giants can be quite destructive. British Columbia's fatal geographical flaw was in having its ecological treasures conveniently located. That is, its forests of thousand year old trees are located on the sides of fjords 20 fathoms deep at the water's edge and water is famously the cheapest form of transport. The trees are growing on a steep slope, so one can use gravity to get the huge logs down to the water's edge. Short of having giant beavers to cut the trees down for free, BC logging had the best cost-benefit ratio of any logging operation in North America. It was just too tempting; in short, a license to steal. The mountain sides are still green with trees, but they are the patchwork of clear cuts, with the logging debris still showing through.
Nearly an hour has passed. Joan will have worked her magic and rounded up a conversation party. I ambled forward and spotted her trade mark red parka, the hood nodding with enthusiasm. Joan introduces me to her little circle of newly minted friends. There is a German couple, newlyweds, who had decided to honeymoon in British Columbia. The Far West Coasts of the Western Hemisphere, British Columbia and Chile, both wild and remote, have always fascinated Germans.
There was Peter, a sturdy Yorkshireman, like his hero, Captain James Cook. Peter had come all the way from England to see the very site in Nootka Sound where Captain Cook had made landfall more than 200 years ago in what was to become British Columbia.
Most Americans have a sort of vague idea of Captain Cook and his place in history. "Wasn't he the guy that got killed in Hawaii?" Well yes, in the same sense that George Washington was that guy that crossed the Delaware; they both did other things, however.
Captain Cook led three expeditions of research and exploration around the globe about the time of the American Revolution. (Ben Franklin told American naval and privateer commanders to leave Cook alone as he was doing scientific work for the good of Mankind.) And that he was. Among other things, he was an excellent map maker. When Cook started his explorations, the globe was surprisingly blank, at least the Pacific part. By the time he was prematurely cut down in 1779, the globe looked pretty much as it does today.
As an 18th century explorer, he was remarkably kind and fair in dealing with the "First Nations Peoples" he encountered in his global journeys. His kindness and understanding paid off (with the notable exception of that unfortunate incident in Hawaii); there were few instances of bloody encounters with the local folks during his expeditions.
Like most sea captains, he had a bluff, blunt, literal turn of mind, not much given to nuances. When the expedition landed in the new continent of Australia, he spied an incredible beast that bounced along on its tail and carried its baby in a pocket on its stomach. He pointed to the animal and asked a passing aborigine what it was. The First Australian said "Kangaroo" which understandably translates as "I don't understand" or "what did you say?" For the literal Captain Cook, that was good enough "Kangaroo! Write that down and let's get a sketch of the creature! Very good."
The good captain was just as literal minded when he sailed into what was to become Nootka Sound in March of 1778. The "First Nations People!" had seen the approached of the huge white winged ships from afar and had assembled on the beach, unarmed and in their hundreds.
As the ship approached, the locals started to chant "NOOTKA! NOOTKA!" Captain Cook interpreted this as the name of the village or people ("write that down, Mr. Bligh!").
Actually, the villagers were trying to impart navigational instructions. "Nootka" means "go around" as in "It gets REALLY shallow where you are heading!" as Captain Cook was to shortly find out.
My wife, being a linguistic anthropologist, always gets a large charge out of linguistic misunderstandings and pressed Peter for more anecdotes. (In all fairness to Captain Cook, he did get everything sorted out, made friends and trading partners with the locals and named the area "Friendly Cove.")
Peter was a member of the Cook Society, an organization dedicated to keeping the memory of Captain Cook green. What Lewis & Clark are to the Americans, Captain Cook and his expeditions are to the British (and to the Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians). Like Lewis & Clark, Captain Cook has spawned a cottage industry of modern day scholars and writers who are busily sifting through the minutia of the minor figures of the expeditions for unpublished materials.
As even Meriwether Lewis's Newfoundland dog, "Seaman" has his biographers; Peter was writing a book on the life of one of Captain Cook's midshipmen. Captain Cook was a fabulous mentor and a number of his officer trainees went on to become famous (or infamous) in their own right, as in the case of midshipmen William Bligh and George Vancouver. Peter would later show us a copy of Cook's sketch of Friendly Cove. It has changed very little in more than 200 years.
The "hosts" of our conversational party were British Columbians, Sam and Kathryn. Kathryn was editor for a Victoria BC publishing house very much interested in historical Canadiana. If anyone could get Peter's book published in North America, it would be this cool, competent, and humorous woman.
Sam and Kathryn provided us foreign devils an insider's look at British Columbian politics and the environment. "We are currently misgoverned by the Liberal Party" said Sam, who was decidedly left-liberal in the classic sense. "You see, in BC, it's an Orwellian thing, like "1984" words don't mean what they are supposed to mean. Here in BC, the Liberal Party is actually the crypto-fascist, anti-environmental party!"
Sam was a big, square man; square face, square shoulders, and big square hands that had seen a lot of hard usage. His blue eyes danced merrily from a stage of Celtic ruddy cheeks as he regaled us with tales of BC government corruption and perfidity.
He had come by his politics the hard way, growing up in the adventurous environment of the tough, dangerous, but well paying and even glamorous BC trades of logging, fishing, and mining. He liked the danger and the adventure ("Never two days the same") but realized that if he wanted to live to a reasonable age in one piece, he would have to specialize in something (I began to see the fine hand of Kathryn in the decision making process, but I did not ask). The "something" was diesel engines; common and necessary in logging, mining and fishing. Sam was a natural at fixing them and keeping them well. He was able to visualize an engine in multi-dimensions, the mark of a gifted engineer or mechanic, very much like a musician possessing perfect pitch. Sam's reputation with diesels soon traveled beyond employers to the manufacturers of diesel engines. The manufacturers sent Sam all over the world to lecture and set up programs for diesel preventive maintenance (and gave Sam quite a post graduate education in foreign culture and world environment).
Unlike many people that get a leg up in life, Sam never forgot where he came from and remained essentially a labor and union sort of a guy. Indeed, unlike most motor heads, Sam was a fervent born-again environmentalist.
The Ucluelet III was pulling into the dock of a huge salmon farm, one of scores that dot the fjords of British Columbia to off load cargo. I innocently made the observation that this type of fish farming was good for the environment as it took pressure off wild stocks of salmon.
"Don't believe their damn press releases!" Sam growled "I used to work for operations like these! These fish farms will lie, cheat and steal as efficiently as any logging or mining outfit! Unless there is an incorruptible provincial inspector present and on duty they will cheat on any and all environmental regs in order to improve their bottom line! It is unnatural for salmon to live so close together. They get diseases. You have to dose them with antibiotics; the diseases become more resistant, you need higher dosages and so on. What happens to the antibiotics in the water? What happens when these super diseases spread to the wild salmon stocks? The seabed near and beneath the holding pens becomes a "dead zone" because of decaying food and concentrated salmon crap. They're supposed to move the pens periodically, but that costs money. Speaking of food, salmon are predators, high on the food chain. They eat other fish. This means you can't feed them soybean pellets like you can if you're farming carp or catfish; you have to feed them fish meal made from "undesirable" fish. "Undesirable" or not, you are taking large amounts of such fish out of the wild food chain, fish that would ultimately feed other wild fish: Salmon farming is illegal in Alaska and you can understand why! It should be illegal world wide."
Sam gestured out over the acres of nets and buoys, and floating buildings that made up the salmon farm. "This isn't exactly a Mom & Pop operation!" Sam said sarcastically "Hell! This one isn't even Canadian owned! It's a Norwegian outfit. The Norwegian pioneered salmon farming and have taken it everywhere you have cold deep water, sheltered coves, an economically depressed labor force and pliable, corrupt politicians."
Norwegians were double environmental villains to Sam as, in addition to salmon farming, they are the only European nation to hunt whales (They have been recently joined by Iceland) Sam was an enthusiastic whale watcher for both aesthetic and economic reasons. "Whales are a self sustaining tourist attraction. They are safe to operate, require no maintenance or off season storage, do not damage the environment, and show up on time! You could not INVENT a better tourist attraction!"
Sam was correct about the whales. Much of BC coastal tourism could be said to ride on the back of the whale. Thousands of people come to BC to sea kayak in hope of paddling with whales. Thousands more viewed whales less heroically from the deck of an excursion boat, powered, incidentally, by Sam's beloved Diesels.
I was not sure if he was correct about the environmental damage of salmon farming. I would have to look into that. (I was also suspicious about the Alaska Congressional delegation's nobility and selfless dedication to the environment.)
We paused in our conversation to watch the cargo being off loaded. It is always fun to watch other people work. This is particularly true when the operation requires a certain amount of dexterity and teamwork. The crew slid off the hatch covers with practiced ease. A diesel donkey engine throbbed; the ships derrick posts began to move, a cable and hook was unshackled and descended into the ship's hold like the fishing line of a giant Huck Finn. A whirr of gears and the cargo of the port of call, a pallet holding a washer dryer for the floating village, came swaying out of the hold, and was gently deposited on the floating dock. (Guys can watch this sort of thing all day long, being large children, we are easily amused; the women talked of children, grandchildren and careers, important things.)
We were soon under way and back in Nootka Sound. Sam pointed out a number of clear cuts, some with an inordinate amount of slash and debris, that clearly had not healed quite the way the logging companies claimed they would. "Clear cuts are designed to mimic natural disasters like ice storms, forest fires, blow downs, severe insect attack and so on; the kind of natural disaster that kills large blocks of trees" said Sam, mimicking the logging company PR. "The problem is that when you factor in Greed as a "force of Nature", the logging company will provide the forest with a "disaster" every few years in one valley or another. One other problem with the idea of clear cuts mimicking forest fires, is that historically, there were no forest fires on Vancouver Island, it's just too damp even in summer for fire to take hold, though with global warming, this may change" Sam said ironically.
Unlike college and city bred environmentalists, Sam had been a logger. He had been a feller and a logging truck driver, "The two most dangerous jobs in the most dangerous industry in Canada!" Sam said, not without pride. "Logging is addictive! You have an adrenaline rush 20 or 30 times a day. You can see why the workers don't want it to stop, plus the pay is good!" Sam's having been there and done that, gave him considerable credibility in discussing the environment with the locals: He definitely was not an "outsider."
The Uchuck III cruised along the Shore of Nootka Island. Occasionally, a barge like work boat, powered by enormous twin outboards would dart out from a cove. Uchuck III would politely come to a stop, and the ship's derrick would delve into the hold and come up with a pallet of groceries. The pallet was skillfully dropped into the workboat without sinking it and the workboat took off with a hearty wave of the operator's and a roar of twin YAMAHAS. (The American outboard must be on the endangered species list.)
I commented to Sam on the gourmet quality of some of the food stuffs and asked if it was for some upscale wilderness lodge. Sam laughed and said "No, it's for a floating logging camp. The new generation of loggers has become quite finicky and fancy eaters. Can't just feed corned beef and potatoes anymore. They want variety and good taste as well as all ya can eat quantity. The companies oblige as they know it makes for good morale."
Late in the afternoon, we arrived at the First Nations village of Yuquot; the village that Captain Cook named "Friendly Cove" when he arrived on March 29, 1778, according to Cook "We no sooner drew near the inlet than we found the coast to be inhabited and the people came off to the Ships in canoes without showing the least mark of fear or distrust. We had at one time 32 canoes full of people about us and a group of ten or a dozen remained around the RESOLUTION most of the night....They seemed a mild and inoffensive people."
Now being "mild and inoffensive" is not usually a good survival trait when dealing with European Empire builders, but through one of the quirks or cracks of history, the "mild and inoffensive" Mwachaht/Muchalaht are still in charge of Yuquot Village, whereas the Empire that Captain Cook represented has faded away into history. Go figure.
The leading attraction of the village is a master mask carver who does Pacific Northwest art. Joan collects masks so this was a total "must see." The mask carver was an affable, extroverted "First Nations" gentleman seated at his work bench among slathers of aromatic shaving. His work was museum quality and the prices reflected it. In fact the mask he was working on was destined for a Canadian museum. He was in that happy artistic state of being able to sell everything he produced. The fact that he did not need tourist dollars could have resulted in a _ _ _ _ off attitude, but he was a very nice guy and enjoyed explaining the culture of his People and the art of wood carving. Someone asked if he had learned the art from his father or grandfather.
Well, no. He had always wanted to be a great mask and totem carver, so he went to college and studied it. (Now neighbors, I suspect that if you want to be an Appalachian Hillbilly, there is a school you can attend, probably using the Foxfire books as texts, and in due time, you can become a professional Appalachian.)
There was one mask that was mesmerizing Joan. It was a huge, articulated stylized Raven mask that would certainly put all the other kids in the shade on Halloween. I knew the steep tag would not deter a true mask lover, so I hit her with practicality. "How are you going to carry that thing back on the plane?" (It was too fragile for baggage and too big for a shopping bag; I also adroitly substituted "you" for the more customary "We" used in our relationship.) She got the point and reluctantly tore herself away from the masks.
The next place of interest was the village church. Except it wasn't a church anymore. It was full of Totem Poles and Northwest Coast symbolic art. The Church had been built in the 1950's, a confident time for North American Catholicism, but then the 90's brought demands for a rebirth of First Nations religion and spirituality and the church was deconsecrated and used for First Nations ceremonials. There were stairs to the choir loft and out of curiosity, I climbed them. It was an odd and affecting scene; the statues of the saints and Jesus and Mary that had lined the walls of the church were now conferring in a sad huddle on the floor of the choir loft as if discussing why the Old Ways had won.
We spent an hour climbing around the wild headlands and visiting the lighthouse, which is one of the last manned lights in North America, all the rest having long since been automated. It is a lonely life, but the keeper and his wife seemed to enjoy it. "One learns to enjoy watching the weather." The keeper told me. Unlike Forest Fire lookout towers, whose keepers produced a considerable body of poetry and prose as in the case of Gary Snyder, Jack Kerouac, and Edward Abbey, lighthouses and their keepers seem to have produced no works of literature. I wonder why?
Three toots of Uchuck's whistle told us it was time to depart. We trooped down to the dock where we found to our surprise that the passenger list had increased. And a scruffy, muddy bearded lot they were (except for the females, who were just scruffy and muddy).
They were the happy veterans of the Nootka Trail although the Nootka Trail is only 37 km long as opposed to the 75 km of the much more famous (indeed legendary) West Coast Trail, it takes nearly the same amount of time (5-7 days) as it takes to do the West Coast Trail as the Nootka seems to be one long, wet and muddy jungle gym. The hikers are generally flown in by float plane to Louie Lagoon on Nootka Island, and then begin the 37 km coastal slog. "But it was fun! It really was!" everyone agreed around hot chocolate in the ship's lounge.
Sam looked on beamingly. "Tourism now is British Columbias number one industry, way ahead of logging, fishing, or mining. Tourists are our best natural resource, renewable, and best of all they enjoy being harvested." He laughed. "The main thing we have to do is get rid of this damn so-called Liberal government and get some Greens in."
I told Sam we couldn't vote in BC but sure wished we could. The place grows on you.
The sky was now rosy gold over Nootka Sound. It had been a nice day.
MARY BOMAR
The iconoclastic environmentalist gadfly, Edward Abbey, once observed that "National Parks are one of the few nice things that a remote and suspicious government actually does for its citizens."
Actually, there are a few other things; not many, but a few. One of these is the little known fact that the Government will entertain you free of charge.
You see, you are quite welcome to attend a Congressional Hearing and listen to the testimony on say, whether the Army Corps of Engineers should dredge the Tombigbee River. There is no charge. All you have to do is show up and exhibit a sober demeanor.
Now there are those who would claim that watching cement harden or paint dry has greater entertainment value than Congressional hearings. This is not true. All hearing tell a story and all have a certain drama for the insiders who understand the background.
That is why when I heard that there would be a Senate Hearing on the candidacy of Mary Bomar for the Directorship of the National Park Service, I resolved to attend. I called up John Haubert who had retired from the Rivers & Trails unit of the NPS and found that John was also game and would meet me at the Dirksen Senate Office Building.
I put on a sober sided suit and tie. There is no formal dress code, but you are sort of expected to do the right thing for the occasion, very much like not wearing bib overalls to Grampa's funeral. You may bring your children, but the little gentlemen and ladies should be togged out in suits or pinafore to impress upon them the dull and non mischievous nature of the occasion.
I then walked the mile from my home to the Wheaton Metro Station, descended trustingly into a hole in the ground like a character in Alice In Wonderland and soon found myself at Union Station and walking toward the Wonderland of U.S Government.
Now one of the interesting things about walking on Capitol Hill is what might be called the "wax museum factor." That is, you actually see the living, breathing replicas of the folks you see on the evening news on television. They are amazingly lifelike and look just like their images on television. As I walked toward the Dirksen building, I noted a small speaker's platform, complete with speaker and a small crowd. I assumed the speaker was some sort of street lunatic, as in the speaker's corner in London's Hyde Park. However, the speaker was well dressed as impeccable as a male model in GQ magazine. He looked vaguely television familiar. As I walked closer, I recognized the image; it was Barack Obama, Senator from Illinois, being interviewed for television. Who says Government is not entertaining!
The Dirksen Building, a Mussolini Marble confection, is named after Everett McKinley Dirksen, Republican leader of the Senate for several geological epochs. Dirksen was most famous for his quip "You know, it may not seem like much, a million dollars here, a million dollars there, but pretty soon, you're talking about real money!"
As befits a Democracy, security at the Dirksen Building is competent, but relaxed, helpful, and unobtrusive. This comes as a surprise if you are used to dealing with the high security of the somewhat paranoid National Park Service in their chrome and marble fortress on "I" St. There, you don't get in unless someone knows you, and more importantly, wants to see you. You don't go there to pick up a brochure or learn about your national parks. State your business or move on.
The Congressional Office buildings, on the other hand, sort of exude the bon homme of rural country courthouses with everyone being friendly and helpful. The Congressmen encourage this sort of gemulcheit as they sort of want to be reelected. The Washington office of the National Park Service should try it sometime.
I was directed to a hearing room and presently came upon a small knot of people in the hallway outside massive oak doors. Everyone was in their Sunday go to meeting best. This was obviously the place. Apparently friends and well wishers. One face looked vaguely familiar, not television familiar, but well, familiar familiar. I knew this person. He looked like a retired Southwestern rancher. Who is this guy?
Then memory synapse completed their circuit and I remembered. John Cook! Former Director of the Rocky Mountain Region. What was he doing here? This was interesting.
The quickest way to an answer is to ask, so I said "John Cook! What are you doing here?"
John beamed and said that he was an old friend of the nominee Mary Bomar and had indeed been her mentor. He was here as proud bureaucratic godfather to wish her well.
Now this was very interesting! John Cook was one of the very few liberal Democrats in the National Park Service. One apocryphal study lists NPS managers as being 87.3% "conservative" or "independent." ("Independent" is what a conservative superintendent says when a NEW YORK TIMES reporter inquires about his politics; I suspect Mary Bomar lists herself as an "Independent" otherwise she would not be here.)
One retired regional director told me he believes the 87.3% is inaccurate. I agree. I have met very few of the alleged 12.7 liberal Democrats who were supposed to be running around loose in the NPS. John Cook is an exception. He had stubbornly identified himself as a Liberal Democrat during some very conservative regimes, once having his career memorably damaged (or as the Administration put it "enhanced" ) for a taking" liberal" stance on the preservation of Alaskan parks where he was Regional Director.
As I say, Cook's presence is most interesting. It could mean that Mary Bomar might not be quite the rubber stamp for the Administration that some might prefer. It could very well mean that she might be, well... independent. Very interesting!
Ms Bomar herself was a handsome blonde woman of middle years and friendly, persuasive demeanor. She sports a charming BBC British accent as a result of being an immigrant from that country. She had the good administrator's way of putting everyone at their ease with a pleasant personality. John Haubert arrived and everyone made small talk until the great oak doors swung open and we were ushered into the hearing room.
The hearing room was like an old fashioned court room, paneled in oak with the Great Seal of Something or Other up on one wall. There was a place for the subject of the hearing. She would look up at a high row of lectern like desks at which the Senate committee would sit. Between the Senators and the subject of the inquiry, there was a long table where witnesses would sit. The rest of the room was filled with church pew type benches where the spectators would sit.
The Senators straggled in by one's and two's. Burns of Montana, Thomas of Wyoming, Dominici of New Mexico, and so on. They would get here when they got here. They were, after all, Senators. They had done this before and they would do it again. Eventually, most people who were supposed to be here were here and the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Energy and Natural Resources, The Honorable Senator Pete Domenici called the hearing to order on the matter of Ms Mary Bomar who had been nominated for the position of Director of the National Park Service.
Now if all this sounds daunting and challenging, it really wasn't. Ms Bomar had an excellent record and was definitely among friends. Two of these friends were appearing as witnesses for Mary. They were none other than the entire Pennsylvania Senatorial Delegation; Senators Arlen Spector and Richard "Rick" Santorum, both Republicans. Although Spector is by far the more liberal of the two, he has a hot temper and it is deadly important not to get on the wrong side of "Snarlin' Arlen."
However, the two Pennsylvanians had not come to bury Mary, but to praise her fulsomely for her work as regional director of the Northeast Region (headquartered in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania). Senator Santorum noted that she was a "Great Peacemaker among the many factions who were fighting to decide who was to do what to whom at Independence Hall."
"Snarlin' Arlen" was charmed by Mary and gallantly remarked that "Hollywood Central Casting could not have come up with a better candidate for Director, complete with delightful accent."
Witness testimony over, the senators proceeded to question Mary.
Generally speaking, they were vague, rhetorical questions that tend to beget vague, rhetorical answers. Remember, Mary was among friends here. Had she entered the hearing wearing sandals, flowers in her hair, strumming a guitar and singing protest songs about snowmobiling in Yellowstone, the senators might have been a bit more critical.
As it was, Ms Bomar was questioned a bit closely by Senator Thomas of Wyoming on her position on the eternal joys of snowmobiling in Yellowstone and the necessity of keeping on the good side of those wonderful people in the Gateway Communities of our national parks. Senator Thomas also wondered what Mary intended to do about the battalion strength packs of wolves that the NPS had installed in the Rocky Mountain West and were menacing, if not Little Red Riding Hood, then at least the Wyoming Livestock Growers Association. He also wondered what Mary intended to do about the NPS Elk and Bison who possibly could infect his constituents' cows with Brucellosis; sort of bureaucratic bioterrorism.
On the other hand, Senator Salazar (D-CO) wanted to know if Mary had any nasty plans to rewrite NPS National Park Service Management Plans along the lines suggested by the Greedhead wing of the Republican Party and which would have effectively repealed the 1916 Organic Act, making Preservation the turning key in NPS decision making. (Senator Salazar was not quite that blunt, but your editor has translated from Senatorese into pop talk.) Mary promised not to do such a thing.
Senator Cantwell (D-WA) cheerfully opened a potential Pandora's box of Bureaucratic turf wars, when she wrote that some of her constituents had suggested that Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument be removed from the control of the US Forest Service and transferred to the National Park Service as Mount St. Helens National Park and what did Mary think of that idea?
Mary didn't say so, but it would raise an interesting precedent for the transfer of all the national monuments currently administered by the US Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management to the National Park Service. Now neighbors, as the feelings these three agencies have toward each other is roughly analogous to that of the Kurds, Shiites, and Sunnis, that isn't going to happen anytime soon..
Senators Salazar and Alexander (D-TN) were against air pollution in national parks. Where did Mary stand on this issue? Mary was against pollution and would work toward eliminating it.
Now Mary Bomar is an old pro at this sort of thing and adroitly tap danced around most of the questions, examining them, exploring them, but not always answering them, pointing out that answers and solutions could be obtained only by research, and above all, the input and wise counsel of the persons who had asked the questions.
Committee Chairman Domenici is also an old pro and archly complemented Ms Bomar. Slightly raising his eye brows, he said "Congratulations, Ms Bomar! You have gotten almost completely through this hearing without answering any of the questions!"
The hearing was not quite over. It was time for the villain to arrive.
This would be the liberal Democrat Senator Ron Wyden of Oregon. It was rumored that he would be hostile and he arrived ominously late. Tall (put himself through University on a basketball scholarship) cool, saturnine, and unsmiling, he took his seat and glowered Torquemada-like down upon Mary.
Senator Wyden got right to the point without preliminaries.
"Ms Bomar, are you a crook?"
Mary was understandably a bit incredulous at this line of questioning
Senator Wyden restated his question.
"ARE YOU A CROOK?"
Indignantly, Mary shot back that she certainly was not.
Senator Wyden patiently explained the basis for his suspicions.
It seems that a Mr. Devaney, who was Inspector General for the Department of Interior, had recently announced that if Diogenes was looking for an honest man, then the upper echelons of the Department of Interior was not the place to look. Interior, it seems, was one of the most corrupt Departments even before Jack Abramoff.
"And, Ms Bomar, is it not true that you are in the upper echelons of the Department of Interior?" Senator Wyden implied oleaginously. Guilt by Association! Shades of Senator Joe McCarthy!
Mary Bomar maintained exactly the right degree of anger and indignation without blowing her cool at this line of questioning.
She reiterated that she was an honest woman.
"If that is indeed the case, then can I have your promise that I will not see your name in any future lists of indictments of Interior officials?" Senator Wyden asked silkily.
Mary hotly promised that the Senator would not see her led off in chains.
And that was pretty much that. The avuncular Senator Domenici brought the proceeding to a close and said the testimony obtained would be put before the full Senate for a vote on the confirmation of Ms Bomar. Although he did not say so, the vote was unlikely to be a cliff hanger.
Mary had done very well, tripping up in only two points.
One was a Platitudes Question. She was asked to list the three most dangerous threats to the National Parks. (Reporters, Politicians and the Guinness book of records love lists!) This sounds easy, but any tangible answer is guaranteed to tick SOMEBODY off.
Now if Ms Bomar was Girl Scout honest, she would answer that the three greatest challenges to the National Parks were 1. Her boss, George W. Bush, 2. the Greedhead wing of the Republican Party and 3. Climate Change. (Not necessarily in that order.) As such honesty would be suicidal; the more expedient response would be to fire a broadside of platitudes, quoting everyone from Edward Abbey, through John Muir to Ronald Reagan, while waving the flag.
Instead, Mary earnestly tried to list the three challenges as: 1. "Reenergizing the support of the American People" 2. Improving the park service's capabilities and 3 "Preparing a new generation of Leadership." Now this does not exactly "sound the tocsin near and far"; rather it sounds a bit lame, like some bromide from the Board of Directors of Ford Motors when informed that Toyota had aced them once again .
The other stumble was a too-eager-to-accommodate attitude on the issue of snowmobiles in Yellowstone. Foes of snowmobiles are by no means convinced that there is an "environmentally safe" level for snowmobile use and they might feel she conceded the issue much too quickly.
Other than that, things went rather smoothly for Mary. Her confirmation proceeded without a hitch.
So, what will she be able to accomplish in the brief two years remaining of the Bush Presidency?
Actually, if all goes well, this capable woman will have a term of ten years, not two. This will put her in the longevity ranks of Steven Mather and George Hartzog and allow her to make a real mark on the Service and System
The reason for this is that while the Republicans might possibly lose control of the House of Representatives there is no conceivable chance they could lose the Presidency in the foreseeable future. Aside from such trusty safeguards as the Electoral College and the Supreme Court, the Republicans can count on the Democrats to nominate the weakest possible candidate. The reason Democrats do this is a form of political chivalry. Since Democrats outnumber Republicans, it is considered unsporting for the Democrats to field an electable candidate.
So, she will have ten years. What to do?
Initially, she will have to move slowly. There will probably be no North Woods National Park in Maine, at least not right away. The creation of Big Bend-Sierra Del Carmen International Peace Park will not occur until well into the ten year term. It would be best to move judiciously, seek adequate funding for existing units and seek the addition of small historical areas which always delights Congressman and their constituents.
For example, we have not honored recent Republican Presidents. By bringing Richard Nixon Birthplace at Loma Linda, California into the system, the nation could honor the President who opened the door to China and founded the Environmental Protection Agency. Ronald Reagan is a veritable treasure trove of possible historical sites. There is of course, his boyhood home at Dixon, Illinois and naturally, his magnificent ranch outside Santa Barbara, California. (A president can have more than one historic site, witness Theodore Roosevelt.) In addition to homes, there is the possibility of bringing the Rock River (where Reagan did his life guarding) into the system as Rock River Scenic and Historic River. In the spirit of bipartisanship, Bill Clinton would not be overlooked (You don't have to be dead to have a historic site: Consider Jimmy Carter NHS.) and his former homes in Arkansas can be inventoried.
And, oh yes! Mary should work hard for a separate national headquarters building for the National Park Service that would be taxpayer and user friendly. I nominate the old Federal Reserve Building on the mall (now called South Interior). It has a blank faade that cries out for the words NATIONAL PARK SERVICE.
So yes, I would say Ms Bomar has an adventurous ten years ahead of her and the best of British luck to her!
SNOWBALLS FROM HELL
The Bear was rummaging in the refrigerator when I entered the kitchen. It was 2 a.m.
"Sorry to wake you" The Great Bear said politely "The flight from Siberia took longer than expected" Thunderbear shrugged his wet wings open to their full 28 foot span, the iridescent colors flashing damply in the light.
"No problem." I yawned.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to store my snowballs in your freezer unit. I'll need them for my research." The Bear half commanded.
"Of course." I acceded. If a ten foot tall flying bear wanted to store snowballs in my fridge, who was I to complain?
"May I ask why you are collecting snowballs?" I inquired.
"These are not ordinary snowballs." Thunderbear said enigmatically.
"They're Siberian snowballs?
"That and more!" The Great Bear said mysteriously. "Is there still fire in the living room fireplace? I need to dry my wings."
"There should still be some coals still glowing" I said.
"Good!" Thunderbear finished dumping the contents of his rucksack into the freezer compartment, except for one particularly large snowball, which he tossed back and forth in his paws. "Come into the living room. There's something I want to show you.'
The fire was still glowing in the fireplace as I predicted.
"Watch this!" Thunderbear said, tossing the snowball into the fire.
The snowball immediately caught fire and burned with an intense blue flame.
"My God!" I exclaimed "It's on fire! The snow is burning!"
"The methane portion at any rate. It's actually frozen methane hydrate. When it melts, the methane gas is released, and if there is an ignition source, and sufficient concentration, you will obtain fire." Thunderbear explained pedantically.
"Where did you find this? I asked, astounded.
"In Siberia, though I could have pulled it up in Alaska, the Sea of Japan, or a dozen or more sources."
I had to admit that flaming snowballs were a good party trick, particularly after everyone had a few drinks, but was there any practical value?
"Well, yes and no" the Great Bear said somewhat reluctantly.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you recall the story about the Chinese character for "Crisis" but also can mean "opportunity? Well, that's sort of the story of Methane Hydrate!"
"How so?" I asked suspiciously.
"Well, there's a lot of it."
"How much?"
"About 10,000 gigatons in your measurements" Thunderbear replied.
"Is that a lot?" I asked guilelessly.
"10,000 gigatons is about twice the combined amount of oil, natural gas, and coal left on the planet. Yes, it's a lot." Thunderbear said patiently.
"And it burns!" I said, remembering the bright blue flame.
"So it does!" The Bear agreed "and rather cleanly too, producing very little pollution and less greenhouse gases than coal. "Harness Methane hydrate and you can tell the Arabs to go back to growing dates."
"So we are saved! Praise the Lord!" I said exultantly.
"Not quite. There are some formidable technical problems to be overcome. However, we have provided some built in incentives to insure that you solve them."
"Incentives"?
"Money?"
"Something even better!" The Bear said enigmatically.
"Remember what I said about 'Crisis and Opportunity?' Well, Methane hydrate has that combination in spades!"
"Why so?" I asked, puzzled.
"Because Methane is 20 times more effective a greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide."
"Twenty times!' I exclaimed. "Maybe we'd better not mess with Methane!"
"I'm afraid you may not have the choice." Thunderbear said solemnly. "You see, with global warming, Methane hydrate held in permafrost and on the sea floor will be released into the atmosphere in a cascading fashion. You will have the worst of both worlds, a powerful greenhouse gas released into the atmosphere, increasing global warming WITHOUT having exploited the methane as an energy source..."
"Seems sort of unfair!" I said, sullenly.
"The way the cookie crumbles." The Bear said, philosophically
"Is it serious?" I asked anxiously.
"Like a stroke." Thunderbear said with finality. The way global warming is progressing now with just the CO2 as the main greenhouse gas, you could lose the Greenland Ice cap as well as the Iceland Ice field, most of the montane glaciers, and maybe the West Antarctic Ice shelf. Now that could raise your sea level seven feet. A rise of seven feet would make things dicey in London, New York, and Florida, not to mention the Ganges Delta. Dicey, Yes, but not impossible; you could cope."
"However, "The Great Bear continued ominously. "If you have the cascading release of huge amounts of captive methane, increasing the Greenhouse effect 20 times, then you stand an excellent chance of losing the East Antarctic Ice shelf. As this is effectively most of the ice left in the world, this would raise your sea level 123 feet."
"123 feet!" I exclaimed weakly.
"I am not sure you could cope with 123 feet," Thunderbear said dryly, "Though I've learned not to underestimate human beings!"
"It would complicate things!" I said
"Then you agree that massive releases of methane are to be avoided?"
I agreed that would certainly be a goal.
"You realize that to use up that amount of methane, your species will have to practice CEC?" Thunderbear said seriously.
I had no idea if CEC was a form of birth control or a new Brazilian dance craze, so I asked.
"CEC means Compulsory Energy Consumption. It means that as the methane becomes available, it must be efficiently consumed by the human population before it can get into the atmosphere"
"I think we can promise that!" I said, relieved.
"No you can't! Said the Bear, emphatically, "Because you're not plugged in!"
"Not plugged in?" I asked, puzzled.
"Much of the human race is off the electrical power grid and those that are are limited by economics in taking full advantage."
"So?
"So the human race will have to raise its standard of living and thus its energy consumption to at least that of Sweden. The US level might be a bit of overkill."
"But how could we do this? I asked incredulously
"It would not be easy" Thunderbear said. "It would mean giving up some of the benchmarks of your species; the things that have historically associated with humanity."
"What would we have to give up"? I asked, expecting the worst.
"Well" The Great Bear said hesitantly, you would have to give up poverty, war, disease, and famine! As much as your species has enjoyed them as a pastime, they are not conducive to good energy consumption. Poor people simply do not have the electrical appliances and tools to do their fair share of electrical consumption. As much fun as it for an Indian housewife to cook the family meal over a cow dung fire in a mud hut in 120 degree heat, I afraid she cannot be selfish; she will have to cook the meal on an electric stove in an air conditioned house and put the leftovers in the refrigerator. The planet is depending on her!"
"But war! Surely we can keep war!" I pleaded "War uses lots of energy!"
"Yes, but not the right kind" Thunderbear said, "War destroys infrastructure and interrupts the efficient distribution of electricity, and, even more important, it kills the consumers of electricity."
"Now as for disease and famine, I'm afraid you'll have to drop them also; you just can't afford the luxury! Sick people are simply not good energy consumers. Same thing for famine. Starvation makes you lethargic; not interested in using up those kilowatt hours! Can't expect civic mindedness from human skeletons! I'm sorry, but everyone on the planet is going to have to become Scandinavian Middleclass, complete with free medical care and access to a university education!" The Bear said emphatically.
I decided I had to make a stand for Mankind.
"But War, Poverty, Famine, and Disease have shaped and molded and made us who were are! How can we give them up? In all recorded human history, there have been only seven years of peace; there are many war songs but few peace songs! Poverty is the basis of political parties, of class struggle, of novels, plays, and motion pictures! What will we do if everyone is equal? Disease and Famine were always the wild cards of history! They could change history! The Black Death depopulated Medieval Europe; AIDS is doing the same in Africa today.
"What would Mankind be without War, Poverty Famine, and Disease?" I fairly shouted.
"Umm, maybe normal?" Said the Great Bear, glancing up from his honey flavored popcorn.
"I have an intergalactic meeting to attend, so I'll have to say good night; but think it over, there may be better hobbies than war, poverty, famine, disease and drowning."
With that, Thunderbear vanished.
THE SAFETY MESSAGE
I was working in my study on a crisp October day when I heard the sound.
It was "hiss-WHUMP!"
Interesting. Perhaps the cats were fighting. About once a month they lash out at each other, often knocking over a chair in the process.
As if on cue, the two cats, Tom & Jeri, rushed into the study and looked at me uncertainly, as if awaiting orders.
"Don't fight!" I admonished them, as Kofi Anan would have done.
The cats gazed anxiously up the stairs to the sun room where they usually napped in the afternoon. The problem apparently solved I went back to writing.
Moments later, my wife returned from her exercise class.
Joan was flushed and excited. DID YOU SEE IT?" She exclaimed "DID YOU SEE IT!"
Well no I hadn't, but I had an idea that "IT' was something not to be overlooked.
"THERE'S A 4 MILLION POUND TREE LIMB IN OUR BACKYARD!"
Four million pounds. That would be about the weight of one of the main branches of the General Sherman Tree in Sequoia National Park. Clearly that would be something worth looking at.
I ambled outside and walked around the corner of the house, toward the backyard. As I came around the corner, I ran into an impenetrable Abatis of leaves and limbs, just the thing that had stopped General Burgoyne at Saratoga. Like Burgoyne, I was forced to retreat and come at the objective from a different angle.
Joan had been off the correct weight by a few zeros, but it was still impressive! The branch was nearly a foot thick at its base and occupied much of the back yard. While it would not go 4 million pounds, it would easily go 4 thousand pounds. It had fallen from about 40 feet up one of our White Oak trees.
Joan was quite shaken. "I was working in the garden, standing on that very spot less than an hour ago!" She said dramatically, pointing at the spot now occupied by the massive oak log. "I would have been killed instantly!"
"That's a good reason for staying on the right side of Jesus at all times! One never knows!" I said piously.
Joan glowered at me. "What caused it to fall?" She demanded. Being a Yale graduate and a rationalist, she wanted an explanation that did not involve a Helpful Hint from the Almighty.
Why did it fall? That indeed was a deepening mystery. The tree was a sturdy White Oak. A species not prone to limb failure, unlike the cheesey, fast growing Tulip Poplar (Actually not a poplar, but the largest member of the Magnolia Family), much favored by developers, which topples over on your house at the suggestion of a breeze.
Was it wind? No. It was a still, bright, cloudless October day, nary a breeze stirring.
Rain? No rain in a week.
Was it rot or insect damage? I examined the huge branch. The leaves were glossy and healthy, the foliage dense; the butt of the branch was healthy, no sign of heart rot. There was a good crop of acorns on the branch, indicating nutriment and water circulation was not a problem. Strange.
There had been absolutely no warning. One moment the 4,000 pound branch had been 40 feet up the tree, busily supporting the tail end of photosynthesis for the year, the next moment it was lying on the ground. There was no warning, no high pitched cracking sound.
The "hiss" that I heard was the sound of the leaves and outermost branches raking along the window of the sun room, telling the cats that something was drastically wrong, followed by the "whump!" of God's 4,000 pound human swatter. Joan was right. Had the event occurred an hour previously, she would have been killed. Only a world class soccer player would have the reflexes to process the meaning of the "pop" of parting wood fiber, look up, evaluate, and leap to safety.
So what does this mystery have to do with your job as Park Safety Officer?
Actually, quite a bit. The unfortunate fall of a tree can be hazardous to your career as well as to your health.
On June 28th of this year, your favorite American elm toppled over.
Your favorite Elm tree? Well yes, after all, you carry a picture of it in your wallet.
Don't believe me? Well then, just take out a $20 bill; now turn it over to the reverse, or White House side. Notice the tree on the right hand side. That's the one! On the evening of the 28th, it fell across the driveway and sidewalk. It was over 140 years old, having been planted during the Andrew Johnson administration. It weighed tons.
Had the Chief Occupant of the White House been walking in the area, he would have been killed instantly. While this would have been tragic for the Chief Occupant and the nation, it would probably be a career-ender for you if you were the Chief Gardener or the collateral duty safety officer, YOU would be informed that "YOUR tree killed the President!" (One does not have to work for the NPS very long before noticing that if a controlled burn, search & rescue, EMT or LE event goes seriously awry, the event rapidly becomes "YOUR" rather than "OUR.")
Fortunately, no one was injured and the tree was quickly cut up and hauled away.
As in the case of my White Oak, no one at the White House had suspected the American elm. It was apparently healthy, no sign of Dutch elm disease, and so on. True, there had been a near record rainfall of 5 inches. This was followed by a brisk breeze and apparently the combination was too much for the tree.
So President Bush was spared and the NPS lucked out once again. Will you always be so fortunate?
Well now, that depends a great deal on location. Say for example a happy hiker is moseying down a wilderness trail in Olympic National Park just as a 1,000 year old Sitka Spruce decides to call it a day, topples over and divots our hiker into the trail. The superintendent of Olympic can comfort the family by telling them that Jesus wanted the hiker for a sunbeam in the fairly sure knowledge that a tort claim of NPS negligence will not stand up in court and indeed, few lawyers would suggest they had a case.
This is not necessarily the case in, say, Roosevelt-Vanderbilt National Historic Site, where for another hypothetical example, a sugar maple planted by Franklin Delano Roosevelt decides to dump a lethal load of limbs on a passing Republican. Would the survivors have a case?
Now neighbors, we are among New Yorkers, a notoriously litigious bunch, so lawyers will certainly be hired. Do they have a chance? Actually, a fairly good one. Unlike the wilderness tree in Olympic, the ROVA Sugar maple is a "domestic" tree, planted by the hand of man, inventoried, and, presumably, well cared for.
So what to do.? Obviously you can't go around chopping down elderly historic trees indiscriminately. You will also get static from Resource Management if you plan to take down dead or dying trees for safety reasons, as, well, they provide habitat for cavity dwellers.
So again, what to do?
You might want to make sure your Tree Plan (Vegetation Management Plan) is up to date. The lawyers of both sides will want to see that. You might want to do a risk analysis. If the tree is far enough away from a walkway or building, the risk may be low both legally and in reality. (If they get killed cutting across the lawn, serves 'em right!)
You might like to have high risk trees looked at by a licensed Arborist. Now a licensed Arborist is just that; he usually is not a gent from West Virginia with a chaw of Skoal and a beaten pick up truck with chain saw and ladders. ("Been doin this since I was 13, Boy!")
Normally, the Arborist will not have tools with him. That's good. You want him to advise, not chop. He is more expensive than the guy from West Virginia, but he makes a better witness in court.
Now neighbors, once upon a time when the NPS was run like the campus of a great university rather than as a failing marginal small time business as it is today, there was an Eastern Tree Crew and a Western Tree Crew that traveled around to the various National Parks and monuments, solving their tree problems in a professional manner. Those days are no more, thanks to the wonders of outsourcing.
Now that we have solved or at least identified your arboreal hazards, what about the mystery of my White Oak branch? What caused a healthy limb to suddenly fail with no warning on a dry windless day, giving absolutely no warning?
Well now, as this was a safety issue, I asked around.
According to the National Arboretum, the year 2006 was a Mast year for White Oaks. ("Mast" is a collective term for the seeds produced by oaks, hickories, pecans, walnuts, etc.)
A Mast year is a reproductive strategy designed to overcome the White Oaks' most formidable four footed foe, the Gray Squirrel, who normally eat most of their acorns. The White Oaks get together and agree on a Mast year (scientists are uncertain as to how they do this; possibly through a root internet). At any rate, the White Oaks make a maximum effort, each tree producing a huge crop of acorns, so many acorns, that no squirrel family, whether Catholic, Mormon, or careless, could produce enough offspring to eat all the extra acorns. Thus 10 or 15 times during its lifetime, the White Oak was assured of some reproductive success. The risk of course was that the branches had to bear an unaccustomed heavy load of extra acorns.
The branch in question had grown abnormally long and large (nearly the diameter of the trunk at that height because it was on the edge of a clearing (my lawn and garden) the weight, length and leverage were simply too great.
Sometimes you just never know neighbors!
JOURNEY TO PARADISE
My wife obtained a teaching position at victoria University in Wellington, New Zealand. Naturally, she will need someone to carry her bags, so I have to come along. I will be studying synthetic fuels development In NZ and will be describing life in that remarkable Bush free country. We will return in May, but will keep in touch through the wonders of the internet. Keep those cyber cards and letters coming; I enjoy hearing from you!
PJ Ryan
Editor
THUNDERBEAR
thunderbear@erols. com