"BECAUSE WE ARE!"
Well now! Obviously everyone heeded the Thunderbear Safety Message in issue #278 and voted for President Barrack Obama.
You didn't?
Hmm! Then how did he get elected?
Well, neighbors, I don't rightly know!
Perhaps it was Redskin Karma.
Redskin Karma?
Yup! Fate! Something completely out of human control!
You see, if the Washington Redskins football team wins the home game immediately before the November 4th Presidential election, then the incumbent party will win the election. However, if the Redskins lose the game just before the election, then the challenging party will win.
The Redskins lost and thus Obama won.
The Redskin Karma has been accurate in predicting all but one of the last 18 presidential elections.
Then of course, there were the actions of retired NPS Regional Director John Cook.
In addition to being one of few liberal Democrats in the National Park Service, Cook is also a member of the Cherokee Nation.
Cook told me he burned so much sage and sacred tobacco alerting the Great Spirit as to the need to elect Barrack Obama that a smog alert was declared in his hometown!
For what ever reason Obama won by a comfortable 7 million margin and we can return to our normal role as the world's Good Guys.
First of all, congratulation are in order to all Americans for pulling off a year long tutorial in participatory democracy for the rest of the world!
So, everyone, Republicans and Democrats, stand up, join hands, take one step forward, and take a bow!
John McCain waged a gallant campaign against daunting odds. He also waged a remarkably clean one. When asked by a supporter if Obama was some sort of Moslem Extremist, McCain did not hesitate for a second. He instantly replied that Obama was a fine American and a good family man.
McCain's concession speech was eloquent and to the point. McCain noted the moral tectonic plate shift of the election.
"A century ago, President Theodore Roosevelt's invitation of Booker T. Washington to dine at the White House was taken as an outrage in many quarters.America today is a world removed from the cruel and prideful bigotry of that time. There is no better evidence of this than the election of an African American to the presidency of the United States. Let there be no reason for any American to fail to cherish their citizenship in this, the greatest nation on Earth."
Amen, Brother McCain!
At various Washington dinner parties, foreign devils would sometimes point out America's shortcomings, usually ending with the snide remark "You Americans think you're better than anyone else."
Your Editor would always reply "Well, that's because we are! (Admittedly, under the Bush Administration, that was an increasingly difficult argument to defend.)
Now things have changed. We are the first major nation to elect as chief executive, a member of a racial minority. It will be sometime before Great Britain elects a Black prime minister, China elects a Tibetan, or India, an Untouchable.
The world knows this.
If we quietly and humbly accept the duties and obligations of being the World's Best Example, it might just mean that we really are.
OH, SHENANDOAH!
"Just what good is Nature if you can't use it to make money?" is a well-known Greedhead complaint.
Well now, according to Jesus, Nature doesn't have to "work"; it is "good" in and of itself ("Consider the Lilies of the field how they grow; they neither toil nor spin..." (Matt 6:28)
Nice sentiment on the part of Jesus.
However, what would have happened had a Pharisee (Biblical Bush Republican) shown up while Jesus was contemplating the Lilies of the Field the dialog might have gone this way:
Pharisee: "Excuse me, Sir! But what are you doing?"Jesus: "I'm considering the Lilies of the Field...."I say unto you, Solomon in all his glory..."
Pharisee: (Irritably) "Yeah! Yeah! I can see that! Do you have a GOLDEN JACKEL PASSPORT for Lilies of the Field watching?
Jesus: (Genuinely puzzled) "Well, no. I was just passing by and thought these Lilies needed considering, you see "They neither spin...".
Pharisee: (increasingly irritated) Look! Caesar says ya gotta have a GOLDEN JACKEL PASSPORT to consider the Lilies of the Field."
Now Jesus always believed in "rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar's" so he probably would have asked the Pharisee where he could get a GOLDEN JACKEL PASSPORT.
The Pharisee would have smoothly replied "No problem! Just show up at the Temple Money Changers! They'll be glad to sell you one anytime!"
Philosophically, uncompensated Lily watching has always been a problem for Greedheads, particularly the American variety.
Since Jesus wasn't running a florist shop or a funeral parlor, His interest in lilies was suspect. What was His profit motive?
Like the Lilies of the Field, The American National Parks have always been a bit suspect in Greedhead circles.
What, for example, of Shenandoah National Park?
Technically, Shenandoah is not a "working" forest. It just sort of hangs around, an immense arboreal Welfare Bum of a forest. You can't cut it, or eat it; just look at it, so how do you value it from a Greedhead perspective?
Surprisingly, Shenandoah does have tangible economic value. It is a significant part of the thousand miles of Autumn tourism called "Leaf Peeping" stretching from Great Smoky Mountains National Park to the Laurentian mountains in Quebec. "Leaf peeping" lasts about six weeks and brings about a billion dollars into the local economies of the Appalachian, Adirondack and Laurentian regions.
Autumn leaves are a fabulous crop. It requires no input of resources, (no fertilizer or chemicals), is completely self tending, self planting, recycles its own waste and is self-renewing each year, producing a predictable harvest of visitor dollars each year. The only serious negative in the equation is the significant consumption of fossil fuel (and we'll shortly find a way around that).
The key factor in "Leaf Peeping" is to arrive just as the leaves are reaching their "climax" in color change; it is very ephemeral, depending on altitude, latitude, local weather during the summer, and will change from year to year. The state of New York has an elaborate automated "Climax Alert" system for the benefit of travelers, as do the New England states.
Not so Shenandoah. The taxpayers are permitted to manually harass the rangers as to when the exact climax is to be reached, a not always predictable event.
Needless to say, these constant inquiries as to climax can wear on the psyches of the Shenandoah rangers.
I recall one memorable autumn when I called a Shenandoah ranger and innocently asked, "Are the leaves reaching climax?"
Without missing a beat, She replied "Just a minute, PJ, I'll ask one! She then did an imitation of a leaf reenacting that famous scene by Meg Ryan in the movie "When Harry Met Sally.'
We would probably miss the exact Shenandoah Climax of 2008, as we would combine a drive through the Golden Glory of Shenandoah with the celebration of our wedding anniversary, which normally includes a duck dinner, as Joan loves duck.
Now while you can get a very good duck dinner in Washington, DC (You can get virtually anything in DC as generations of lobbyists have proved) Culpeper, Virginia would provide access to a duck dinner as well as access to Shenandoah National Park, the best of all possible worlds.
Therefore, our anniversary dinner was moved to Culpeper due to its proximity to Shenandoah National Park. Now I am not sure what economists call this type of valuation, but the existence of Shenandoah National Park effectively moved my disposable dollars out of wicked Washington into Virtuous rural Virginia.
In addition, a wedding anniversary requires a present and Culpeper, Virginia was more than up to that job. The old Piedmont Virginia town, which had changed hands a number of times during The War of the Rebellion, had long been gentrified, with Main St lined with expensive arts & craft shops and restaurants.
Long gone are the typical small town Ace Hardware and Western Auto, and Mom's Home Cooking Café (Don't sneer indignantly! You stand a better chance of buying something made by a real, live American in one of those arts and crafts shop than you do in Ace Hardware or Western Autos of America!)
As for Mom's Home Cooking Café, Mom and her artery clogging meals have been retired in favor of various Asian fusion and Santa Fe New Mexican cafes. Front Royal, Virginia is getting to be the only place where you can get really bad Southern cooking in the Piedmont.
Indeed, the Virginia Piedmont boasts one of the finest (and certainly one the most expensive) restaurants in America. That would be The Inn at Little Washington, chief industry of the little hamlet of Washington, Virginia The fixed price menu starts at $200 per person and that is without wine (It is perhaps best to declare yourself a Mormon, Moslem or Seventh Day Adventist for the course of the meal.) Then there is tip and tax, resulting in a significant negative cash flow.
Therefore, we were having our anniversary lunch in Culpeper rather than the Inn at Little Washington. (However, one of the chefs at the Inn at Little Washington had recently defected to Foti's restaurant in Culpeper theoretically providing the best of all worlds, a good meal at relatively low price.)
This proved to be the case, the duck was excellent and we moved on to help with the economic rejuvenation of downtown Culpeper
I headquartered myself in one of the Culpeper bookshops (another advantage of small town gentrification) and sent Joan off to shop for her anniversary present. Wasn't that my job? No, it wasn't. I'm not lazy; just practical. Who among you have not purchased an anniversary "surprise" for a spouse and had it received with all the enthusiasm of Emperor Herohito announcing the surrender of Japan. It is far, far better for the spouse to do the legwork, coming up with a list and location of three acceptable presents and sending you off to purchase one of the three. In this manner, "surprise" is still achieved and no one's feelings are hurt.
In the interim, I made several book purchases that I would not have done.
All this, lunch, books, and gift were happening in Culpeper due to the proximity of our goal, Shenandoah National Park. Thus, even from a Greedhead perspective, Shenandoah has some justification for its existence.
We entered the park at the Thornton Gap entrance near Sperryville. The plan was to drive up the parkway, "see some color" and exit the park at the North End at Front Royal.
This was also the plan of apparently everyone in DC and Northern Virginia who owned an automobile. There was a long, patient line of cars backed up from the entrance station; a sort of Lenin's Tomb queue of metal clad leaf peepers.
This is exactly what Virginia's Senator Harry Flood Byrd and Detroit's Henry Ford wanted; a National Park of the Future; a Park totally devoted to the automobile, where you could experience Nature without once getting out of your automobile. (Ford donated $20,000 toward the establishment of Shenandoah; it is unlikely that he was interested in the hike down to White Oak Canyon waterfall.)
Now before we get all Sierra Club indignant at the Rape of Nature by insensitive Federal Philistines and their Corporate cronies we must consider the times and the people involved.
God Creates Nature, but humans create National Parks.
At the time of Shenandoah's creation in the late 20's and early 30's, Harry Flood Byrd as Governor and Senator had a derelict mountain range on his hands. It was eroded, logged out land, full of failed mining ventures and desperately poor tenant farmers. (The lives and plight of Appalachian "Yeoman" farmers have been romanticized in books and the TV series "The Waltons", but it is improbable that everyone who lived in the "hollers" was as sensitive as John Boy.)
It is also unlikely that Shenandoah National Park could be built today (and "built" is the operative word) There would be too much opposition from environmental groups. The building of Shenandoah required the carving of a two lane all weather road along the military crest of a mountain range, complete with scenic viewpoints and rest stops.
It was a tour de force of landscape architecture (God was consulted, but not too often).
The two lanes of cars moved slowly but inexorably toward the park entrance station. Fee collection was being done pleasantly and efficiently, as is usually the case in the national parks.
It has been said, "National Parks are America's best idea" (or words to that effect).
If that is true, then entrance fees for national parks are among America's dumber ideas.
The Greedhead Commando, Fran Mainella, arguably the worst Director in the history of the National Park Service, would beg to differ.
"People do not value what they get for free" she has sniffed on several occasions.
Like air? Like sunlight? Come on!
People seem to "value" the Smithsonian museums that line the Mall and do not seem to mind that they are "free".
Hawaii's magnificent system of county and state parks is free to everyone, local or tourist, and is much valued and much used. (I would suspect that Barrack Obama, growing up in genteel poverty in Hawaii, very much appreciated the free beach parks.)
Now are there other positions on fees other than the Greedhead one? Well, yes!
Since we have quoted a Bush toady on the subject of fees, perhaps we should quote a professional; in this case, former superintendent JW (Bill) Wade who was superintendent of (Yes, you guessed it!) our very own Shenandoah National Park for some nine years.
According to Ranger Bill:
"It is my personal belief that there should be NO entrance fees for any citizen to enter any unit of our National Park System. I have no problem with some kinds of user fees, but we shouldn't do anything to hinder anyone from entering these areas and taking part in the reasons they are part of the system. Similarly I am against charging for interpretive programs of any kind. I believe one of the primary reasons we are in business is to educate the public and we shouldn't charge people for that education."
John Muir could not have put it better! Well said, Bill!
Bill graciously points out that the above quote is his own personal belief and does not necessarily represent the position of the Coalition of Retired National Park Rangers or some of its members.
Mmm! I'll just bet it doesn't!
I could write the generic" Letter to the Editor of Thunderbear" and save everyone the effort!
"Shucks! Wade is wrong! If it hadn't been for entrance fees and our Fee Demonstration parking lot, and our "Pay to Star Gaze Midnight Nature Walk" we wouldn't have been able to build our state of the art Comfort Station with pay toilets that accept credit cards!
Your kindly editor exaggerates, but not by much!
The problem with National Park entrance fees is that they provided an insidious precedent for charging "Use" fees in National Forests and other public lands.
"Come on! You pay an entrance fee at Grand Canyon! Why should you object to paying a fee to walk in Sabino Canyon outside of Tucson? All those people walkin', droppin' things! We got expenses, cheapskate!" goes the insidious refrain.
"It's just common sense!" as Karl Rove would have famously said, "You get a service, you have to pay a price! Just common sense! Even if that "service" is a walk in a field and a look at the lilies?
Another problem is that the park or wilderness experience has been trivialized by calling it "recreation" as if a traverse of Grand Canyon had no more significance than Wednesday bowling or a visit to a pool hall (Ya wanna bowl, ya gotta pay! Ya want to shoot pool, ya gotta pay! Ya wanna walk up and down, ya gotta pay! Same no difference.)
The Outdoor Experience is coarsened by the continual roar of fossil fuel fed engines -- snow machines in the winter and Jet skis and ATV's in the summer time. The sound of money: The sound of fee generation.
It doesn't have to be this way.
It is amazing the difference an election can make in a Democracy, however!
I refer to the midterm congressional election of 2006 where the Greedheads lost control of key environmental committees in Congress.
One such committee was the House subcommittee on Parks and Public Lands, now chaired not by some resource extraction troglodyte, but now run by the environmentally sound Congressman Raul Grijalva of Arizona.
In June of 2008, Congressman Grijalva called a hearing on public lands use fees.
The title of the hearing was "Paying to Play: Implementation of fee authority on Federal Lands."
Your kindly, unbiased editor had the pleasure of attending the hearing.
The hearing was somewhat one sided, as the only testimony in favor of fees came from the two Bush environmental thugs, Lynn Scarlett, Deputy Secretary of Interior and her Forest Service counterpart, Undersecretary of Agriculture Mark Rey. Both of these land pirates noted how much money they had squeezed out of the Outdoors public and intimated that was the only way to pay for maintenance of our public.
An alternative way to finance public lands was presented by Bill Wade, looking John Muirish in a salt and pepper beard.
After pointing out how unfair and un-American it was to manage our public lands with an economic apartheid system (those who can pay, can play; those who cannot, can't) Bill cut to the sneering argument of the various Karl Roves: "How are we going to pay for parks and public lands?"
Bill Wade's answer was the same way we pay for Defense Department toys; with Congressional appropriations after suitable debate in Congress.
Wade pointed out that the yearly budget of the NPS was 2.4 billion, (About 0.002 percent of the 2009 budget) whereas the Department of Defense was 550 billion. The cost of one, just one, B2 bomber is a whopping 2 billion dollars. If we were to not build just one B2s, we could nearly double the amount of money we spend on our parks. Would visitors to Yellowstone fearfully glance at the sky, looking for their lost B2? Bill thinks not, and I tend to agree with him.
Bill went on to point out that even defective and dangerous DOD toys are not off the table. He cited the case of the Osprey troop carrying aircraft, 110 million dollars apiece and "challenging" to fly (nearly a score of Marine deaths). Seems we are scheduled to buy 400 of these turkeys for a total of 44 billion. You can maintain a lot of campgrounds with 44 billion.
Your editor would be remiss in not mentioning Ms Kitty Benzar who also appeared as a witness against use fees. She is the President of the grassroots anti-use fee organization WESTERN SLOPE NO FEE COALITION based in Durango, Colorado.
Ms Kitty, unlike Scarlett, is REALLY grassroots. No PhD, but she is a volunteer fire fighter and makes her living as an Emergency Room Technician. She and her organization roused people throughout the West to fight back against the Bush gang,
Chairman Grijalva asked her, in her opinion, which of the land management agencies did the "Best" job in user fee use.
In one of the more amusing moments of the Hearing, Ms Benzar responded, "Sir, that is sort of like being asked which stick you would like to be hit with!" (Ms Benzar eventually nominated the The Bureau of Reclamation, as lack of staff makes fee collection difficult, not that they don't try.)
So that was about it. Hearings are about testimony and fact-finding. Congress will act later. In the meantime, the fees are still in place.
Although Bill Wade did not go into foreign affairs as a money saving gimmick, had he the time, I'm sure he would have pointed out that one way to "raise" money for parks, public lands (and just about everything else) would be to skip a few wars.
It is true that Jesus Christ marches at the head of our battalions and God the Father stands on the flight deck of our carriers, but it might be a good idea to send the Holy Ghost over to the United Nations and find out if the next batch of Third worlders really want to be liberated before we invade them. It might be cost effective.
Actually, with an ideologue like Lynn Scarlett, it was never really about scraping up nickels and dimes to pay for public land maintenance.
It was about privatizing America's public lands.
"The organization that I come from (Reason Foundation) invented the word "privatization" a little known fact." Lynn Scarlett, May 2, 2002.
"Environmentalism is a coherent ideology that rivals Marxism in its challenge to the classical liberal view of government as protector of individual rights" Lynn Scarlett, 1992.
Wow! Parks and public lands are nearly as bad as communism! Take that, John Muir!
I was awakened from my fee collection reverie by the gentle, apologetic "toot" of the driver behind me, after a momentary stop, possibly a shift change, the lines of cars entering Shenandoah National Park started up again. Both entrance booths were doing a yeoman job of fee collection and firing us off on our stately procession through the glories of autumnal Shenandoah.
We arrived at the entrance station window primed for the final irony of fee collection.
The ranger smiled and I smiled, hauling out my Golden Age Passport. No fee for me!
Take that, Lynn Scarlett!
OLD CATS AND OLD DOGS
Cats are lone, secretive creatures, always non committal, always playing their cards close to the vest. What are their opinions? No one seems to know.... and cats are not talking. Do they favor Obama's tax policy? Do they stand with Palin on Big Government?
No one knows.
The cat mask is forever a poker face; the great predatory eyes gaze ahead without emotion; the mouth never turns up in a smile or downward in a frown. Emotion comes not from the face, but from deep within the cat in the form of a purr. The purr is discreet, barely audible. Cats prefer it this way. Cats are the Episcopalians of the animal world; they do not like to make a fuss.
This reticence and formality extend even to growing old and dying. Cats prefer not to show age. It is not dignified, not feline. The cat's coat does not fade to gray. The teeth remain. Eyes are bright, sharp and watchful Arthritis is not immediately apparent; instead, the cat's failure to leap to the top of the refrigerator as per usual may be attributed by the cat's domestic staff (cats do not have owners) as simple change of habit.
Facing death (or as cats prefer to call it, reassignment) the cat remains stoic and imperturbable to the end. They simply stop eating and fade away.
If a dying cat would ever demean itself by communicating with a mere human, particularly an alleged "owner", the cat's last words would be as follows:
"I am going now. My assignment on your insignificant rat bag of a planet is almost over. I have been seconded to the Andromeda Galaxy, a richly deserved promotion, and one long awaited. You have noticed that I have stopped eating and wish to resume pure spirit nature necessary for intergalactic travel. You have decided to expedite my departure by "putting me to sleep" as your self-serving euphemism would put it.
Excellent! My wish is your command!
You have been a reasonably good servant; stupid and careless at times, but compared to servants in other galaxies, not without merit. Therefore a recommendation and endorsement will be placed in your Celestial personnel folder. Should there be some doubt as to your admission into Heaven, a recommendation from me should swing things in your favor. Goodbye and Good luck."
Old Dogs are much different, however.
Unlike cats, which are alien and are really star ship troopers, dogs are down to earth and quite human.
Dogs are the back slapping, gregarious Rotarians of the animal world. They just can't get enough of human contact.
One of the proofs of the humanity of dogs is the extravagant manner in which they mirror the human aging process. In less than two decades, they run through carefree childhood, inexhaustible adolescence, dependable maturity, and helpless old age.
As a tribute to ourselves, dogs spectacularly age, developing rheumatism, arthritis, cataracts, heart disease, deafness, toothlessness, bad breath and gray hair as well as numerous forms of cancers and growths, replicating all of the decrepitudes that eventually befall their masters.
Throughout it all, the dog continues to eat and continues to gaze worshipfully at us in the fond hope of making us happy. We, in turn, are compelled to make our old dogs as comfortable as possible.
This truth was brought home to me during a walk on the C & O Canal National Park Tow Path.
Now the 184 mile long towpath is a national treasure where people go to walk and bicycle. It is also a doggy treasure in that it is one of the few areas in the Washington DC area where a dog and its owner can walk for miles and (for the dog at least) to sample the smells of quasi wild riverside and woodland.
A dog's nose is to what the Internet is to us; a veritable Wikapedia of fascinating information; the more smells, the happier the dog.
I encountered a young couple in their early 20's near Anglers Inn. They were insuring that their old dog was having a Park Experience.
They had a child's little red wagon. They had lined the bed with a blanket. They were towing their elderly Black Labrador (who was now a gray Labrador) in the red wagon, giving him the opportunity of sniffing rural Maryland.
The dog was obviously the childhood pet of one of the couple (though it was difficult to tell which one as they looked at the animal with equal affection and he responded diplomatically with equal opportunity doggy grins.
One could imagine the serious discussion that must have taken place early in the couples' relationship "I CANNOT, WILL NOT BE SEPARATED FROM MY DOG!! TO LOVE ME IS TO LOVE MY DOG!"
That certainly seemed to be the case.
The couple and their old dog were at the foot of an irregular staircase and a steep grade up to the parking lot.
The young woman lovingly assisted the dog out of the wagon. The old lab gamely insisted on a few tottering steps before the young man swept the dog over his shoulder, to be rewarded with wash of tongue across the face. The young man carried him up the steps, the young woman bumping the wagon up the stairs.
They put dog and wagon in the back of their hatchback, solemnly inquiring of their dog if he had had a good olfactory experience.
The old Lab seemed to nod in agreement.
Without doubt, he will leave a favorable recommendation in their personnel files.
THE SAFETY MESSAGE
"What should you do when you're dead?" is a perennially interesting safety question.
"The Hereafter is not in my job description!" You snap, bureaucratically. Technically, you are correct. God or His appointed minions normally handle the details of your demise.
However, being dead is no excuse for not being tidy.
You can make the job difficult for First Responders by not having your ducks in a row. That is not having identification, list of next of kin with phone number, list of medication and name and phone number of physicians
This is particularly unfortunate if you are not really beat- the- turkey vultures off dead, but only clinically dead or in some sort of a coma.
If you are incapacitated, it is extremely important that you be identified as quickly as possible and your support group (family, friends, business associates, etc.) be mobilized in your behalf The longer you remain a "John Doe," the greater chance you will be explaining things to Jesus sooner than you had planned.
Now for most of us, Who We Are is found in our wallet or purse.
That can be counterproductive. The wallet or purse is often the goal of the Bad Guy and thus you are forced to depend upon that rarest of persons: The compassionate, public spirited mugger: One who will think "Hmmm! According to the information in his wallet, the person I have just slugged into a coma with a steel bar also suffers from a rare kidney ailment that requires daily medication! I'd better call 911 and leave a note pinned to his jacket concerning the kidney ailment."
No, you just don't meet too many Nobel Peace Prize muggers and more's the pity.
Most usually, the scenario follows that of retired NY TIMES reporter David Rosenbaum who was walking a leafy residential street in Washington when he was knocked semi-conscious with a blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument. The perpetrator took his wallet.
Mr. Rosenbaum speech was slurred and his motions were erratic, not unlike someone a bit drunk. Now well dressed drunk White people are not unknown in Washington (Congress was in session) the investigating officer may have thought this was the case, but just to be on the safe side, he was transported (apparently leisurely) to one of Washington's more basic hospitals. Unfortunately for Mr. Rosenbaum, neither Dr. House or Dr. Kildare were in residency there, and a further mix up with the Triage nurse occurred and Mr. Rosenbaum remained unidentified and undiagnosed, until he died and the District of Columbia became the subject of an 11 million dollar law suit.
(Ranger's tip: If you or a loved one are shot, stabbed, or heart attacked, in DC, even if you are not a Republican, try to be transported to the RONALD REAGAN EMERGENCY MEDICAL CENTER at George Washington University; Mr. Reagan and his friends were most grateful and it shows!)
Then there was the case of John Stewart. Writing in the December 2008 issue of the Appalachian Mountain Club Magazine, Mr. Stewart states that he was in fine physical shape with no evidence of heart disease. He frequently did century (100 mile) daily runs. He was doing a 30-mile training run on his bicycle in DC. Bicycle togs do not lend themselves to pockets and thus Mr. Stewart had his ID and vital info in a small pack on the bike. He suffered a massive heart and would have died if a Good Samaritan medical student had not intervened and had him transported to RONALD REAGAN.
In the meantime, the park police impounded his bicycle but did not check the small pack and thus Mr. Stewart remained a John Doe for 8 hours until he regained consciousness.
The wise Mr. Stewart believes that a secondary form of ID containing your name, telephone numbers of next of kin and others concerned, a list of medications, allergies to various medications physician's names and numbers, copy of health insurance card and so on, be attached to your person.
This should have nothing to do with your wallet or with money. It is your editor's belief that it is in a small neck pouch, which you can pick up in any travel shop, or you can make one yourself. It should be marked VITAL MEDICAL INFO.
You should now be able to hike, jog, or bicycle among strangers without entering the twilight zone of the John & Jane Does and thus delay your conversation with Jesus.
EXOTIC HAWAII
Joan and I went out to the Big island of Hawaii to do a little work for the Trust for Public Land in their efforts to save the Hawaiian environment.
You are right to be suspicious. "Does not North Dakota also have the right to be saved"? You might inquire.
Indeed it does, but I would rather not save North Dakota in January.
Now, neighbors, people have been "saving" Hawaii for more than 200 years with decidedly mixed results. Everyone believed that they had the plant, animal, religion, or politics that would make "paradise" even more paradisial.
This was the Invasion of the Exotics.
The resulting bouillabaisse of flora, fauna, and culture has made Hawaii one of the most interesting environments on earth.
One of the startling things about the Hawaiian environment is that it comes to visit you rather than the other way around.
"THERE ARE ROACHES HERE!" shrieked Joan as she turned on the lights of our new apartment and startled scores of our fellow tenants.
Now being surprised that there are cockroaches in Paradise is sort of like being surprised that there are Republicans in Texas: What is perfect for humans is also perfection for cockroaches. One freshly arrived entomologist noted with some awe that he was able to collect every known species of cockroach listed for Hawaii, in his kitchen within an hour of arrival.
In mainland middle class culture, having cockroaches is equated with poverty, sloth, ignorance, and the resulting filth. Roaches are seen as God's punishment for a slap dash lifestyle.
Not so in Hawaii: cockroaches will soon overrun even the most expensive home or apartment if it is left uninhabited by diligent humans. A cockroach can live for several months on the glue of one postage stamp; there is no way even the most fanatic house keeper can recover every particle of food, unless one cleans with a flame thrower and sulfuric acid.
That said, the diligent new tenant is left to deal with the cockroaches as first order of business.
Now there is Green and environmentally benign methods of roach control.
Then there are methods that work. (In a time frame sooner than the Last Judgment.)
These methods are usually chemical in nature, usually in the form of bait traps or sprays.
I chose RAID roach spray in Executioner grade strength, coupled with RAID bait traps in every drawer.
The stuff worked. Roach cadavers began appearing in apocalyptic numbers, sort of a "Last Days of Pompeii for genus Periplaneta."
Now is there an alternative to coating your dwelling with a commercial version of SARIN nerve gas?
Well yes! There is transparency and harborage control.
When you think cockroaches, think Republican political appointees: Think James Watt.
James, Watt, the famous former Secretary of the Interior under Ronald Reagan was quoted as saying that he had managed to embed and conceal so many conservative moles in the Department of the Interior that it "would not matter" if Democrats were ever elected again.
And, truth to tell that has been the case, Watt was right.
The solution is shining the light of day on cockroaches and political appointees.
As you may have noticed, roaches love to live and work in darkness.
Therefore, if you live in the hot, humid Southeast or Hawaii, your cupboard shelves and drawers should have transparent glass or plastic doors on them (Unless you feel your crockery and cutlery suffers from insomnia.) As part of reduction of harborage (habitat), it is necessary in Hawaii that the dishes are done promptly after every meal and the garbage be taken out every day and all open containers of sugar, cereals, flour, etc. be placed in sealable glass, plastic, or metal containers.
As far as habitat reduction for political appointees, if it looks like a political appointee looks like he/she would like to use the Ramspeck process to stay on past January, well then you might just like to call your congressperson (Unless you approve of Watt Moles.)
After the cockroaches, the next exotic you will encounter on the Big Island of Hawaii will be the Coqui frogs (Eleutherodactylus coqui).
Like most of the living things on Hawaii, the Coqui frog is an "exotic". It was accidentally imported from Puerto Rico in the late 1980's, probably in the form of egg clusters attached to tropical nursery stock imported from that Caribbean island.
Now very few people have actually seen a Coqui frog (They are tiny, about the size of a quarter) but EVERYONE living on the Big Island has heard them!
They have the most amazing vocal amplification, often reaching 95 decibels, making the mainland "spring peeper" frog seem like a mere whisper in the dark. From personal experience, I can testify that the call of the Coqui can drown out the sound of the Pacific Ocean crashing on a reef 150 feet from our home.
The Coqui song is a (very) loud KO -- KEE! KO-KEE! Since they are very intelligent little amphibians, each Coqui (and there are thousands of them) has its own "Goldburg Variation" on the main Coqui theme.
In addition to KO==KEE! KO==KEE! The individual frog will toss in a PING! BOING! CHEAP! PONG! In no particular order or rhythm.
This makes for a song (or racket, depending on your prejudices) that sounds like a combination of crickets and berserk wind chimes. I rather like it, but it drives some people, particularly the Hilo, Hawaii, and Chamber of Commerce up the wall!
You see, the Coqui frog impedes Real Estate Development (The horror! The horror!)
Landlords with a Coqui "infestation" on their property find it necessary to lower the rent to attract tenants (Has God no mercy?)
Developers darkly predict that unless the Coqui can be extirpated, Hilo has no chance of becoming the overcrowded, overbuilt, traffic clogged anthill that is Honolulu.
Actually, the Developers give the enterprising little frog a bit too much credit for retarding "progress". You see, Hilo get between 8 and 10 feet of rain a year. Much of it does fall at night, but unavoidably some does fall in the daytime, and one can feel a bit "moldy" after a few days of drenching downpour. Therefore, most of the tourist development is over on the dry side of the island at Kona, where I for one, prefer to keep it.
Still, for those who demand absolute silence at night, the Coqui does pose a problem. The anti-Coqui frog people are fanatical in the attempt to find the Final Solution to the Coqui "problem."
They spray the greenery around their property with coffee (The caffeine is absorbed through the skin and speeds up their little hearts causing them to have fatal heart attacks.) Another "treatment" is the spaying of a solution of citric acid, which burns their sensitive skin and produces a painful death. They have also enlisted the aid of one of the Department of Agriculture's most sinister agencies, The Animal Damage Control Unit against the Coqui. Animal Damage Control normally sees that Welfare Ranchers on the mainland are not unduly inconvenienced by mountain lions, wolves, and other "varmints."
Driving the roads of the Big Island of Hawaii, one inevitably sees what looks like a squirrel that flunked drug rehabilitation. The tail is held parallel to the ground and the animal has a furtive, criminal, unsquirrel like demeanor.
It is of course, not a squirrel, but a mongoose: (Herpestus javanicus). One of the most famous mistakes in the long, disastrous history of the introduction of exotic species (including ourselves.)
You see, Hawaii has rats.
(Now neighbors, here is where you get into Political Correctness problems. The Polynesian rat (Rattus exulans) was introduced into Hawaii around a thousand years ago, by, well, the Polynesians (Since we ecologically insensitive Haoles weren't around to get the job done). The Polynesian rat either "stowed away" on one or more of the big canoe catamarans that the Polynesians used for their colonization efforts, or they were deliberately brought along as living protein snacks for the long voyages. (I would go with the latter as it would be hard to ignore a rat in even a large canoe.) Those who excuse the Polynesians for failing to file an Environmental Impact Statement prior to the introduction try to insist that the Polynesian rat is a more benign creature than the Black rat (Rattus rattus) introduced by WE (Wicked Europeans) in the 18th and 19th centuries.
The truth is that the Polynesian rat eats rare bird eggs, destroys commercial crops, and spreads the nasty human disease Leptospirosis with the same gay abandon as its European cousin.
Now the 19h century Hawaiian sugar cane planters could care less about rare birds, but they did feel besieged by Polynesian and European rats that were devouring their sugar cane. What to do?
It seems that a Jamaican sugar planter had found a "miracle animal" called the Indian Mongoose that was death on rats (Ranger Hint: Always be deadly suspicious of any plant, animal, chemical or idea that promises to be a "Miracle".) The Mongoose was introduced into Jamaica in 1872. While there was no Environmental Impact Statement of course, there was anecdotal evidence that (A) The Jamaican rats had not decreased and (B) the Jamaican chicken population had.
Despite the increasing bad news from Jamaica, it was decided to import Mongoose into Hawaii in 1883. (The story of Hawaiian flora and fauna can be summed up with the phrase "It seemed like a good idea at the time...")
The rest, as they say, is history. At considerable expense and effort, cages of breeding pairs of Mongoose were assembled for each of the Hawaiian Islands.
The Great Mongoose Ecological Disaster went forward without a hitch..... Except for the island of Kauai.
There are various stories of why Kauai "The Garden Island" was spared the Mongoose plague. The most common story sounds like an "Urban Legend" but your editor and others have heard it so often that it may actually be true:
It seems that Kauai's cagefull of Mongoose had arrived on the Kauai docks. A Hawaiian dockworker picked up the crate to deposit it in the wagon of its anxious owners.
The dockworker carelessly inserted a finger through the wire netting; an agitated Mongoose struck at the target of opportunity.
With a pithy Hawaiian oath, the dockworker hurled the cage and its snarling cargo into the harbor, to the horror of the Mongoose experimenters.
Before the Kauai mongoose experiment could be repeated, disturbing reports were coming in from the other islands, that no, the rat population had not been reduced, but the bird population certainly had been.
It was not that the planters were overly concerned about the destruction of Hawaii's ground nesting native birds, but chickens, producers of meat and eggs for the populace were also fast disappearing.
It seems that rats are nocturnal and Mongoose are diurnal: They work different shifts Also, predators are not fair; a cornered rat can hurt you, chickens and their eggs are easy prey.
So, in one of the 19th century's rare acts of ecological good judgment, the importation of Mongoose into Kauai was forbidden.
The lack of a Mongoose plague on Kauai has resulted in one of the oddest bird watching experiences you will ever have; Great flocks of flying wild chickens! The feral chicken is a spectacular, even noble bird, light years removed from the poor robotic white-feathered egg and meat producer we have forced it to be.
On Kauai, the chicken exists as God intended it; each chicken with its own spectacular feather color arrangement and they fly, often in flocks, with Kaleidoscopic effect.
The chickens are "native" to Kauai, having been introduced nearly a thousand years ago by the Polynesians, who also introduced chickens to South America, along with the sweet potato. (We put the quotation marks on "Native" as if the Polynesians do species introduction, its OK, but if WE (wicked Europeans) do it, it is bad; and there is some truth in that bit of Political Correctness)
I asked park ranger Dean Gallagher, a biologist with Hawaii Volcanoes National Park if the "Good Guys" ever won? That is, if a native Hawaiian species ever triumphed over an evil exotic species?
Dean thought a moment and then grinned broadly. "Yeah! I do remember one incident. The biological field crew and I were out on a study site, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a rare and endangered Hawaiian Hawk (Buteo solitarius) dove out of the sky into a weed patch. He nailed a young Mongoose." The Mongoose did not give up easily (one reason the species is so successful), but in the end, the native hawk prevailed.
As the hawk labored into the air with his prey, the entire NPS crew gave the bird a standing ovation, according to Ranger Gallagher.
Unfortunately, victories by Hawaiian native species are few and far between.
We went out to the birding area, Kipukapuaulu,in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park with NATURE CONSERVANCY biologist Catherine Thompson. According to the park service interpretive sign at the trailhead, of the six common birds we were likely to see or hear, only three were natives.
We were here to observe the Kalij Pheasant, (Lophura leucomelana) the subject of Catherine's (soon to be Dr Thompson's) PhD thesis that she had researched in cooperation with the NPS.
Now looking for Kalij pheasants in Kipukapuaulu is not quite as difficult as searching for the Ivory Billed Woodpecker in the Southeast: Like Larry King on television, Kalij pheasants are sort of hard to avoid.
The Kalij pheasants hail from the Himalaya region around Nepal and were introduced into Hawaii as an upland game bird in 1962. There was no EIS and, apparently, no commonsense exercised. It might have been useful to check out their habits before introducing them.
Although the Kalij can fly, it usually prefers not to (which is usually a bummer for wing shooters). It also prefers thick brush habitat, knowing that swinging a shotgun in brush at a running target can virtually assure a "Dick Cheney" incident and its own escape.
Then there is the taste of Kalij pheasant. Most hunters like to eat their game; it's part of the hunting mystique.
However, according to Catherine, Kalij tastes like badly cooked rubber gloves.
Now it is true that taste is in the tongue of the beholder, but Catherine insists she has tried everything, grilling, marinating and nothing worked.
Now I am sure that some THUNDERBEAR reader will send his Grandfather's sure fire Kalij recipe, and I will be glad to pass it on to Catherine. I suspect it will be one of those "hearty" recipes for gamey game that contains lots of wine, whiskey, condiments, herbs and spices designed to mask the used tire taste and texture of the main ingredient.
The Kalij is rather a personable bird, the male blue back in plumage, with a jaunty black top knot and a striking red eye patch, the creature is about the size and shape of a chicken, the female is a speckled dowdy brown with a less scarlet red eye patch.
Both sexes have curious guttural "cluck", which Catherine interprets as "GRANOLA?" and is a question, due to the numbers of hikers on the trail who can't resist feeding the exotics.
Catherine's PhD thesis concerned the potential environmental impact of the kalij on the Hawaiian ecosystem. Catherine's findings seem to indicate that while the Kalij were not exactly commensal, their effect on the ecosystem was not as great as many had feared, being largely the dissemination of exotic weed seeds, so it is not necessary to send in Dick Cheney with unlimited ammunition.
In 2003, Hawaii Volcanoes National Park acquired the 116,000-acre Kahuko ranch, which adjoins the park and nearly doubled the size of HAVO.
Along with the 116,000 acres, the NPS acquired a Pandora's box of exotic species, both plant and animal.
For example, the NPS will be in the cattle business for the immediate if not the foreseeable future. WE introduced many exotic plants and trees. If the NPS were to suddenly banish the cattle, a thicket of invasive exotic scrub would soon cover the former pastureland.
The cattle business in Hawaii was never immensely profitable after the invention of refrigerator ships which allowed the importation of corn finished mainland beef, whose well marbled steaks replaced the healthier, (but tougher) grass fed island beef, to the delight of cooks and cardiologists.
Therefore to supplement their incomes, the ranchers brought in a Noah's Ark of exotic game animals for commercial hunting purposes.
One of these species was the Mouflon wild sheep (Ovis musimon), which hails from the Mediterranean Region. Now neighbors if you are a wild sheep from an area that has more than 10,000 years of intensive hunting activity, chances are you know a thing or two about survival!
One of the keys to Mouflon survival is, like coyotes, they respond to hunting pressure by simply producing more Mouflons. In addition, they are an extremely wary, cagey, agile, hyper alert animal.
On a tour of the Kahuku Unit with Ranger Ruth Levin, another of Superintendent Cindy Orlando's superb staff, we observed a herd of around 24 Mouflons. They had observed us far earlier and kept at extreme rifle range. They indeed know their business.
Then there are the wild pigs and goats. Although the Polynesians introduced their version of the pig (Sus scrofa), the Polynesian pig was a sensitive, environmentally benign beast, which the Polynesians ALWAYS kept in secure pig pens and NEVER, EVER allowed to forage in the forest (Shift into Politically Correct overdrive at this point, neighbors!) Then WE arrived in the late 18th Century in the form of Captains Cook and Vancouver, who introduces the WE pig and goat, which epitomized the evils of European culture, being huge, fat, greedy, destructive, omnivorous, and insanely fertile.
The WE pigs and goats, like the Europeans quickly took over the environment.
To give you some idea of how successful they were, consider this:
Today, every Hawaiian resident hunter is allowed to take one pig and one goat.
That's per season or year, right?
Wrong! That is per DAY! 365 days a year and one more in leap year!
If you believe this might result in a subsistence hunting culture and public land management problems, you would be correct.
The average mainlander has no concept of the intense role the idea of subsistence hunting plays in Hawaiian culture.
Compared to Hawaiians, Sarah Palin and her pack of Alaskans are a bunch of PETA fanatics.
"It's a man's job to put food on the table!" The Hawaiian says grimly.
Indeed, this is not trophy hunting as practiced by the middle aged, middle class White Guys that grace the covers of SPORTS AFIELD (Perhaps with Obama on board, we can now have Black elk hunters on the cover of OUTDOOR LIFE.)
Instead this is meat hunting as practiced by our Neolithic ancestors. It is a deep-seated cultural artifact and a difficult one to break. The Hawaiian hunter quite literally brings home the bacon.
But is subsistence hunting cost effective?
The proverbial accountant, green eyeshade in place, might approach our Hawaiian subsistence hunter and say "According to my cost benefit analysis, factoring in the cost of fuel for your pickup truck as well as wear and tear, plus cost of ammunition, plus dog food and vet bills (You need a dog pack to hunt pigs), plus beer bought for friends and for additional food and fuel for the luau, plus lost wages, and potential medical expenses incurred from consuming trichinosis infected wild pork, I find that it is cheaper for you to buy the pork chops at the KTA supermarket."
The accountant would be wrong (or at least unromantic) of course. Throughout American history, there has been a strong desire to be self-sufficient; independent of any boss, even if it didn't make too much sense economically and was physically dangerous; thus we had variations on the Long Hunters, The hunting pioneers, the Free Trappers, The Mountain Men; all those who chose to make a living with wits and a rifle.
The Hawaiians are no different than other rural Americans, regarding the pigs and goats in the forest as money in a communal bank.
So what does the romance of Hawaiian subsistence hunting have to do with Hawaii Volcanoes National Park?
Actually, quite a bit. The subsistence hunters of Hawaii would very much prefer to be allowed into the Kahuku Unit of HAVO to "harvest" the Mouflon sheep, goats and feral pigs.
This is not possible unless there is a change in HAVO park legislation. Now there are parks where hunting is allowed in special adjacent units of the park known as "preserves'. These "Preserves" are usually located in Alaskan National Parks such as Denali National Park & Preserve, Lake Clark National Park & Preserve, Gates of the Arctic National Park & Preserve etc. There is also Jean Lafitte National Park & Preserve in Louisiana, as well as numerous NPS recreation areas where hunting is permitted,
The NPS and Superintendent Orlando are fortunate in that the Kahoka Ranch was private property and therefore had no history of subsistence hunting (other than poaching) as the Mouflon sheep, pigs, goats, etc. were reserved for the wealthy hunting clients of the ranch. Therefore, anti-park fanatics cannot realistically raise the populist rant "that them Eastern Environmentalists are takin' away our hunting rights". Unless you were as rich as Dick Cheney, you would not be hunting on the Kahuku Ranch.
However, the NPS is left with the puzzle of what to do with the population of Mouflon Sheep, goats and pigs now that they are not being hunted.
There is also the interesting question of what is to be done with the Kahuku unit itself.
The majority of the unit, about 73 % is bare lava and cinders. Of the remaining 27% of the unit, 7% is pasture, 6% is forest, and the remaining 14% is sub alpine montane scrubland.
So what to do with the Kahuku Unit?
Well now, according to the broadside put out by HAVO, "Kahuku will be managed to..."Conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and the wildlife therein, and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations."
Well yes, that would be nice.
The main problem is that herd of approximately 2,000 effeminate British cattle (Herefords) that are being used as "Organic lawn mowers" to keep down the exotic scrubs in the Kahuku Unit.
Herefords just don't quite fill the bill as "historic objects" in Hawaii.
You see, some exotics are less exotic than others.
We are referring to Spanish Longhorn cattle, "All hide, horn, and bad temper."
They are Hawaii's historic breed of cattle.
In 1794, more than 200 years ago, Captain Vancouver gifted King Kamahamaha with some Spanish Longhorns in the fond hope they would reproduce. Like almost every exotic brought to Hawaii, they did, in spades.
Shortly, the feral Spanish Longhorns were a distinct menace to anyone traveling on the Big Island of Hawaii. Once a domestic animal goes wild and free, its intelligence level seems to rise as does its independence quotient (Edward Abbey could make some philosophical points here, but we won't go there.)
The solution was to re-domesticate the cattle by bringing in Mexican vaqueros to train the fearless Hawaiian warriors as cowboys (The Hawaiian cowboys would be called "Paniolos" to this day, a derivation from "Hispaniola" -- Spanish)
Who would own the cattle ranches? Well, that would be an American relative of the Hawaiian royal family -- enterprising sailors and businessmen who had married Hawaiian princesses.
Thus was born big time cattle ranching in what was to become the United States. It has always surprised mainlanders that for very long time, the largest (and oldest) American cattle ranch was the Parker Ranch on the Big Island of Hawaii; bigger than anything in Texas, Montana, or Wyoming. (I would suspect that one or more of Ted Turner's beef or Bison operations on the mainland is now the largest American cattle ranch, but the historic Parker Ranch is still the oldest.)
Now then, what better use of a portion of the old Kahuku ranch than to gradually phase out the Hereford cattle and replace them with Hawaiian Longhorns?
Hawaiian Longhorns?
Well, Yes. At this point I must fall back on the wisdom and knowledge of Jerry Rogers, former Chief Historian of the NPS, and ask if my memory serves me correctly that the NPS is required under recent interpretations of the Organic Act of 1916 to make reasonable efforts in the preservation of historic and endangered breeds of cattle and other domestic livestock? If Jerry could recall the exact directive, that would be most useful.
If this is the case, then the Hawaiian Longhorn is a candidate for preservation.
"But aren't Hawaiian Longhorns extinct?" You ask, incredulously.
Well, no. Hawaiian Longhorns are still hanging around the Parker Ranch, in the form of Hawaii's largest big game animal. You see, not all the Longhorns were successfully rounded up, some retreated to the wild scrubland of the ranch, where they hold out to this day.
The Parker Ranch profitably sells the right to hunt the "trophy' bulls which range upwards of a thousand pounds and a 32 inch horn spread. The ranch prudently requires that you be accompanied by a rifle totting Paniolo guide who will back you up should your shot merely irritate these already irascible beasts.
The NPS need only to strike a deal with the Parker Ranch for some Hawaiian Longhorn Breeding stock, and maintain the longhorns in their own pasture separate from the Herefords, which they gradually would replace.
"But aren't Hawaiian Longhorns, umm, er, dangerous" You as a park manager, mindful of tort claims might ask.
Less dangerous than Grizzlies or Bison, but not by much. As the Hawaiian Longhorns become re-domesticated, they will become less dangerous. Still, park visitors may prefer to be on horseback, (reasonably fast horseback) while visiting that area of the Kahuku Unit
So there you have it, boys and girls! Exotic plants kept under control organically by the reintroduction and preservation of an endangered historic cattle breed as well as interpreting a facet of one of America's most romantic and storied industries!
(Editor's Note: The ideas and opinions expressed above DO NOT reflect the ideas and opinions of the superintendent and staff of Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, nor does the park staff endorse any plans outlined in THUNDERBEAR, nor did any staff members suggest or even HINT that the above actions be taken. In fact, when I meet Superintendent Cindy Orlando, her first words will probably be "NOW JUST A DARN MINUTE!"
VOLCANOS IN PARADISE
The Bear was sitting on the lanai drinking beer when I entered the apartment. It had been a trying day and did not look to improve.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I asked, with perhaps more force than good manners required.
"I'm studying the Hawaiian Language!" The Great Bear said with sly innocence.
That seemed improbable. There were at least 200 empty beer bottles piled carelessly in a corner of the lanai. In addition, there were huge coolers of beer and ice stacked one atop the other. Curiously, the coffee table was covered with bottle caps, arranged neatly in rows, with each bottle cap turned upside down.
Thunderbear and the two recliners upon which he reclined occupied the rest of the lanai. Over ten feet tall and weighing well over 2,000 pounds, the Great Flying Bear was a considerable presence. The Bear's 28 foot span wings were draped casually over the lanai railing, the iridescent primary feathers gleamed blue and green in the Hawaiian sunshine.
"How could you possibly be studying the Hawaiian language?" I said reprovingly, "You're just drinking beer!"
"Flying Bears can multi-task" Thunderbear replied confidently. "Have you examined your Kona beer bottle cap?"
I had to admit I was unfamiliar with the bottle caps of that popular Hawaiian beer.
"If you examine the inside of the Kona beer bottle cap, you would find a Hawaiian word and the English translation. Therefore, if you drink 3,000 bottles of Kona beer you will learn Hawaiian!"
Judging from the pile of empty bottle, The Great Bear was well on his way to functional literacy in Hawaiian.
"Would you like a beer?" Thunderbear flicked off the cap with a practiced claw and caught it with the other paw. He glanced at the bottle cap.
"What a coincidence! Did you know that "Hipa-hipa" is "Cheers" in Hawaiian? That calls for another beer! HIPA-HIPA!
I ignored the one sided revelry and Thunderbear began to notice.
"I'm sorry" he said, "You seem a bit out of sorts. Is anything wrong?
"It's not fair!" I said hotly.
"What's not fair?" The Bear asked sympathetically.
"God" I said firmly.
"What is it this time?" Said the Bear, rolling eyes heavenward, with a heavy sigh
"The National Park Service closed the Jaggar Museum on the rim of the Kilauea caldera due to sulphur dioxide gas! We had to flee for our lives!"
"I believe you are being a bit melodramatic" The Bear said condescendingly, "The sulphur dioxide count was beginning to spike at around six parts per million which is the point at which you began to cough, which is God's way of telling you to get the hell out of there; a suggestion that the Park Service prudently reinforced by closing the Jaggar Museum. So what is the problem?"
How come God can pollute?" I demanded. "Kilauea volcano dumps 800 tons of sculpture dioxide into the atmosphere every damn day! 2,000 tons on a bad day like this. This stuff is poisonous to all life. Downwind, the SO2 plume from Kilauea has destroyed the tropical flower industry, the Kona coffee industry has been seriously damaged, and even cattle are losing weight! Who gave God the right to pollute?"
"An interesting question." Mused the Bear, popping another beer and increasing his Hawaiian vocabulary. "Did you know that "ohana" means "extended family?"
I ignored being ignored by the Great Bear and continued:
"Down at the Hawaii Volcanoes Visitor Center, the NPS has a display that tells us American humans that we each cause the release of 41,000 pounds of the greenhouse gas carbon dioxide and through careful planning, we can reduce it to 2,000 pounds and save the world from global warming! How come this environmental stuff doesn't apply to God?'
"Perhaps God doesn't give a hoot!" Thunderbear replied mischievously, playing on the old Forest Service jingle.
"Don't tell me this is All Part of God's Plan!" I demanded, indignantly.
"Well, sort of" The Great Bear said mildly.
"What do you mean, "sort of?" I persisted.
"When given coconuts, make lemonade!" Thunderbear said cryptically (His grasp of American bromides was a bit shaky.)
"We really had no choice in the matter" Thunderbear continued, "As you know, your planet Earth, is a Vorgon class planet manufactured by PLANETS R US, who were low bidders for the contract to do the planets in your solar system. Celestial General Services accepted the low bid, though I advised against it.
The VORGON series are cheaply manufactured planets, using inferior materials; they tend to leak a lot; lava, poisonous gases and so on; they often destruct well before their warranty date. This was the case with the prototype planet, VORGON, which disintegrated spectacularly with 11 billion Vorgonians on board. It was quite a scandal in the Celestial Civil Service, and there was an investigation. I was cleared completely and even given an award for whistle blowing." The Bear said proudly.
"You mean we have a shoddy planet?" I asked incredulously.
"I didn't say that. Not every VORGON series planet is a lemon! Some are better than others. I believe Earth is one of the better ones; it's just that it leaks a lot. So, like you say, "When given coconuts, make lemonade.
I asked what he meant.
"A leaky planet with many chemicals and gases can actually enhance God's hobby!"
"God's hobby", I said, astounded "What is it?
"Evolution of course! " The Bear responded.
"God's hobby is Evolution? I said, astounded.
"What did you think it was; collecting baseball cards? Thunderbear said sarcastically. "If you are going to be around for all eternity, you would want a continuous stream of new stuff and new ideas coming on line from all over the Universe; otherwise God would be bored and God does not want to be bored."
I was stunned to learn that God was an Evolutionist.
"So you convinced your Supervisors that a leaky planet had enhanced evolutionary possibilities?"
"That I did!" The Great Bear "Even got an extension on the warranty for planet Earth!" Got a Celestial Civil Service Achievement Award for that too!"
I was continually amazed at the Great Bear's ability to land right side up in Celestial Politics.
"So to answer your question, I think we can safely say, that indirectly, the SO2 release from the Kilauea Caldera is all part of God's plan, mostly." Thunderbear said modestly.
"Speaking of Volcanoes, I really must get off my Environmental Impact Report for the Proposed Eruption of the Yellowstone Caldera."
"The eruption of Yellowstone?" I asked incredulously.
"Don't worry! Nothing personal! No "Wrath of God" or "Heavenly Intervention" required. We have Yellowstone on an automatic timer, goes off around every 600,000 years, rain or shine!"
"But you can't do this!" I protested.
"From an evolutionary standpoint, why not?" Inquired the Bear.
"600,000 years ago, there weren't any Americans around! Now there are!" I exclaimed.
"In that case, I suggest they move to Iowa. They'll have a ring side seat, won't need to buy a Golden Eagle Passport, Yellowstone will coming to them."
"But can't you postpone it for 75,000 or 100,000 years! Just a dinosaur's blink in geologic time?" I pleaded.
"Why?" Asked the Bear, not unreasonably.
"We are now part of the environment. Blowing a 400 mile wide hole in our habitat could be adverse."
"You do have a point. Your presence on the scene is something we have not considered. I will include that in my report. I'll see what I can do, but no promises!"
I thanked the Great Bear profusely on the part of the American people.
"Bring me the Transmission cat and I'll send off an amended report to Celestial Central.
The Transmission cat would be Thomas, my 17-pound Maine Coon cat that the Great Bear used for intergalactic communication. Thunderbear would simply put his paw on Thomas and, shortly Thomas would begin to purr. The "purring" is actually high-speed intergalactic transmission. Naturally, in other worlds and other galaxies, other species are used for transmission, on our planet, cats are the preferred medium.
So Thomas purred and the message went out. We shall see what happens.