WILL GALE NORTON GO TO HEAVEN? "Why is that important to you?" The Great Bear asked. "I don't know. Just curiosity I guess" I replied. Thunderbear raised a great furry eyebrow, popped a fresh liter can of Grizzly Beer and said reproachfully. "You are sure it is not spite, petty vengefulness and wishful thinking on your part that she NOT go to heaven?" "Not at all!" I added hastily "I wish the woman the best! I was just, um, curious." "Will Gale Norton go to Heaven?" The Bear mused over question. "Interesting! What makes you think that she will NOT go to Heaven?" "Well, Occasions of Sin! She has placed herself in proximate occasion of mortal sin! I said stoutly "Three ways from Sunday!" "Really?" and what would these three "proximate occasions of sin" be? "Well, for one thing, she's a known, card carrying lawyer. No use her denying it! We have firm, incontrovertible evidence that's she's been a member of the Colorado Bar for years!" "But being a lawyer is not automatic cause for Eternal Damnation' Thunderbear said mildly. "Then it should be!" I persisted stubbornly. "But it's not! Allow me to demonstrate. I'll call up Celestial Statistics on Damnation by Profession" said the Bear, firing up his lap top computer. "There you see!" said Thunderbear triumphantly pointing to the screen, "Lawyers as a profession have a better Eternal Salvation record than Pirates, Politicians, Slave traders. Despots or Brothel keepers! Gale Norton's choice of professions cannot in itself damn her; much as you would prefer that to be the case!" the Bear said theologically. "I do not prefer it and I wish her well" I continued "But we must consider yet another possible Occasion of Sin; The Department of the Interior!" "Ah! That Sodom and Gomorrah of Government Departments!" Thunderbear said ironically. "She was not only in it, she was head of it!" I said accusingly. "So she was!" The Great Bear replied "But not every DOI executive is bound for Hell; it only seems that way if you listen to that senator from Oregon or that Savonarola of an Inspector General, Devaney. Now it is true that the DOI has a somewhat higher celestial failure rate than other departments, but only because there is more to steal and thus more temptation. However, it must be proven that she indeed succumbed to temptation. , Otherwise, being in an Occasion of Sin but resisting it, is actually character building and meritorious; sort of like moral push-ups!" Thunderbear said, philosophically. I played my trump card "She now works for an oil company!" I said, with argument ending finality. "So she does!" Thunderbear replied "But working for an oil company does not prevent a person from going to Heaven." "But this isn't just any oil company! She's working for Royal Dutch Shell Corporation!" I said . "Working for Royal Dutch Shell does not necessarily make her the Princess of Darkness." The Great Bear said mildly "Though I must admit that she is playing with fire. metaphorically speaking." Royal Dutch Shell DOES have a reputation for pushing the envelope on moral issues. Ironically, I believe she is head of their legal department in the Colorado Oil Shale Project" the Bear said. "But why?" I demanded suspiciously. "Well" said Thunderbear sardonically. "I believe it is because they pay her money and she uses that money to buy the things she would like to have. I believe that is your system, no?" I ignored the Bear's sarcasm. "It's because she has inside knowledge of the workings of the Department of Interior!" I whispered conspiratorially. "NO!" said Thunderbear in stage astonishment. "And here I thought they were trying to achieve their Equal Opportunity Quota by hiring a woman!" "I rather suspect Shell was quite interested in her knowledge of the inner workings of the Department of Interior, particularly the Bureau of Land Management and the Bureau of Reclamation. You can't know too much about the BLM and the BOR." the Great Bear said enigmatically. "As you know, the reason Royal Dutch Shell is getting lawyered up, particularly with Gale Norton as chief of the legal department is that Shell is going to try to solve the Colorado Oil Shale Puzzle." "The Colorado Oil Shale Puzzle?" I asked. "Yes, it is one of a series of tests we prepared to test the mental and moral evolution of the human race." "Evolution?" I inquired "Well, yes!" The Great Bear said impatiently "Evolution is God's hobby." "Evolution is God's hobby?" I exclaimed incredulously. "Did you think it was collecting baseball cards?" Thunderbear said acerbically. "Look, if you're going to be around for all eternity, you don't want to be bored and a static universe would be pretty boring. This planet you call Earth, and all its inhabitants, are just one of billions of experiments we are carrying on throughout the Universe. If that makes you feel small, insignificant and unimportant, it is because you are." "But we're made in God's image!" I replied stoutly. "That's your opinion and it's a free Universe!" Thunderbear said mildly. "I should remind you that we have a planet that has sentient tape worms and their idea of God and Heaven are vividly different than yours; that's the way evolution works, you never can be sure what will turn up!" The Great Bear said philosophically. "But doesn't God love us?" "Not particularly. You're not a very lovable species. Interesting, fascinating, yes, but lovable? No. Pandas, koalas, even dinosaurs ace you in that respect." "But we're Earth's dominant species!" I protested. "So you are." Thunderbear conceded "I must admit I had my money on porpoises, since Earth is basically a water planet, despite the name. I should have realized that it's difficult to build a fire under water. I must admit you've come a long way since you first crawled onto dry land. We now recognize you as a geologic force along with wind, water, tectonic plates and volcanoes. Not bad for a monkey!" I ignored the species slur. "But what is the purpose of Evolution?" "New products!" The Bear said with the confident cynicism of a mid-level bureaucrat. "New products?" I asked, incredulously "Well yes! For example, beer was unknown in the Universe until you humans came along! Beer almost makes your species worthwhile!" Thunderbear said, popping another liter can of Grizzly lager. "You mean we exist only to provide toys and amusement for the Heavenly Host?" I said indignantly. "That's a definite side benefit of Evolution, but officially, the idea is that you will morally evolve ever upward, meeting and solving ethical challenges in a manner that causes you to grow in Goodness and Virtue" The Bear said piously. "Does this apply to the Bush Administration?" I inquired suspiciously. Thunderbear looked crestfallen. "The Bush Administration has, I'm afraid, reached a moral evolutionary dead end. It will become extinct." "Then Dick Cheney will go to Hell?" I asked, hopefully. "Judge not, lest you be judged!" Thunderbear said reprovingly. Remember, we cannot predict the future, that would spoil the fun. The Universe has billions of worlds and trillions of cultures, some of them quite bizarre, so the rules for Eternal Salvation or Damnation are rather elastic." "However", The Great Bear continued. "We do have one Universal Rule. If you go out of your way to be a mean S.O.B., then you are definitely a candidate for the Other Side, and your Vice President has certainly been willing to go that extra mile with his approval of torture." "Then Gale Norton will go to Hell? I inquired. "Not necessarily" replied Thunderbear. "Gale Norton is not cruel. On the other hand, there are other ways to go to Hell, particularly if you work for the Department of the Interior or an oil company." "Such as?" I asked. "Oh, the usual run of the mine stuff you find in the Department of Interior; mainly stealing and cheating, though that Grilles chap managed to throw in adultery and Bearing False witness; that's three out of ten of the Commandments; not bad for a political appointee." Thunderbear said cheerfully. "Then Grilles will go to Hell?" I insisted. "Don't know, not dead yet, he could repent. Do penance and so on" replied the Bear religiously. "Actually", Thunderbear said mischievously. "There is a fair chance Gale Norton could go to Heaven!" Thunderbear chuckled appreciatively as I choked and gagged on my beer. "Gale Norton go to Heaven?" I gasped. "If she can avoid Sinning while Royal Dutch Shell tries to solve the Colorado Shale Puzzle." "What would be the Sin?" I inquired. "Oh, the usual stuff involved in oil extraction on public lands. Defrauding the government, cheating the indigenous inhabitants, damaging the Environment, you know the usual stuff. In addition, we have the Extinction Proviso in which if you knowingly cause the extinction of a species, plant or animal, then you go directly to Hell without passing "Go". The Bear said complacently. "Does Gale Norton know this?" I asked. "I believe you teach it in Sunday school. It's common knowledge, Ten Commandments, Golden Rule, all that stuff, so, no excuses! Thunderbear said severely. "But what's so meritorious about her and an oil company making gazillions of dollars? Why should she and the Oil company people go to Heaven?" I asked querulously. "Ah! You object to doing good by doing well? "But what would be the good?" I demanded. "It would be a removal of a national occasion of Sin!" Thunderbear said dogmatically. "You see, the Colorado Oil Shale Deposit contains about two trillion barrels of crude oil. That is four times the reserves of Saudi Arabia, more than all the OPEC nations combined; few of which, by the way, love you. If you were to have a secure domestic source for your petroleum needs, then you might feel less inclined to bully other people." "But there are risks!" I said skeptically. "Yes. Shell's process involves building the world's largest crock pot to heat the oil bearing formation while keeping the oil captive within the boundaries created by the world's largest vertical ice hockey rink. It is a difficult feat, very much like juggling ten Molotov cocktails while smoking a cigar and riding a unicycle; failure could be quite spectacular!" "But if they are successful and do no harm, then Norton & Co will go to Heaven?" I asked. "Quite possibly." The Bear said, "There are no guarantees." "But what would Gale Norton do in Heaven!" I demanded. "Whatever she would like; that's one of the "perks" you know" replied Thunderbear "But I rather suspect she would like to participate in our VIP program." "VIP program?" "Yes, the Volunteers in the Planets Program. You see, God's Side is rather short staffed. You will recall that nearly half of the Heavenly Host went over to the Other Side in the War between Good and Evil to see who would run the Universe. God had no idea Evil would have such an appeal! Rather na•ve and short sighted of him, I must say, but then no one asked my opinion!" "What would be Gale Norton's duties as a Celestial VIP?" I inquired. "Oh, she would probably be given a planet to manage. You humans always believe you're smarter than God; this just gives you a chance to try." It was the second time I choked on my beer. "YOU MEAN THAT GREEDHEAD WITCH GETS TO BE A GODDESS!" I gasped. "VIP" The Great Bear corrected. "Very probably it would be a starter planet with unicellular life forms, if that" Thunderbear said soothingly. "She would be under strict supervision, environmental codes and all that. Besides, she's not there yet. She still has to get to Heaven, often a real challenge for you Department of Interior folks." I was still shaking my head in disbelief as the Great Bear rose to take his leave, spreading his 28 foot wings. "Gale Norton as a Goddess! I can't believe it!" Thunderbear turned as he exited. "That's the interesting thing about Evolution. You never know what will turn up once you start the process." SHOOT AND RELEASE When I was a lad growing up in South Dakota, my literary bibles were OUTDOOR LIFE and SPORTS AFIELD. Huntin' and fishin' is what you did on this earth; all else such as work and marriage, were irritating intervening variables. I enjoyed reading about huntin' 'n fishin' almost as much as actually doing them. Through reading, my tastes were being extended beyond what South Dakota had to offer. I longed to join Robert Ruark on the plains of East Africa, blasting away at the Noah's Ark of African wildlife with my trusty Winchester .458 (Did Ruark ever shoot a Giraffe? I wonder.) Anyways, month after month, there would be Robert Ruark in the pages of OUTDOOR LIFE or SPORTS AFIELD describing in heart stopping prose, the tracking of a wounded Cape Buffalo or some other unfortunate member of the African "Big Five" "game" animals (Was it a game to them as well?) The grass or thorn bush would always be thick enough to totally conceal the understandably vengeful Buffalo, Lion, or Rhino and Ruark would describe the oncoming Moment of Truth in the faux Hemingway style of the period. Despite the florid descriptive writing, there never was much suspense over who was going to win as there was always a photo at the beginning of the article, showing Robert Ruark & companions kneeling in a row beside the fallen Cape Buffalo, lion or whatever. Ol' Bob, Bush hat cocked rakishly over one eye, would be grinning up at the reader, as were the gun bearers, porters, and the White Hunter (He's The back up guy who would take care of things if Ol ' Bob" messed up.) Everyone was grinning, except the Cape buffalo or whatever. To a kid in South Dakota, it seemed a nice way to make a living. You went hunting, typed out the story of the hunt, sent it in to SPORTS AFIELD and they would send you money and you would go hunting and repeat the process. It had the resonance of a closed ecological system (though that terminology lay in the future). I could get very used to that life style. It seems that you didn't work very hard on these African Safaris (If you were one of the White guys, that is) somebody pitched your tent, laid out a change of clothing, cooked your meals and poured your drink around the campfire at the end of the day. It was like having Super Mom without the nagging. All you had to do was walk through the crackling brush and pull the trigger at the correct time. I could handle that. (That, and get the manuscript in on time) It struck me that my life as a professional big game hunter would be self funding once I got on the Safari conveyor belt; the question was, how was I to fund my very first or "starter" Safari? I had done some research, mainly in the back pages of SPORTS AFIELD, where the ads for guided hunts were found. I noted that the cost of a Safari that would allow me to shoot an elephant (and thus make the editors at SPORTS AFIELD take notice) was about 5 times the yearly salary of the average South Dakotan (or at least anyone I knew) Clearly, Robert Ruark hadn't financed his original Safari by working at Dairy Queen. About the only solution I could think of was that which had previously occurred to John Dillenger and others with a cash flow problem. This solution had the additional advantage of a much more interesting opening paragraph than any Robert Ruark story; one that was sure to grab an editor's attention. "I provided the teller at the First National Bank with the Moment of Truth in the form of my trusty Browning 9 mm pistol and she provided me with $45,000, part of which funded an air flight to London, where I had myself fitted with a couple of custom Holland & Holland Big Game rifles and engaged the Safari firm of Selby & Selby,the same firm used by Hemingway and Ruark. I insisted on having the same tracker, damn the expense, and the rest as they say, is history." Well, not quite. We South Dakotans are steady folk. We do not seize the day. We are civic minded souls like Tom Daschle or George McGovern, prone to making many good deeds and not much money. There is a reason that the Mafia is based in Sicily rather than South Dakota. Our Reward is Up Yonder. So I didn't rob the First National Bank and become a Professional African Big Game hunter and writer. As a career choice, it would have been unwise. Robert Ruark and the other White expatriates were soon overtaken by events. The African colonies obtained their independence and found catering to the whims of posturing European Big game hunters not high on their list of national priorities. In addition, cultural and literary fashions changed abruptly. Something called Ecology and the Environment was suddenly in fashion. Hunters (at least White ones) were no longer heroes. A leopard skin throw rug on the floor now received disapproving rather than admiring glances from house guests; animal heads on the wall were now thought bizarre and indicative of a sadistic nature. The macho literary styles of Ernest Hemingway ,and Robert Ruark are regarded by many as pretentious, vain and self centered; particularly if set in an Africa bedeviled by famine, AIDS, civil war, and drought. Ruark drank himself to death in Spain. Hemingway shot himself in Idaho. Perhaps it was best to remain in South Dakota and read SPORTS AFIELD. There were also fishing stories in SPORTS AFIELD probably more than hunting stories as there are more fisher folk than hunters. The editors of these magazines were pretty good students of market psychology; they set most of their articles on fishing events that were most likely to happen to their middle and lower middle class audience; that is, the getting of bass, perch, walleye, catfish and so on. It would be counterproductive to run too many stories about Black Marlin fishing off the Queensland coast of Australia or salmon fishing on Lord Dunraven's estate in Scotland. Might get the proles wondering about the misdistribution of wealth, or more likely, that SPORTS AFIELD had gone hoity-toity on them. Occasionally, however, there were fishing articles with an exotic locale, just to pique the interest of us folks in the frozen Midwest. One favorite venue was trout fishing in New Zealand. It was a hazardous sport as the New Zealand trout were so big that one risked a hernia trying to drag the yard long creatures into one's boat, and so numerous that one risked swamping the boat by overloading it with a morning's catch. There was no fishing limit except how long it took for your casting arm to grow tired. Now this was heady news to South Dakotans where it took four or five Black Hills trout to cover the bottom of a medium sized frying pan in the unlikely event you caught that many. Like the African Safari stories, the writers of these New Zealand fish stories never spoiled things by provided a budget or expense account voucher on exactly how much it cost him (or somebody) to wet a line in New Zealand's Lake Taupo. Like JP Morgan's famous remark on the cost of a yacht, the cost of a New Zealand fishing trip was best left politely unstated. In more recent times, several things have changed; New Zealand has become much less exotic and is easier to get to, and the fish are getting smaller and harder to catch, and there is now a bag limit, just like in South Dakota. But there is what might be termed "true rumors" of huge trout in virtually unfished, inaccessible wilderness. The rumors are true; such places and such trout do exist in New Zealand the problem is that unless you are a very hearty Kiwi with years of local fishing savvy under your hat brim, you are going to need a fishing guide and a helicopter. This usually means you are a rich Australian, North American or European (The Chinese will be along shortly.) The people that do this sort of thing, in addition to being well to do, are devout members of Mystical Holy Faith of Fly Fishing. Acolytes of Fly Fishing make the most committed Zen Buddhist seem like frivolous Holy Rollers. The Extreme Fly Fisherperson is not seeking Nirvana. They are seeking something far more difficult; The Perfect Day, The Perfect Stream, The Perfect Cast, The Perfect Strike, The Perfect Fish, The Perfect Battle, The Perfect Landing. If all the "Perfects" can come together in one Perfect compression of events, then Fly fishing Nirvana has been achieved and the Fly Fisher person can then die content. If the above sounds a bit weird, it is only because you are not a member of The True Faith; otherwise you would understand why it is necessary to devote your life and fortune to touring remote steams in Russia, Alaska, Canada, Patagonia, and of course, New Zealand in search of that elusive "perfect," Joan and I met such a couple at a sheep station on the edge of the Ruahine mountain wilderness. We were staying at the farm, which doubled as a Bed & Breakfast, as we planned to do a river rafting trip in the morning. Other guests had come up to see the regionally famous horse jumping meet and possibly, buy a horse. However, the stars of the evening dining table would be the Judge and his wife, who were devoting the remainder of their lives to fly fishing and that Perfect Day. The Judge and his wife had hired a nationally famous guide and a helicopter for a few days' fishing, and dinner would be respectfully postponed until their arrival. At this point, I must insert a polemic on my prejudices against machines in nature. Helicopter fishing as well as helicopter hiking, skiing, and even mountain biking is just one facet of a nightmarish trend to industrialize and commodify the Great Outdoors throughout the world, beginning in the United States, where, ironically, the concept of Wilderness was first conceived. This new way of enjoying the Outdoors is highly mechanized. Participants arrive in what passes for the Outdoors in some sort of fossil fueled all terrain vehicles, the type depending on the season (unimog, snowmobile, jet ski etc. ) The participants will not sleep in (much less carry) a tent, they will instead sleep in some sort of mobile home, complete with all the amenities. The participants will rarely be out of hearing range of the comforting roar of their fellow participant's equipment in the new industrialized "wilderness". The new "wilderness" will be commodified and essentially privatized, with "concessioners" charging you to park, walk, fish, camp, climb, and defecate. They will have a meter on virtually every activity except breathing. In the United States, the industrialization, commodification and privatization of public lands is being spearheaded by the Bush Junta and an evil organization called innocently enough "The American Recreation Coalition (ARC)." To learn more about ARC and the privatization of your public lands, go to www.wildwilderness.org. Wild Wilderness and its gadfly Executive Director, Scott Silver are not exactly unbiased, but they do provide a blood boiling read. The reader will now understand that your kindly editor has an attitude toward helicopter recreation; coupled with delay of dinner, I was prepared to heartily detest the wealthy judge and his wife. Life unfortunately is not that simple. The Judge and his wife turned out to be totally delightful people; Tall, thin, silver haired Californians in their 80's, they immediately put everyone at ease with their kindly, self depreciatory humor and concern for others. It turned out that both had been lawyers, he rising to The California State Supreme Court. They been married to each other for 60 of their 80 plus years and were a good poster children for the advantages of marriage and wealth. There is no getting around it neighbors, Money is generally good for you! (Paris Hilton not withstanding.) Having just the right amount of it seems to be the problem. The judge and his wife appeared to have achieved that enviable position and were pursuing trout around the world. (Look, it beats starting wars!) In addition, they were so charming I was willing to overlook the helicopter bit. This day the Judge's wife had encountered a Zen Trout and had The Perfect Fly Fishing Experience. They took turns excitingly describing the event; the stream, the canyon, the cast, the strike and the nearly hour long battle to land the creature. Melville's Captain Ahab and Hemingway's Cuban fisherman were only slightly more driven in their quest for the ultimate quarry than this lady. The Judge's Wife fought the wily trout among boulders, log jams, streamside brush and even out into rapids leading to a possibly fatal waterfall. Both the guide and her husband ordered her to cut the line. "Not in this lifetime!" She advised them. To a dedicated fly fisher, there are some things more important than life itself. Finally, the exhausted trout was brought to net, one of the largest the guide had ever seen. The audience was spellbound. Joan broke the spell. My wife is an exceedingly practical lady, so she innocently inquired if the trout was for dinner. "No," said the Judge's wife "We practice catch and release fishing." To ask a Zen trout fisherperson if they were going to eat their catch is sort of like asking Tiger Woods if he planned to butcher and barbecue his next PGA opponent. It is simply not something they do. Catch and release fishing is a relatively new phenomenon. Years ago, indeed in my youth, there was absolutely no question: If you didn't personally eat the fish, you generously cleaned them and gave them to someone who would; often a retired neighbor. Why go fishing if someone was not going to eat the fish? The answer today is that with a population of 300 million and gaining, there are probably more of us than trout in America. It is to everyone's advantage to recycle the trout. Also, some folks don't care for the taste of trout. Then there are streams where the EPA warns you not to eat the fish therein more than once a month, or even ever, lest you over fulfill your carcinogen quota. Last, but certainly not least, is the Noble Opponent factor in which you acknowledge the fighting spirit of the fish and, in return for an hour or so of sport, you give the fish The Gift of Life and release him, allowing him to swim off wondering "Now what the hell was that all about?" But is catch and release cruel? Experts differ on whether fish can experience what we call pain. They can obviously respond to being touched and they very obviously object to restraint and they go to considerable lengths to avoid it, which makes catching them so much fun (at least for the fisherman). Exactly how much of the experience the fish can philosophically process is open to question. Obviously, there is considerable stress and trauma involved in Catch and Release fishing and many piscine participants do not survive the experience, but I reckon if the trout had his druthers he would vote for catch and release over the frying pan. As Catch and Release fishing is here to stay as a cultural icon and may possibly become the major outcome of most sport fishing, the question arises if there may not soon be a similar phenomenon on the horizon for sport hunting. That would be shoot and release. By the end of the 19th century, very few Americans outside of Alaska were seriously trying to feed their families on "game" they shot. Other than a few hardscrabble poachers (Edward Abbey's father was one such) most Americans were "sport" hunters and hunted "game" during legally defined seasons using legally defined methods. There was some criticism of sport hunting since there was plenty of animal protein in the butcher shops of New York City, there was really no reason for Theodore Roosevelt to go big game hunting in Africa and John Muir pointed this out to Roosevelt. Roosevelt replied, with a straight face, that he hunted not for sport, but rather to obtain specimens for museum collections. Butter, as they say, wouldn't melt in Teddy's mouth! Hunters also felt they were on safe ground when it came to killing large predatory animals, our direct competitors "stock killin' cougars 'n' wolves and so on." The young ecologist to be, Aldo Leopold, thought he was going to "make a paradise for deer hunters" by killing off all the wolves in a locality. He was to learn better. The Evils of forbidding hunting were deemed to be self evident. In one famous case, Steven Mather of the National Park Service refused to allow the reduction of the North Rim deer herd in Grand Canyon National Park, believing that the deer could be driven to the South Rim. They could not and there was a celebrated "die off"; an incident mentioned in every University Wildlife Management course since that time. Hunting, we are told, is the only practical way to control ungulate populations in the absence of predators such as wolves. (When it is mischievously suggested that the wolf card be played and that predator be introduced in say, Rocky Mountain National Park, we are informed that that would be "politically impossible". The reason it would be politically impossible is that the public land around the park is leased to welfare ranchers who tend to vote Greedhead Republican.) In truth, even if some Second Coming Miracle caused Greedhead Republicans to lose their grip on the rocky mountain West, it takes some time to establish a viable wolf pack. Even then, the "Balance of Nature" results in Nature putting a heavy thumb on the scales, resulting in a loss of vegetation and consequent starvation of the ungulates. So park officials are offered two choices; both devil's bargains and both unpalatable. One is to bring in the Lads from New Zealand. The PRO HUNT company, who will scientifically reduce or eliminate any animal you might wish to put a contract on. For example, they eradicated all the feral pigs on a Channel Island for the National Park Service. They are expert sharpshooters as well as skilled and knowledable animal behaviorists. Nothing they do is "fair" or "sporting", just very, very efficient and effective. One favorite trick of the PRO HUNT trade is the Judas Doe. A female of the species is live trapped during the rutting season, given large doses of female hormone and staked near a blind full of Kiwi sharpshooters. Faster than you can say "Paul Wolfowitz", Sex drives the males to their doom. Naturally, the boys down at the Cowboy Bar & Grill don't see why the Guv'mint should pay them funny talkin' foreigners to kill them Elk that rightly belong to God fearin'Americans etc etc and why shouldn't they be allowed to hunt in the Rocky Mountain National Park? One reason is that even fully sober, the boys from the Cowboy Bar & Grill cannot hold a candle to the Kiwis. The New Zealanders don't miss and above all, they don't wound. As one taxpayer remarked "When the first gut shot Elk staggers into a campground with intestines dragging, the Superintendent of Rocky Mountain will have a public relations disaster defending sport hunting in his park." That is true. Fortunately, there are other choices available to the Superintendent of Rocky Mountain National Park and Director Mary Bomar. Now Mary Bomar is a bright woman. She knows that Greedhead Republicans do not give a rat's rectum about Elk overpopulation in Rocky Mountain National Park, nor do Greetheads fret overmuch about the sad over- browsing of aspen by said Elk, nor do they really care about the right of the boys from the Cowboy Bar & Grill to blast away at the park elk. What the Greedheads want is a wedge issue such as hunting in the National Parks, so that the states can manage the hunting, and have a serious say in park management with the hope of eventual privatization as states often hold still for rape and rapine better than the Feds. Now Ms Bomar knows this, but she will not say so out loud (She is a liberal Republican, but she is not crazy). At a future press conference, she might be asked for her solution to, say the overpopulation of elk, deer, or bison in the various national parks. (This is an important question; if Ms. Bomar solves this one she can move directly to something simple, like solving the Arab-Israeli issue.) Speaking in her delightful "Home Counties" English accent, she could tell the questioner that the "NPS was studying the issue'' (Critics of the NPS view the agency as the biggest collection of Talmudic scholars of all time, because the Agency is always "studying" something but never doing anything) The impatient questioner might note the above and ask the Director to be a bit more specific. Director Bomar could allow that there was over rousing and overgrazing by certain ungulates that was changing the flora and even the historic scene in many of our National Park Units. The immediate, short term solution would be the removal of the "surplus" animals. "Then you plan to allow hunting in the National Parks!" The incredulous reporter would respond. "No." The Director could reply "Hunting implies the death of the animal. We would employee "shoot and release" techniques; that is the animal would be shot with a tranquilizer dart and then relocated to other areas, Federal, State or Tribal where there was a shortage of such animals or there was an acceptable plan for the reintroduction of the species", The relocation program would be conducted by the National Park Service and the Fish & Wildlife Service. It would be managed in house by the DOI except for the State or Tribal agencies receiving the animals" Skeptics will be outraged. "Do you know how MUCH it COSTS to dart, tranquilize, provide veterinary service for, and transport, and relocate a single elk! Well, no neighbor, I don't, but let me ask YOU a question "How much does it cost to replace an Abrams tank destroyed by a shaped charge? (The answer, surprisingly, is nothing; zero: It seems that the Tank Fairy puts another one under President Bush's pillow every time one is destroyed! One of the few blessings of the Iraq War is that it makes any other expenditure of federal monies, no matter how inane or off the wall, look like sane and responsible use of taxpayer funds.) But will "Shoot and release" hunting work? Don't see why not. Research biologists have been darting large, dangerous animals for years to take measurements, blood and other samples from the tranquilized beast, which (generally) wakes up a safe few minutes later after the researchers have departed; the animal wondering what the hell that was about. "Shoot and release" hunting has actually been tried in some of the less chaotic parts of Africa, where hard pressed parks need money for management and research. Say that some well to do Yank has always wanted to "shoot" an endangered Rhino, why not let him do so, but with a tranquilizer dart rifle and charge him $2,000 for the privilege. The researchers take their samples and the hunter gets to pose on top of the sleeping Rhino. (There is a frisson of danger in that reaction to the chemical will vary from animal to animal and they can rise from their sleep at an inopportune moment!) "Shoot and release" hunting is particularly useful in dealing with "Mega-cute" species that are exotic pests in a park, but whose extermination would pose a public relations nightmare for the NPS . The exotic Fallow deer of Point Reyes National Seashore are one example. A (generally) white deer with interesting antlers, the creatures have a charismatic, almost unicorn charm for the tofu eating liberal vegetarians who make up the Congressional letter writing population of Marin County, California, where Point Reyes National Seashore is located. The darted deer could either be neutered or shipped off to the various animal refugias around the country, such as Cleveland Amory's Black Beauty Ranch near Murchison, Texas. Obviously, there are a number of situations where shoot and release would not work, or would be very difficult. One such situation would be the exotic mountain goats of Olympic National Park. The possibility of darting and removing them was considered, but it was pointed out that tranquilizing the goats as they try to climb a sheer cliff would be fatal and thus that version of "shot and release" was dropped. (I believe the NPS solved the exotic problem in the typical NPS mannerŃby deciding that the Mountain goats were not all that exotic.) In dealing with surplus Bison in Yellowstone, shoot & release has some side benefits. One of the embarrassing things about "hunting" buffalo with a modern rifle is that the trusting, curious creatures are so easy to kill, very much like shooting shaggy brown sofas. Shoot & release would put the adventure back into Bison hunting. As Yellowstone is a national park belonging to all the states, the hunters would be U.S. Senators and/or Congressmen obtaining Bison for their state's parks and game programs. The hunters would approach on foot, the mechanics of the dart gun requiring them to get relatively close; the danger and adventure is that the drug does not always work, or works too slowly; the Bison might put two and two together as to the source of the pin prick. The Moment of Truth! Naturally, there would be no rifle back up. The Senators and Congressmen, particularly the Macho Greedheads, would want it that way. WHITE ISLAND Understandably, most of the world's active volcanoes are publicly owned. That is, most active volcanoes are some sort of national park or preserve, such as Mount Rainier, Mount Lassen, Hawaii Volcanoes, Mount St. Helens, Mexico's Popocatepetl, New Zealand's Ruapehu, and so on. Even Mount Vesuvius of Pompeii fame is owned by the government (At least the crater, or business end) One can readily see why. Even the most rapacious Greedhead land "developer" would find "developing" an active volcano a pretty hard sell. (THINK OF IT! YOUR VERY OWN RETIREMENT RANCHETTE ON THE DYNAMIC SLOPES OF MOUNT ST. HELENS! ACT NOW BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!) On the other hand, perhaps we should not plant dangerous ideas in the mind of Forest Service Chief Abigail Kimbell. However, there is an exception to the rule of publicly owned active volcanoes Naturally, it is in Kiwi land. White Island is New Zealand's privately owned active volcano. Indeed, now that Mount Ruapehu in Tongariro National Park has decided to take a nap, White Island is New Zealand's most active volcano. (The collapse of the natural dam holding back Rupahehu's Crater Lake and the resulting Lahar on March 19 was the result of rainfall, not volcanic action.) White Island is located about 28 km off the East Coast town of Whakatane in the Bay of Plenty on the North Island of New Zealand. White Island is one of the hundreds of glowing coals that make up the famed Pacific Ring of Fire that runs in a ragged circle from New Zealand through Indonesia and the Philippines to Japan and Kamchatka, arcing east through the Aleutian Islands and Alaska, down through the fire mountains of the Pacific Northwest with a break of perhaps a thousand miles before resuming again in Mexico and continuing enthusiastically through Central America and down the Andes to link with Mount Erebus volcano in Antarctica and completing the ring in New Zealand. White Island was named, like just about everything else in the Pacific, by Captain James Cook. 18th century explorers were sort of the NASCAR drivers of their time and were expected to publicize their sponsors. Rather than wearing brand names on their uniforms, the explorer would name a geographical feature after a patron or someone they wanted to toady up to, thus a volcano on the west coast of the North Island that had the perfectly serviceable Maori name of "Teranaki" was renamed Mount Egmont in honor of the Earl of Egmont whom Cook wanted to impress. The hapless Hawaiian Islands became, for a mercifully short time, The Sandwich Islands, in order to please another of Cook's friends, the Earl of Sandwich. On the other hand, Cook, a blunt, practical, no nonsense Yorkshireman, could be quite literal when naming things if important people didn't need to be impressed. Thus, a New Zealand Bay where there was plenty of food became "The Bay of Plenty" on the map. Likewise a bay that was full of islands became "The Bay of Islands". White Island was named White Island, because, um, it was white and barren in appearance to Captain Cook when he sailed past in 1769. He did not land and thus the volcanic nature of the island was not noted. The even more practical, no nonsense Maori of course, knew of the weird and mysterious smoking, steaming island. They called it "Whakaari" (to become visible) and had done the usual resource inventory; not enough of anything to make permanent settlement worthwhile, no Greenstone (jade) for tools and trade, no flax for clothing, rope, and fiber, no arable land to plant their food staple, kumera, (sweet potato) There was a seasonal harvest of seabird eggs, and the Maori delicacy, Mutton birds, and shellfish as well as some fishing. Then of course, there was the spiritual spookiness of the place. All in all, there was no reason for the pragmatic and practical Maori to attempt a permanent settlement on White Island. There is, however, something about islands that tugs at romantic side of the human heart. Everyone would like to own an island; even a fire breathing dragon of an island like White Island. And, as it turned out, White Island had no shortage of buyers and sellers. George Buttle, the ancestor of the present owners, when asked why he had purchased such a monstrous piece of real estate, replied that he "rather liked the idea of owning a volcano and strange as it may seem, the island is unbelievably beautiful and beyond description. Surely, it is one of the wonders of the world." The problem with islands (and a large part of their charm) is that you have to get there, have a reason for being there, and eventually get back to the mainland. This is called isolation and it can be inconvenient. The reason for being on White Island was initially the large fortune that was alleged to be lying on the ground, just waiting to be picked up. In this case, allegedly "huge deposits" of sulphur. (Mining Corporation stock prospectus haven't changed much in cock eyed optimism since the days the Jamestown Colony promised easy money and no work to discerning gentlemen who were willing to get in on the ground floor of this amazing opportunity.) It was advertised that the White Island sulphur deposits were "vast, pure, and self-renewing"; an inexhaustible cash cow, a slam-dunk of an opportunity it sounds like something George W. Bush would invest in. The first sulphur mining operations started in 1885. As it turned out, there were deposits of sulphur, but they were not "vast" and they certainly were not high grade and required expensive refining. In addition to the remote location, the acid atmosphere devours metal machinery and even eats concrete. The island pumps 2600 tons of carbon dioxide and 400 tons of sulphur dioxide into the atmosphere every day (but don't tell Al Gore) As they like to say in Corporate literature "There have been some unforeseen costs". Then there was danger. Active volcanoes are unstable. That is their job description. In 1914, the western rim of the crater wall collapsed and the fast moving landslide obliterated the mining operation and the ten miners on duty. Sulphur mining was resumed in 1923, and ran off and on during that optimistic decade. The 1930's saw the world wide Great Depression and the sulphur mining operation closed forever, leaving the island to the birds and geologic time... Enter the Buttle family in 1933, who just wanted to own their own volcano. The family trust was approached in 1953 by the Department of Conservation (DOC) with the view of possibly making the island a National Park. Agreement could not be reached between the Buttles and DOC on a proper price for the island. What did emerge from the discussion was New Zealand's first (and only) Private Scenic Reserve, in which the family trust agreed to not develop the island and preserve its natural and historic features in return (presumably) for some sort of tax write off. In return, the trust could take guided tours to the Island, charging the market price. Today's market price is $150.00 NZ. Per person. Isn't that a bit steep? Well now, it depends on how much you want to see an active volcano, particularly one with its own island. New Zealand's public volcano, Tongariro National Park, is open to the taxpayers free of charge (Though as Karl Rove would be quick to remind you, it is a government volcano and thus is prone to loafing on the job and not erupting at convenient times.) We very much did want to see White Island, so we called ahead to the town of Whakatane to see if they planned to go out that day. Trips to White Island are contingent on the weather, or more precisely, the pacific swells. If for any reason, the swells are running too high and strong, then the boat will not go out that day as transfer from boat to island is done by Zodiac inflatable and is a bit tricky. Too much swell, no Go. Since Whakatane is a fairly remote town, there is no point in showing up unless the boat is going, so you call early in the morning to see if the trip was on. The trip was definitely on, so we journeyed down to Whakatane and signed up. Interestingly enough, it is the weather and NOT volcanic activity that will cancel a trip to White Island. The casual observer might think that if the volcano was erupting, then the trip would be canceled lest you be cancelled. Such does not appear to be the case. If you happen to get caught in an eruption, the company attitude seems to be "My! Aren't you the lucky ones?" You are asked to sign the famous New Zealand Waiver of any thought of suing for damages if you are killed or otherwise damaged. New Zealand is the home of "Extreme Sports" and Dangerous Activities. The reason that Danger has found a home in New Zealand is not just that the Kiwis are plucky (they are!) but mainly because the New Zealand courts take a dim view of anyone who brings a lawsuit about being injured after being advised that what they were going to do is damn fool dangerous. There is one company that, for a fee, will fling you across a canyon from some sort of catapult; another lets you abseil (rappel) 100 meters into a cave where you go "black water rafting" in ice water. "Do people ever get hurt"? I asked one proprietor "Oh yes!" He replied enthusiastically, "The risk is real!" The courts quite plainly believe in what might be called the Darwin effect and that Extreme Sports or activities are Nature's way of weeding out people who really don't believe in gravity or other laws of nature. Some of the waivers Joan and I have signed have taken a perverse delight in pointing out that "foreigners" (probably New Yorkers) who have sought redress in New Zealand courts have been forced to pay court costs when their frivolous suits were thrown out of court. The Kiwis do have a point in keeping the Legal Profession, particularly tort claim lawyers on a short leash. It has been estimated that tort claim lawyers cost every American an additional $3,000 a year from litigation costs that are passed on to the consumer. At any rate, we agreed that we understood there was a risk to life and limb from superheated steam, boiling mud, poisonous gases, falling rocks, explosions and so on, but that did not dampen our desire to see White Island, so we signed. We trooped aboard the "PeeJay" a comfortable 60 foot, diesel powered cruiser with ample cabin space and plenty of open deck for sea life viewing. There were some 42 paying customers aboard, making the owners of the volcano, a tidy $5880 NZ Naturally, there is the cost of running a large vessel and crew, and no income at all on days the swells are too high. Nonetheless, it seemed to be a living, and there were plans for an even larger boat. We motored down the harbor channel and past the Whakatane Memorial. The Whakatane Memorial commemorates the very first blow struck for Women's Liberation in New Zealand. (The Kiwis really get off on this stuff!) It seems that 800 years ago, a group of Maoris had their big canoes, each capable of transporting a score or more of people drawn up on the beach awaiting departure. One of the canoes was full of women and children, but the men had not boarded. A freak wave set the canoe adrift and the strong off shore current seized it. All that was necessary was for someone to take the steering oar and straighten things out. However, it was tapu, forbidden for a woman to touch a steering oar under pain of death as it would cause the world to end or something. The Chief's daughter, a quick thinker, who would be a member of parliament today, stood up and called out to witnesses "WHAKATANE! ("I shall act as a man!") And seized the steering oar and saved the canoe and its passengers. The world did not come to an end, the chief's daughter was not punished and 700 years later, New Zealand became the first country to give women the right to vote, and more recently, they elected a female Prime Minister, Helen Clark. In the US, the Tapu remains in effect as it is widely believed the world will end if we elect Hillary. The PEE-JAY stood out to sea on a bright calm day with White Island a jagged triangle on the horizon, smoking like a Chinese steel mill. The voyage out to the island would take more than an hour, which, as far as I was concerned would be one of the delights of the experience. I've always considered boats and trains to be the two most civilized modes of travel. You can walk around, look at things and talk to people; it doesn't get much better. Now if you are pressed for time (say, your execution has been rescheduled) you can take a helicopter out to White Island, but it will cost you $300 and you will miss seeing the whales and /or porpoises. We did not see any whales but we did see lots porpoises. It seemed they were looking for us. The porpoises are intelligent and supremely adapted to making a living in the sea. However, porpoise recreation and vacation time seems to have been rather restricted until the advent of the human race and the power boat. When we humans arrived on the scene, things became much more interesting. Porpoises realized that they could body surf on the bow waves of large power boats; and so they do. The huge grey, splendidly designed creatures reveled in riding the bow wave. The skipper demonstrated the competitive nature of the creatures by increasing speed. Not every porpoise could keep up (Not all of us are triathlon athletes either) but a significant number accepted the challenge and rode the wave for a significant distance. As time and distance passed, White Island began to define itself like its Maori name Whakaari suggests. A tilted crater bowl, one third open to the sea, the bowl surrounded by serrated crater walls that descend to the sea and poke out to form a half dozen grim, forbidding coves in the red-gray rock. It is a desert island with no visible plant life; every attempt at plant life being killed by the poisonous vapors. Vast plumes of steam rise from the crater floor. It is every kid's fantasy of an Island of Doom, complete with a boiling lake of acid, sulphur stalagmites, roaring steam vents, burping mud pots and a spectral abandoned mining camp. (Indeed some footage of "Lord of the Rings" was shot here). The island is roughly triangular; about 2 km by 2.4 km and 321 meters at its highest (that's 1.2 by 1.5 miles and 1,053 feet in Christian measurements) it is the summit of a large submarine volcano between 150,000 and 200,000 years old. We entered Crater Bay and anchored off shore of what could pass for one of Jupiter's moons. It is truly an eerie, otherworldly experience. At this point, we were issued our hard hats and gas masks. We tourists then transferred to Zodiac inflatables for the short, but bouncy trip to shore and the leap onto the crumbling pier. We were divided into two groups of around 20 each and set out on the leisurely two hour tour of the island. Our guide gave us a few common sense safety recommendations: Don't feel the steam jets to see if they're hot (they are) and don't wander off the trail to explore. Some of the more safety minded visitors asked what they should do if the volcano started to erupt. "Well" the guide deadpanned, "You might consider running as fast as you can back to the anchorage." "Will there be time"? the nervous one asked. "No" The guide said solemnly "But at least you can wave good bye to the Captain as he heads for open sea to avoid the Tsunami and the incandescent gas cloud!" The hard hats and the gas masks were a gesture toward New Zealand's rather relaxed sense of liability in risk taking. As the guides say "No amount of scientific monitoring can guarantee that there will be any warning of an eruption, but while we acknowledge the risk, in all the years that tourists have been visiting, no one has been seriously injured by volcanic activity." The guides vividly described what the tours were like when the island was erupting in July, 2000. "Heavy Pacific swells had prevented us from taking tours to the island for several days, but when we returned with tour groups we found that everything had changed. The trails had been obliterated and we had to probe as we went along. Hot ash was pouring down and covering the tourists with a thick coating that made it difficult to tell who was who. Footing was slippery and breathing somewhat difficult. Several tourists pointed out that many of the small hills were expanding and contracting rhythmically and asked if that was unusual. The guide kept his stiff upper lip and remarked on how lucky they were to witness it. ("Whinging", that is, sniveling and complaining, is not permitted among New Zealand tourists.) We passed steaming brook of Tequila clear water. "Can you drink it?" One visitor asked. "You can" replied the guide "but I don't recommend it unless you're Australian." (The punch line for that one is that it tastes like Aussie beer, being very dilute sulphuric acid) Patriotic Aussies in the group groaned in indignation. Joan particularly liked the mud pots, which upchuck regularly and make all those interesting noises young children make when they want to gross out their parents. The piece de resistance was the boiling crater lake, shrouded in wraiths of eye smarting white mist. It was a place where the gas masks were needed and the lake of boiling sulphuric acid surged ominously. We finished the tour at the little mining camp for some industrial archeology (The fumes had preserved the Douglas Fir beams and timbers, while continually eating away at the metal and even concrete of the structures) and learned the ins and mostly outs of financing a shoe string mining company. We returned to the PEE JAY happy campers, time and money well spent. Now then, cut to the chase. Is White Island, New Zealand's only private National Park, a possible role model for Yellowstone and the rest of the national parks? That is, should you expect to pay $150 for a day in Yellowstone or Yosemite? Don't immediately reject such blasphemy as poppycock, neighbors. For one thing, The White Island Trust does a remarkably fine, low key, non-invasive job. It is a pure wilderness park. There are no visitor centers, or hotels or gift shops or interpretive signs, or indeed any signs at all, Trails are faint and often redesigned by the volcano. There are no campgrounds, there is not even that NPS sign of Civilization, The Comfort Station (visitors are asked to" go" on the boat before landing) . Milton Friedman, bless his deceased heart, would be even more pleased, as the great economist believed in the privatization of Nature, believing that if people were truly interested in the preservation of something they would pay good money to see it and thus preserve the area. However, according to Uncle Miltie, if not enough people wanted to pay to see the alpine wildflower meadow, it would then revert to a "higher use" that is, summer condos for rich people. So would $150 a day per person be enough to support Yellowstone or Yosemite? Well, I don't know neighbors; I'll leave that to the bean counters. Would people hold still for $150 a day? Again, I don't know. It is amazing what people will pay. I understand that the more expensive rooms in Yosemite's Ahwanee Hotel go for around $1,000 a night. Is that justifiable? Certainly! If you're that dumb and have that much money, someone should take it away from you. Indeed, if I ever rented a room in a National Park hotel, it would have to be the $1,000 suite at the Ahwanee. I deserve it! In the interim, I would like to pitch my tent somewhere in the park and not pay much more that $10 a night for that right. Furthermore, I don't believe anyone should pay an entrance fee for a national park anymore than they should pay an entrance fee to libraries, museums or other public educational institution. (Yes, I realize some public museums and zoos charge, but I don't agree that it is good policy.) Now where did I get these socialistic ideas? Well, neighbors, New Zealand is pretty contagious. You see they have 14 National Parks and a gazillion tracks, walks and scenic areas and they don't have entrance fees. (You do have to pay to stay in the huts.) This does not mean that the Kiwis do not have free enterprise at its grasping, clawing, Friedman best! The New Zealand National Parks provide the dance floor upon which the park visitor and the park entrepreneur can dance. That is, entrance and basic services (water, toilets and an often unstaffed nature center are free). However, "activities" are extra. They are conducted by licensed concessionaires who will, for a price, fly you up to a glacier on Mount Cook or guide you to the top of Mount Aspiring in the park of that name or take you on a boat trip through Fjordland National Park. The beauty of this system is that you can choose not to dance with the concessionaire. You can do it free of charge yourself. You can bring your own kayak, raft; or tent. It may take longer and, depending on your skill level, be a tad more dangerous, but come on in, the park is free. The Kiwis are a deeply egalitarian people and realize that free access to the public patrimony is only "fair go" for everyone However, canny Friedmanites as they are, they also realize that "free" nature is a great "loss leader" in the competition for tourist dollars; something that has yet to occur to our own masters. Although the concept of an entrance fee to an American national park has been around for some time, age of concept does not make it desirable (slavery also was around for a long time) Nor are entry fees universal throughout the park system (though greedheads within and without the NPS would dearly like to make entry fees universal). Neither Great Smoky Mountains NP nor Big Bend NP have entrance fees. When you think about it, a ticket booth at the entrance to an area of inspiring natural beauty is a bit bizarre; sort of like a toll booth at the entrance to a church; it would be a bit premature and presumptuous on the part of the clergy. Indeed, the purveyors of religion, who have been at the trade far longer than the NPS are astute enough to discreetly hit up the congregation for a free will donation midway through the service, the results being dependent on quality of experience received. Fair enough! So why does the NPS not only stubbornly insist on an entrance fee and perversely insists on increasing it every lunar month? One of the problems of the NPS is semantics. This is the use of the weasel word "recreation." The word "Recreation" allows Greedheads to reduce the park experience to the lowest possible common denominator, of no greater significance than a trip to a bowling alley. Greedheads can thus quantify matters: A visit to Yosemite is a better "bargain" than a visit to Disneyland, so we should not complain. It is only a matter of time before David Barna or some other NPS flack asserts that a day spent at Yellowstone is cheaper than an evening spent at Hooters! Despite the heroic efforts of the American Recreation Coalition, the main use of the national parks is not or should not be industrial, fossil fueled recreation. By eliminating industrial recreation from the national parks, you can "green scissors" much of the cost of running a park. For example, you don't have the cost of "grooming" a snowmobile trail if you don't have snowmobiles. You don't have the cost of maintaining a marina if you don't have a marina. (Take the kayak or canoe off the top of the car and walk to the water's edge.) OK, but the bulk of the cost of running a park is still staring the Manager in the face. Do YOU know how much it costs operate a major national park like Yellowstone? No I don't. But what is the cost of operating an aircraft carrier battle group? How come ARC, NPCA and the rest of the pathetic alphabet soup of interest groups never get around to that question? Perhaps we need President Bush to get on TV and do an update of Dwight Eisenhower's famous "Cross of Iron" speech, the one that warned of the military industrial complex. I can hear George's earnest Texas twang intoning. "The cost of just one missile frigate could purchase all the private in holdings in all the national parks; The yearly cost of operating a single Chinook helicopter could pay the salaries of ten seasonal rangers. (Ms Bomar could help him with the exact figures.) But don't we need missile frigates and Chinook helicopters and Abrams tanks and the rest of the hardware? Yes, I expect we do. But we don't have bake sales or ask for donations to buy a tank. Nor do we ask people to work for nothing. We get our military hardware, roads, bridges, space programs and the rest, the normal way, through often rancorous congressional action and resulting appropriations We don't charge admission to our warships or bases and we certainly don't charge admission to our wars. So, appropriate adequate funds to maintain and improve these parks and let the taxpayers in free, just like at Great Smoky, Golden Gate NRA or Big Bend. In the interim, White Island can continue as the world's only private volcanic national park, with a tip of the Stetson to Milton Friedman and Adam Smith. KIWI NOTES Until relatively recently, one of the great charms of New Zealand was real estate. That is, the availability of dream land. You could, as a middle class Brit, Yank, or even worse, a nasty opportunistic Aussie) sell your home in London, Los Angeles, or Sydney and go to Kiwi Land and buy yourself a "life Style" property, a small farm or "station" (ranch) where you could play at being a gentleman farmer or stockman. This can also be done in the USA with no problem if your name is Ted Turner or Bill Gates. However, for most Yanks, you have to inherit the "Lazy J" ranch or Sunnybrook farm in order to get your boots muddy on a regular basis. The reason is that there are 300 million of us, as opposed to 4 million Kiwis. Another advantage of the Kiwi population shortage is plain, ordinary ocean front beach property. When Joan and I trundled into the seaside town of Waihi, too tired to pitch a tent, we looked up a Bed & Breakfast in our trusty bible, Lonely Planet's GUIDE TO NEW ZEALAND. The famed backpacker's guide to cheap digs and food, led us to the "Beachfront B & B", Val and Dave, proprietors. We had proceeded up a street of modest, well kept homes and arrived at the Beachfront B & B. Now neighbors, back in the States, particularly the Eastern States, if you have a rental establishment calling itself "Ocean View" or "Beachfront", this would mean that if you were a chimney sweep or had some other reason for being up on the roof, you could, on a clear day, catch a sliver view of the ocean or the beach in the far distance. However, this was Kiwi Land and the Beachfront B & B was quite literally on the beach. There was a small, but quite beautiful garden, a raised picnic table, then 20 meters of sand, and then the Pacific Ocean. The interesting thing was that there was no fence or gate between us and the sea. The modest little house simply had the world's largest ocean as its backyard. I glanced nervously over the hedge. If this had been Southern California, our neighbors would be Clint Eastwood or Arnold Schwarzenegger. No worries, our neighbors were ordinary, non- famous Kiwis who cheerily waved a greeting. Our hosts, Val and Dave suggested we might like to have a glass of wine and watch the sun dip into the surf. Well, yes, that would be nice. In the good old overcrowded USA, one would have to book a room at a rather expensive resort for such an Oceanside experience, unless one was friends with Clint or Arnold. As it turned out, Dave, our host, was neither a film producer nor Governor, but rather the local mechanic. The bed was a bit soft and springy (A Kiwi endemic problem, neighbors!) but breakfast served by the sea was excellent. When it came time to settle up, there was a slight glitch. I hauled out my trusty plastic Visa, known, loved and accepted from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe, but alas, not at the Beachfront B &B. Val regretfully informed me that they could not accept Visa as they wanted to keep costs down. They would accept cash or check. Fair enough, but I had neither. This sort of left negotiating in Paua shells or possum skins. How were we going to solve this? "No worries"! said Val "When you get back home, just mail me a check! 'Nice to be trusted", I said, "but would you like my card so you could remind me if I conveniently forgot?" Val would have none of it To accept my card would imply that she didn't trust me and that was not the Kiwi way! O.K, Val, have it your way. Kiwis are almost uniformly kind and helpful and will quite literally go out of their way and even risk life and limb to help you, even if you are a complete stranger. This was demonstrated to me in a reasonably spectacular manner when we were driving down to Queenstown from Wanaka on the South Island. The road, was the usual two lane spectacular mountain road, sinuous as a sidewinder, but with very few pull outs or passing lanes. You just drove and admired. Now Kiwi drivers are quite good, but they are somewhat impatient, ranking second behind the US in road rage crimes. So with that fact firmly in mind, when the Black SUV that had suddenly pulled up behind us began flashing its lights, I looked for a spot to pull over to let him pass. There was none. Perhaps I wasn't going fast enough (though I was at or above the speed limit). Taking the flashing lights as a prompt, I speeded up and left him behind. A few minutes and a few curves later, the SUV was back, lights flashing and impatient horn beeping. Still no place to pull over. I passed a car or two to put some distance between us. Still he pursued us with the tenacity and inevitability of the Grim Reaper. Finally, before the descent into Queenstown, there was a scenic overlook. Gratefully, I took it. A moment later, the SUV roared into the pull out and slid to a stop beside us. What I had done to offend him, I wondered. Had I dented him in a parking lot, cut him off at a roundabout? What the hell was wrong? The driver got out of the car. He was holding my wife's purse. The one with her passport and credit cards and so on. It seems that I had failed to slam the trunk and Joan's purse had fallen out on the highway. The SUV driver handed me the purse, while I stood dumbstartled. "Always check your boot (trunk), mate!" He said, roaring off in a cloud of dust. I felt like the grateful townspeople at the conclusion of those LONE RANGER programs "Who WAS that guy?" He had risked life and limb on a busy mountain road to stop and recover the purse and pursue me to return it. This is the Kiwi Way! But don't Kiwis ever tire of being Kind, Helpful, and Good? Doesn't the milk of human kindness ever curdle? Well, yes. If you hang around Kiwi land long enough, you will meet some rude or even wicked Kiwis. (Sometimes you don't have to wait long: One family was robbed of everything they had 20 minutes after arriving in New Zealand, which is something of a speed record!) Indeed, when you park at a trail head, you may notice "Kiwi diamonds" glittering on the ground. These are granules of safety glass deposited when a "hoon" (bad guy) bashes out a car window to get at the goodies within. What we Yanks call "Car clouting" is a real problem in Kiwi land and is probably the only serious crime that you will encounter in New Zealand. (In passing, like every ranger, I am continually amazed with what people leave in a car parked at a trail head; passports, credit cards, birth certificates, enough cash to paper a wall, camcorders complete with irreplaceable wedding pictures, the deed to the ranch and so on. A good rule of thumb when parking at a trail head is that any item you can't see donating to the Army of Lost Souls should go into your day pack or the pouch around your neck.) Encounters with armed bad guys is very rare (though increasing) and the police are generally unarmed (though this is changing). Should the police encounter a hostile armed citizen, they secure the area and the safety of innocent bystanders, and "contain" the Bad Guy until the arrival of the Armed Offenders Squad who are equipped with all manner of firearms, both long range and fully automatic, and are trained to shoot people. (Should you feel you have detected a flaw in the logic of New Zealand police planning, i.e. how, exactly, does an unarmed policeman "contain" an armed offender; you would not be the first with that feeling.) The Kiwi sense of humor is often very iconoclastic, very much like the Australian, but often more subtle. As far as we Yanks are concerned, the Kiwis enjoy sending up the shortcomings of the US, particularly the Administration of George Bush, whom most New Zealanders regard as a sort of secular Anti-Christ. This was brought home to me one day as I was strolling down Queen Street, the main drag of New Zealand's most populous city (about 1.2 million) . I noticed a large imposing mansion with a porch and white colonnades. It looked very much like George Bush's current home, The White House. I noticed that it was festooned with American flags, including a large one drooping from a jack staff on the porch. I assumed it was some kind of US information service library of the type sponsored by the US State Department in foreign countries. Anxious to catch up on the latest U.S. periodicals, I decided to stop by. There was a very elegant blue sign with crossed American flags, identifying the establishment as The White House Entertainment Center. Odd name for an information center, I thought. It turned out that the "White House Entertainment Center" is a combination strip joint and house of prostitution (that trade being legal in New Zealand). Speaking of prostitution, Kiwis can be earnestly hilarious and not even seem to notice! This Holy week, it was announced that the courts would have to decide on whether brothels would have to close on Good Friday and Easter Sunday. (The New Testament is not clear what Mary Magdalene did on Saturday.) Now, a born again Christian might think that the Forces of Righteousness had finally mobilized to preserve the sanctity of Holy Week in Kiwi land, statistically the most irreligious of the English speaking countries. Such is not the case. Good Friday and Easter Sunday are simply holidays; but Kiwis regard holidays as a secular religion. The legal point was not whether the girls were selling Sin, but rather whether they were selling "goods" or "services." If they were selling "goods" the brothels would have to close on Good Friday and Easter Sunday. If they were selling a "Service" they could remain open. The courts took little time in deciding that the girls were selling a service; thus the brothels could stay open on Good Friday, the Majesty of the Law was upheld and Kiwi civilization could march forward. ************************************************************************ If the test of a good sheep shearer is the ability to carry on a political discussion while working then the muscular brown Maori was passing with flying colors Seizing a sheep from the pen, he stacked the beast on its rump and expertly disrobed the sheep with practiced strokes of his electric shears. "Tell me, Yank! How is it that you still have that Ning Nong hanging around?" He asked with a mischievous grin. I assumed the "Ning Nong" in question was President Bush. I was correct. Now most Kiwis are very circumspect and courteous in discussing the Bush administration with Americans. Generally, they try to avoid the topic, lest your feelings be hurt or they appear to be anti-American. If, for some unavoidable reason, the subject of the 43rd President comes up, they will preface their remarks with the boiler plate statement "We know it's not your fault and you had nothing to do with it, but..." as if your father was Jack the Ripper. The Maori was straightforward and curious. He was simply interested in how we obtained George W. Bush, and more importantly, why we kept him after certain shortcomings became spectacularly apparent. I tried to explain that we had a different form of government than that of New Zealand; That our form of government could be called a "guided Democracy" in which people of wealth and power did the Guiding to the Correct Destination, lest the Common People be misled as to where Their True Interests lie. The Founding Fathers saw that the Achilles Heel of Democracy was the vote. If everyone had the uncontrolled right to vote, well then, you would have Government For the People and By the People. Alexander Hamilton saw that this was a Big Mistake. "The People" said Alex "Are a great beast!" It was obvious to the Founding Fathers, who were Men of Property, that if the poor or enslaved voted, they might elect people who supported their interests. Therefore, the several states controlled who voted on the basis of property ownership. (owning property and the responsibility of voting confused and overstressed the fragile constitutions of women who were gallantly exempted from either.) Over the years, the Wisdom of The Founding Fathers has become eroded. In 1913, the 17th Amendment was passed, allowing for the direct election of U.S. Senators by the citizens of the state. Previously, Senators had correctly been appointed by state legislators dominated by Men of Property who understood the Big Picture. Further erosion occurred in 1920, when the 19th amendment was passed giving women the right to vote. In 1964, American Blacks were given the right to vote throughout the United States with out the inconvenience of being murdered. Men of Property (who by this time were Corporation CEO's) were understandably concerned. The wrong sort of people might come to power. Their fears were unwarranted, however. The American system of Checks & Balances worked (That is, a check on the popular vote and the Balance of Power in the hands of the rich and powerful. Several things saved the day. One was the foresight of the Founding Fathers. The Electoral College could be used to override the popular vote should the people make an Inappropriate Choice (such as Al Gore) The Supreme Court can be counted upon to validate the proceedings. Secondly, there is economics: One has to BE a Man of Property even if he/she is opposing The Men of Property, as it costs many millions to run for public office. Thirdly, there is technology. Fast and efficient electronic voting with no messy paper trail. Don't you worry your pretty little head about these complicated things. Trust us. Fourthly, there is good old Apathy. Yanks don't seem to care, even if their vital interests are at stake. Voter turnout runs around 50-60%. In New Zealand, it runs above 80%. This is why we have the "Ning Nong" George Bush for President of the U.S. The Maori had shorn five sheep in the time it took me to tell the story. "Yes, but why do you STILL have the Ning-Nong? The Maori persisted. Understandable question. The Kiwis operate under a parliamentary system called the Mixed Member Proportional System under which eight years of George Bush or someone else so wildly unpopular would be virtually impossible. Under the MMP system, each voter gets two votes. The Party vote is for the party that the voter would like to see in power (There are 8 political parties that range across the political spectrum.) The two most important parties are Labour, which is Center Left and the Nationals, which is the Center Right party of business. Usually, in order to govern, the major parties form coalitions with the smaller, special interest parties, such as the Green (environmental) party. The voter's second vote goes to the candidate the voter wants as his local Member of Parliament in the 120 member parliament. This candidate may or may not be of the same party that the voter voted for. To qualify for seats in parliament, a party must get 5% of all the party votes cast in the election or at least one elected MP. One advantage of the MMP system is that no one, be they left or right, is disenfranchised. Their voice, somewhat muted, will be heard. (The folks who voted for Al Gore or John Kerry might as well have been living in Outer Mongolia after Nov.6 as far as the Executive Branch was concerned.) Another advantage of the system is that a vote of No confidence can be called in the case of a government seen to be moving down an unpopular path and a snap (unscheduled) election called. This eliminates the March of the Living Dead that we have in an unpopular president as we wait desperately for the clock to tick him away. It also eliminates the messy invective of impeachment proceedings with all the "High Crimes and Misdemeanors" melodrama. The Maori shearer was amazed and dumbstartled that we hadn't figured out a better way of getting rid of a loser. So was I. ************************************************************************ So is it true that New Zealand is the most beautiful, desirable place on earth? Well, now neighbors, that's one opinion. There are other opinions, even among New Zealanders. Mary Davis, former Chief Historian of the Washita Battlefield in Oklahoma, recalls one such opinion. One day a New Zealander came into the visitor center, his face shining with pleasure. He was realizing a boyhood ambition: He had always wanted to visit Oklahoma! He was totally entranced by the "Green sea of grass rolling to the horizon." He loved the "Big blue bowl of sky" that surrounded one. He was fascinated by the wild, flamboyant history of Oklahoma with its Indian wars, cavalry, gunfighters, bandits, land rushes, oil rushes, He traveled about Oklahoma and Kansas, always returning to Washita Battlefield NHS to tell Mary of his latest discoveries. The Okies thought the Kiwi was crazy. "Why do you want to come here? There's nothing here!" they told him. "Americans should travel abroad more" The Kiwi earnestly advised Mary, "Then they would realize what a great country they have! Like I say, neighbors, different people have different opinions. THE SAFETY MESSAGE The pioneer American aviator, Charles Lindberg, told his children to plan for the unexpected "As it is always the unexpected, the unplanned event for which you have no contingency plan that will destroy you." Actually, that advice is statistically inaccurate. Safety officers will tell you, most people are done in by routine, predictable and thus preventable events. Nothing exotic is required. The victim need not to be engulfed by a Burmese python to die in Everglades National Park; falling asleep at the wheel driving across the park will do the job just fine, thank you. Fortunately, there are relatively few things that will kill you in God's Great Outdoors (which is a good reason to stay outside.) The few things that will kill or injure you are: A. Gravity: Either things land on you or you land on things B. Water: Either too much or not enough. You can't breathe it, but you must drink enough of it C. Temperature: You must stay warm, but not too warm, cool but not cold D. Lightning (God's way of shaking hands) avoid it. If you can manage the above, you will eliminate 98% of the threats to your existence. "But what about starving to death in the Wilderness?" Unless you are a member of the Donner Party, this is not a problem. The "Wilderness" isn't what it used to be. You can live for nearly a month without food, and if they haven't found you by that time, you must be one unpopular guy, "But what about dangerous animals?" That would be in the remaining 2%, along with exotic miscellany. Folks who write "survival" manuals pad them with snake, scorpion and bear anecdotes lest the volume be too thin. Not that these anecdotes are untrue, it is just they are so rare as to be actuarially insignificant (granted, it is not insignificant if it is your head the bear is chewing on) On the other hand, the danger should not be discounted. Don Chase, former Chief Ranger of Glacier Bay National Park, once heard a Bear researcher say "That hiking in Alaska Bear country was safer than commuting on the Los Angeles Freeway." Being of a mischievous and analytical turn of mind and not willing to accept a statement as fact, even from an "expert." Don ran the statistics for Alaskan bear incidents and accidents on the LA freeway on the park computer. Don discovered the way statistics often work, that danger is relative to the amount of exposure. That is, if I understood Don correctly, that it was indeed true that the one time hiker in Bear country wasn't taking much more of a statistical risk than a driver on the LA freeway. HOWEVER, the vast majority of those who commute for two hours a day on the LA Freeway every day for 30 years suffer only aggravation and happily retire to die of heart disease. ON THE OTHER HAND, if our commuter had to hike through Bear country for two hours a day for 30 years (time adjusted for active Bear time), Don discovered, our commuter's chances of avoiding a life changing bear encounter would be almost nil. So the danger does exist. Now it could be argued that a bear attack in bear country is not an unexpected event, and that the prudent hiker has equipped himself with bear spray, portable electric fence, the latest intelligence from the NPS or other agency, etc etc. thus the Lindbergh warning is unnecessary. Perhaps. Take, for example, the mellow country of New Zealand, where everything and everybody is harmless. The New Zealand Tourist Bureau reminds you that there are no dangerous creatures in New Zealand. You can go anywhere and not be attacked by the wildlife. If you complain about being bitten by sand flies, you will be reminded that there are no bears in New Zealand National Parks and that you should not complain. There are no snakes, poisonous or otherwise. There is a reasonably poisonous native spider, the Katipo, but it is rare to the point of being an endangered species, so it sort of an honor being bitten by one. There have been only two deaths from Katipo bites, both in the 19th century, and most Kiwi hospitals stock an antivenen. Indeed most outdoor deaths in New Zealand relate to gravity (falling off Mount Cook or one its mates) inability to breathe water, or failure to keep warm (exposure). Wild animals are not a problem. (Indeed, the Kiwis made fun of their harmless animals in a truly awful horror movie called "Black Sheep" in which the nation's 40 million sheep revolt and began massacring the humans.) So there is no dangerous native wildlife in New Zealand? Perhaps. Perhaps not. As the ghost of Charles Lindbergh would say "It is the unexpected that gets you" But how does one predict the unexpected. Joan and I decided to take a tour with a group of young Australian vacationers to the remote and wild headlands and beaches of Cape Farewell on the northern part of the South Island. (Young Australians have a keen nose for finding inexpensive trips and they are a lot of fun, so it's a good idea to join them if you have a chance.) Cape Farewell is sort of Point Reyes or the Mendocino Coast on steroids; everything oversized and melodramatic; high waves crashing against high cliffs, great sea stacks looming out of the Tasman sea, one carved into an arch like God's monocle. There were also sloping beaches for walking. So walk we did, that was what we were here for. One of the party, Trevor, discovered a sea cave in the base of one of the cliffs. "Let's have a look!" he said in that chipper "why not?" Aussie accent known throughout the world. Sea caves usually have spectacular entrances, but they normally go in very far, rarely beyond daylight, as the force of the sea that creates them eventually spends itself. The world's most famous sea cave, Fingal's Cave in Scotland, is only about 250 feet long and 75 feet high. This particular sea cave was getting beyond the normal and into the "rarely." It seemed to go quite a ways and we were running out of daylight. I didn't think of Colonel Lindbergh and his admonition about the unexpected, but it did occur to me that no one had checked the tide tables before we started out. Sea caves are extended by water rushing into them. The area was known for a tidal range. I could visualize the headlines "Aussie, Yank tourists drowned in cave by spring tides." "Perhaps we should turn back as we no longer can see" I said nervously, but not unreasonably. That problem was solved, however. No one had thought to bring a "torch" (flashlight). But in this modern era, everyone had a cell phone and cell phones give off a little light, perhaps not a candle's worth, but still a faint light which bounced eerily off the dripping cave walls and ceiling. This rock was limestone, much more soluble in water than the basalt of Fingal's Cave, and might explain its surprising length. Fiona, Trevor's girl friend, stopped suddenly and said in a very sober voice "Trevor! There's something alive in here! Something moved!" "Reckon there is, Fiona!" Trevor said in mock fear "You suppose it might be us?" "NO, REALLY!" she said "SOMETHING ON THE FLOOR! BIG WORMS! OMIGAWD! THEY'RE COMING! RUN!" Now neighbors, I am reasonably curious, but I did not want to find out what the "Big Worms" were, so I joined the run. As soon as I began to see daylight, I looked back. The "worms" were New Zealand fur seals and they were on the attack, moving with amazing speed. The fur seal are dangerous only when you (a) get between them and their young and (b) when you get between them and the sea. We had overfufiled (b) by cornering them in a cave. They were one angry pack of fur seals. In some respects the idea of being attacked by seals is sort of improbable; kind of like being ambushed by penguins, so Fiona could be forgiven for getting the giggles and stopping to photograph the oncoming pack of angry sea mammals bearing down on her. "THEY BITE! RUN!" someone yelled. This bit of information snapped Fiona back in reality and she outdistanced the seals. They do indeed bite. They weigh in at over 300 pounds and have large, sharp teeth. That is not the worst of it. Their bite, even a minor one, is septic, like that of the Komodo dragon. In the days of the 19th century sealing trade, the only "cure" for a fur seal bite was to put a tourniquet above the wound, have a "mate" lop off the affected part and cauterize the stump with a hot iron. Today, a heroic regime of antibiotics will generally save you and most of your parts. However, one paramedic later told me of a girl who lost much of the calf of her leg to a fur seal bite. At the entrance to the case, our party scattered to the left and right and our pursuers continued on into the Tasman Sea. We laughed and joked about our narrow escape from these Walt Disney cartoon characters come to life, but upon sober reflection, Charles Lindbergh had been correct. It was the unexpected and our complacency that nearly got us into trouble. We had acted on assumptions that simply were not true. We had assumed that the sea cave would not be deep; it was. We had assumed that there would be enough light from makeshift sources, there was not. We assumed that there were no dangerous creatures in New Zealand; there are. We assumed because we had plenty of "mates" there could be no problem; there could. We assumed because it was a bright sunny day there could be no danger, there was. Charles Lindbergh never assumed. It is not a safe practice. THE SUGGESTION BOX Well now neighbors, you have reached the end of a long issue of THUNDERBEAR. Perhaps you would like to comment on one or more of the articles or past issues. THEREFORE, we are providing a Suggestion Box in which you can add your two cents. Enjoy! Name E-mail

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PJ Ryan can be reached at:
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