Isle Royale wolves and moose

Editorial from the early December 2013 North Woods Call

    There’s a classic struggle for survival on Isle Royale.
    As previously reported in The North Woods Call, the wolves and moose living on the remote Lake Superior wilderness island are dependent on each other and both are threatened by a variety of factors.
     The wolf population has been in decline and may eventually die-out—due largely to reproductive challenges, disease, and a lack of genetic diversity caused by decades of inbreeding. Moose, meanwhile, may be faced with a similar fate—not only on Isle Royale, but across North America.  There have been preferential food shortages and a warmer climate in recent years has produced more parasites—especially ticks, which consume the flesh of animals and make them more susceptible to anemia and infections.  Ticks also bite off the hair of moose, exposing them to hypothermia in cold weather.
     On Isle Royale, wolves and moose have a unique predator-prey relationship.  Wolves are the only predator of the moose and the moose are almost exclusively the only prey for wolves.  It is essential to keep their respective populations in balance for a healthy ecosystem.
    Consequently, a debate currently rages over whether humans should intervene in this natural cycle and, if so, what the results might be.
   As one of our readers recently pointed out, the conundrum is this:  If you artificially boost the wolf population and their main diet—moose—are dying out, the wolves will starve to death.  If, however, the wolves die out, moose will—for a short time, at least—grow in numbers.  Then they will overeat the fauna, devastate the island ecosystem and either die out by starvation, or succumb to the tick infestation.
    What’s the National Park Service to do?  Though we prefer to let nature govern itself, the agency will probably have to err on the side of intervention.
   Population biologist John Vucetich and wildlife ecologist Rolf Peterson, who have studied Isle Royale’s wolves and moose, say a healthy ecosystem depends on the presence of top predators like wolves when large herbivores such as moose are present.
   Without this balance, prey tend to become overabundant and decimate plants and trees that many species of birds, mammals and insects depend upon. Top predators also maintain the diversity of rare plants and insects that depend on those plants.
    In addition, the loss of top predators may disturb the nutrient cycling of entire ecosystems, according to Vucetich and Peterson.  And wolves are a boon to foxes, eagles, ravens and other species that scavenge from carcasses that wolves provide, they said.
    Although wilderness is typically viewed as a place where nature should be allowed to take its course free from human interference, we lean toward the experts who say the ecology of Isle Royale would best be served if the National Park Service initiates a genetic rescue by introducing new wolves to the island.
    After all, Vucetich and Peterson said in a New York Times op-ed piece, “there’s no place on the planet that is untouched by humans.  We have already altered nature’s course everywhere.  Our future relationship with nature will be more complicated.  Stepping in will sometimes be wise, but not always. ... Navigating that complexity without hubris will be a great challenge.”

Healthy truth in advertising

Editorial from the early December 2013 North Woods Call

    Now we all know.
    The nation’s controversial “Affordable Health Care Act” is apparently not so affordable.
    Not only are individual and family insurance policies going to be much more expensive to purchase, but millions of Americans are already losing the coverage that they wanted to keep.
    This, despite assurances by proponents of the legislation that coverage would be less expensive and “if you like your current plan, you can keep it.”
    Turns out these assurances were bald-faced lies, told repeatedly to deceive the voting public.
    That’s the problem with unchecked bureaucratic socialism and power-hungry demagogues who insist on having their way despite the heavy costs to society and freedom.
     At least two things now need to happen.
     We should insist that this poorly conceived law be repealed and demand that those who perpetrated this wanton fraud on the American people be held accountable.
     Only then can we hope to find workable solutions to society’s problems—whether in health care or natural resources conservation—and foster the truth in advertising that we deserve from those in public office.
      If this kind of thing happened in the private sector, criminal charges would already have been filed.

Belle Isle 1947: Days of youth and romance

By Mike VanBuren
From the early December 2013 edition of The North Woods Call

    I’ve been thinking lately about Detroit’s historic Belle Isle Park—and not for the reason many others are.
    Management of the 982-acre island in the Detroit River between the United States and Canada was officially transferred to the State of Michigan on November 12, after nearly 120 years as the largest city-owned island park in the United States.
    At 1,534 square miles, Belle Isle is bigger than New York City’s Central Park, and includes a nature center, inland lakes, lagoons, canal system, wooded areas and a half-mile of swimming beach.  With the management transfer, it becomes Michigan’s 102nd state park.
     Yet that’s not really why it has my attention today.
     In May of 1947—six years before I was born—my parents visited Belle Isle on their honeymoon and captured the occasion in several black-and-white photographs that have been displayed in family photo albums ever since.
      I have looked at those pictures my entire life and marveled at the youthfulness of this young couple that I have always known simply as “Mom and Dad.”
    Those were happy days for them—filled with promises and dreams—a time of life that in the minds of young people will surely last forever.
   But it never does.
   Sixty-six years after those photographs were taken, following many decades of robust health and independence, my mother has been stricken with a debilitating illness that—for now, at least—has stolen her ability to walk, bathe, feed herself and participate in all but the simplest of conversations.
    Along with her personal suffering, the lives of her husband and family members have been thrown into raging turmoil—each immersed in his or her our own not-so-private nightmare—as we struggle to cope with the ravages of memory loss and physical incapacitation.
   Those who have been through such difficulties and found themselves in the unexpected role of sudden care givers know that none of this is easy to handle.  It’s as if some sort of awful latter-day penalty awaits those who live too long and too well.
    When I was a boy of about five-years-old, my parents revisited Belle Isle with some relatives, and took my sister and me along.  On the way to the park, we stopped at a local service station where a big, ugly gorilla—or some guy dressed like one—greeted us as part of some attention-grabbing business promotion.
     The adults in our party laughed and posed for pictures with the hairy beast, but to a youngster unschooled in the ways of the marketing world, the creature looked mean and life threatening.  So I did what any self-respecting kid would do.  I freaked out and ran for Mama.
     I was quickly sheltered from the clear and present danger and, as I recall, the entire family escaped without injury that day.  But I still remember the encounter whenever I see a real or costumed gorilla.  Where’s legendary zoologist Dian Fossey when you need her, anyway?
     Nowadays—as my parents face gorillas in the mist of advanced age, with me following closely behind—there doesn’t seem to be anyone to whom we can run and hide.  Nor can the family and I effectively shelter them—or ourselves—from the horrors of declining health.
     Frankly, that’s something about nature that I hate and can’t fully understand.
    Be that as it may, there are many decisions that will need to be made in the coming days and many responsibilities that will need to be carried out in the face of daunting challenges.  And, no matter how much we  know about the frailty of the human condition, we’re never quite prepared for what it all means.
     Tough questions abound.  Why did this happen?  What can we do?  How much will it cost?  How much time will it take?  And—not insignificantly—what impact will all this have on a mom-and-pop operation like The North Woods Call when the sole proprietor is regularly called away to meet other pressing obligations?
     I don’t yet know the answers to those questions,  but I’ll have to find them soon, whether I like it or not.
    Still, I’d much rather retreat to a sunny spring day in 1947 when colorful flowers were in bloom, and a freshly minted couple was walking hand-in-hand around the Belle Isle Conservatory and creating Kodak memories at the nearby James Scott Memorial Fountain.
     If that were only possible.
    For now. I can only hope and pray that better days lie ahead—in this world and beyond—when youthful loves and memories can be rekindled in a land that knows no sickness and sorrow.

Old friends, stormy nights & "robber barons"

By Mike VanBuren
From the late November 2013 edition of The North Woods Call

    We should have known that the rain wouldn’t stop.
    All the weather reports said it wouldn’t. And the deep gray clouds that hung over most of Michigan that October day had already been spitting water for the better part of 24 hours.
    But on we drove—a former college roommate and I—from the sand-covered eastern shore of Lake Michigan to the northern forests of Roscommon County.
    We thought we could escape the precipitation if we traveled far enough—past the blanket of drizzle and into the bright sunshine of a cool autumn day.  But the daylight came and went, and we were left without a dry place to pitch our tents and build a campfire.
   There was a time when it wouldn’t have mattered.  We would have taken to the woods, anyway, and toughed it out on a soggy campsite with the hope of a better day tomorrow. But we’re older now—less inclined toward voluntary suffering—and much prefer to hear raindrops falling on the roof of a dry shelter than dripping into our tents and pooling like unwelcome ponds beneath our sleeping bags.
    So we rented a tiny tourist cabin on the western shore of Houghton Lake and dialed up the gas furnace.  The quaint log structure—built in the 1950s—featured a small kitchenette, bathroom, dining table, sitting area and two cozy bedrooms.
    It was more than we needed, but at least we were out of the nasty weather.
    My friend and I have been making these annual pilgrimages for at least 38 years now and many times have attempted to solve the world’s intransigent problems over late night fires.   Our animated conversations have typically lasted well into the early morning hours—sometimes past daybreak.
    This time was no exception, except we lacked the calming influence of dancing flames and smoldering wood coals.  That may be where we went wrong.
     In days gone by, we seemed to agree on potential solutions much more than we disagreed.  But not so much anymore.
     My friend took a sharp left turn somewhere along the way and ended up in places I don’t fully appreciate.  He would probably say the same about me, albeit our philosophical destinations vary.
    A cold, rainy night in northern Michigan only seemed to exacerbate the differences in our viewpoints.
     Still, I have great respect for this political opponent—a smart and articulate observer who can speak intelligently about many subjects.  He is good-hearted and courteous to other people.  And he has been a major encourager and supporter over the years.
   Friends like that are hard to come by and something to be treasured.    So it’s particularly troubling when we butt heads like a couple of stubborn bighorn rams on a steep mountainside.
    Our disagreement over domestic affairs has seldom been as contentious as it was during this  outing.  I blame a malfunctioning and extra-constitutional government for many of our nation’s problems—along with deceitful, propaganda-spewing demagogues of all stripes.  He says I’m much too harsh in my criticism and should have more respect for public office holders.
   Perhaps, but they must earn that respect.
     My friend seems blissfully satisfied that our elected and appointed public servants are honorable individuals with good intentions and sufficient integrity.  He points to corporate and banking interests as the real culprits.
     But that’s not what this tale is really about.  The point to be made, as we have often said, is that opposing viewpoints offer new perspectives and opportunities to learn.
  Such debates certainly have made my intellectual gears turn on occasion and now I’m told that “a little socialism” is better than “unbridled capitalism.”
     Hmmm.  Liberty seems to be an increasingly tough sell in the land of the free.  But the underlying point is well-taken.  Not all business leaders have been models of ethical behavior.  Then again, neither have government officials.
    Regardless—from what I’ve seen—government doesn’t create wealth.  It only consumes and “redistributes” it.  Like it or not, free enterprise (within reasonable boundaries that protect the rights of individuals) is what pays the bills, creates jobs and generates tax revenue.
   And, despite a handful of so-called “robber barons” that may have operated from time-to-time throughout our history, most businesses and industries have made overwhelmingly positive contributions to society.
   Among other things, they have provided employment,  helped build personal security, funded schools and hospitals, and supported numerous other institutions and programs that benefit each of us.  And they’re responsible for many of the recreation programs and public park lands that we now enjoy.
     In Michigan alone, much of the state’s philanthropic history is tied to the land.  Many of our state parks—including Hartwick Pines, Brimley, P.H. Hoeft and Warren Dunes—exist because of gifts from private philanthropists.  The same is true for national parks and historic sites, such as Acadia in Maine, Grand Teton in Wyoming and the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.
  Other private donations have contributed significantly to park planning, development, management and interpretation.
     But there’s no need to debate these points here—nearly a month after our Houghton Lake confab ended and tempers cooled.
     By the following morning, the rain had mostly stopped, so we  traveled back across the state to the Nordhouse Dunes Wilderness Area in the Manistee National Forest.  There we finally pitched our tents, had a blazing campfire and engaged in a far more amiable conversation.
    We’ll probably always argue the fine points of self-government, but hopefully we’ll each learn something from these exchanges and embrace the truth where we find it.
    While a little rain may fall on us from time-to-time, we can’t let the storms of life wash our common sense—or friendships—away.

Woodstock musings

By Mike VanBuren
From the early November 2013 edition of The North Woods Call

    There’s a sign along Hurd Road leading north from Bethel, New York, that says, “Drive Peacefully.”
   It’s a nice thought to contemplate, although one wonders if we have it in us to drive—or live—in harmony with our fellow travelers.
   My wife and I are in the Empire State to visit our new granddaughter in Harriman, but we have a few extra hours this morning and decided to take a drive into the country.
    We have discovered many wonderful natural areas since we arrived two days ago and I’m starting to re-think my image of New York—and the entire East Coast, for that matter—as uninhabitable urban areas filled with congested roadways, crowded commuter trains and ant-like human beings scurrying back and forth between their homes and office cubicles.
     There is some of that,  to be sure, but large sections of the state have picturesque rural areas that rival the best of northern Michigan.  There are even two of the world’s largest freshwater lakes—Ontario and Erie—on the north and west borders.
    So much for my midwestern superiority complex.
     Just 35 miles northwest of our hotel, the landscape on Max Yasgur’s fabled farm is drenched by a warm October sun.  The gently rolling hills, green pastures and colorful woodlots are as beautiful as any rural America has to offer.
     Nearly 45 years ago, this was the gathering spot for more than 400,000 peaceniks, flower children and back-to-nature types who thought they could change the world by partying, rejecting the values of their parents, and attempting to “self-actualize” through a host of less-than-honorable pursuits.
     They succeeded in shocking the Norman Rockwell in us, clinging like zebra mussels on a Great Lakes freighter to numerous things that were supposed to be “free,” but came with a heavy price—sex, drugs and rock-n-roll.
     The Woodstock Music and Art Fair was held on the Yasgur farm Aug. 15-18, 1969, during a rain-soaked weekend of muddy misery billed as “three days of peace and music.”  The whole affair was messy and disorganized, but it became a cultural watershed that featured landmark performances by the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Carlos Santana, Melanie Safka, Canned Heat, The Who, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Sly & the Family Stone, The Band, Joan Baez, Joe Cocker, Sha Na Na, Arlo Guthrie, John Sebastian, Richie Havens, Johnny Winter, and Crosby, Stills & Nash.
    It was probably the largest mass camp-out in the history of the nation—and an interesting study in human ecology and behavior.
    I was a bit too young and unhip to attend the “aquarian exposition,” but most who did seemed to embrace the many rebellious pop philosophies of the day.  Make love, not war, and all that stuff.
     Unfortunately, the long-term reality of those ideas didn’t quite fulfill the promise and dream.  Turns out the younger generation was just as foolish, corrupt and dishonest as any previous ones they reviled—maybe more so.
     In little more than a year, Hendrix and Joplin would be dead from drug overdoses, and the systematic breakdown of the family and civil society was racing ahead at full throttle.
    The party was over, so to speak, despite efforts to “build the world a home and furnish it with love.”  It seems real love, responsible stewardship of resources and selfless giving was in short supply, as it has been throughout human history.  Now, thanks in part to the somewhat confused Woodstock generation, our future seems more precarious than ever.
     We say we want to live peacefully, save the planet from ecological disaster and care for the poor—as long as we don’t have to sacrifice much ourselves, particularly our relentless lust for personal pleasure.
     Even in 1969, when we were in the thick of anti-war sentiment and laying the groundwork for the modern environmental movement, Woodstock revelers showed little concern for the neighboring crops and personal property that was destroyed during the event, the piles of trash they left behind when it was over, and even the attempted admission fee at the gate.
      It is particularly amusing—to me, at least—that rebellious Baby Boomers espoused all manner self-centered freedom, eschewed government control of their lives and encouraged everyone to “question authority.”  Yet many have grown up to support the same liberty-squashing policies that they protested against during their younger years.
    Today, the musical counterculture heroes of 1969—as well as Max Yasgur himself—have largely moved on, although several have returned to Woodstock over the years for concerts and other events at the festival site.  And the ashes of Richie Havens were ceremoniously scattered over the Woodstock grounds after the singer died earlier this year.
     Capitalist entrepreneurs purchased the property in 1996 and built the $100 million Bethel Woods Center for the Arts—a beautiful campus complete with a 1960s museum, multiple concert and performance venues, a cafe, educational classrooms, paved parking lots and flush toilets.
   Further up Hurd Road, several decidedly upscale homes have been constructed along the small lake where the nation’s mud-covered future leaders once shed their inhibitions and peasant clothing to bathe nude in the refreshing water.
    “It’s your thing; do what you want to do,” the old song goes. We’re just getting back to (human) nature.
     I really hope my infant granddaughter’s generation will have some better ideas on how to change the world and preserve our natural resources.
    Until then, peace.
    Oh—and party on.