We should have full knowledge of what we will be destroying
by Kenn Kaufman
November 2008
As I write this, there is debate as to whether we should drill for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in far northern Alaska. Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m convinced there are good and decent people on both sides of the debate. I’m not anti-oil. I drive a car that burns gasoline, albeit not in very large amounts. I have friends who work for oil companies, and these are honest individuals with a professional and personal commitment to wildlife conservation. I believe the debate could be carried on with honesty and integrity.
But I also believe that neither side should twist the facts to bolster their arguments. And there’s one huge falsehood that I’ve heard too many times in the last few weeks—enough to make me drop the light-hearted column that I’d been writing and settle on a more serious topic. The lie being fostered by the pro-drilling elements is the idea that the coastal tundra—the area of the refuge where drilling would take place—is essentially worthless.
I heard it again today in a discussion on talk radio from a woman representing the oil industry. “Of course the polar bears are cute,” she said in a condescending tone, making it obvious she’d never had a close look at the huge iron-jawed meat-eating machine that is a real polar bear. “And the caribou are nice animals. And we know that the refuge has some pristine mountains. But that’s not where the drilling would be done. The drilling would be on the coastal plain, and there’s nothing there. There aren’t even any trees. It’s nothing but frozen tundra.”
Nothing but frozen tundra? I’ve heard oil-company spokespersons say this over and over. And it would be true, more or less, in January, that far above the Arctic Circle, with constant darkness and temperatures far below zero. Not much moving out there at that season. Or so I’ve heard; I haven’t been there in winter. But I have been there in summer, and I can close my eyes and go back there in vivid memories.
It’s late evening but the sun is still high in the southern sky, and it will not set any time this month. We’re standing on a little rise by the edge of a tundra pool with reflections of evening light in the cold clear water, but our attention has been caught by a bird flying in wide circles overhead. Trim and streamlined, the bird moves with oddly slow and exaggerated wingbeats, as if it has far more flying power than it needs to stay aloft. Its flight is punctuated with a wild rich whistle that echoes across the tundra. We watch for a minute or more, and then the bird swoops down to land nearby.
It’s a male American Golden-Plover. He stands poised and elegant, a study in crisp pattern—black with white trim below, spangled with gold above. This bird is a powerful flier indeed. When he left here at the end of last summer he would have flown thousands of miles to the east and south, perhaps touching down in the maritime provinces of eastern Canada or on the coast of New England, then arrowing south across a wide expanse of the Atlantic to the northern coast of South America, continuing on to the pampas of Argentina. Then, two or three months ago, he would have left that southern outpost to come back, flying across the Amazon Basin, the Caribbean, and the Great Plains to return to this patch of supposedly worthless tundra.
And he is not alone. From this small ridge the land stretches for miles under a wide pale sky. The country is covered with tussocks of grass, clumps of reindeer moss, boggy low spots, occasional snowdrifts, and countless small ponds. There is not a tree in sight. Birds that want to sing from elevated positions must take wing—and they have. The sky is alive with birdsong.
Shorebirds fill the tundra in summer. Baird’s Sandpipers hover overhead in song-flight. Pectoral Sandpipers inflate their chests like balloons and boom across the flats in bizarre courtship displays. White-rumped Sandpipers arrive from wintering grounds in Tierra del Fuego. Stilt Sandpipers, Buff-breasted Sandpipers, and Wilson’s Snipes add their voices to the chorus.
The tundra is half water in summer, so ducks are everywhere. Pintails and Green-winged Teal dot the ponds, while true Arctic specialists like King Eiders and Long-tailed Ducks rest on open water. Flocks of brant cross the sky. Red-throated Loons arrive from winter seas.
Out over the pools, Arctic Terns hover lightly. During the previous nine months these birds may have traveled 25,000 miles, from the edge of Antarctica back to this brief Arctic summer. Sabine’s Gulls wheel overhead with their striking white wing triangles. Red Phalaropes—brilliant chestnut and gold in breeding plumage—spin on the water’s surface.
Predators patrol the tundra as well. Long-tailed Jaegers glide low across the flats, and in years when lemmings are abundant the larger Pomarine Jaegers arrive in force. And then there are the Snowy Owls—magnificent white hunters with glaring yellow eyes—perfectly at home on this open plain.
The Arctic summer is brief, but with constant daylight the grasses, mosses, and wildflowers grow rapidly. Butterflies skim low over the tundra, insects hatch in abundance, lemmings scurry through the vegetation, and birds rush to raise their young before autumn returns. A year’s worth of life is compressed into a few weeks, and the sky rings with the voices of birds that have traveled thousands of miles to be here.
If oil drilling comes into this magical place, of course it will have an impact. No matter how much the oil companies try to minimize the effects of their operations, large areas will be destroyed or degraded. And the birds that lived on those areas cannot simply move somewhere else. The land has only a certain carrying capacity, and the good places are already occupied. Destroy a bird’s habitat and, for all practical purposes, the bird is gone.
These are sobering thoughts as we stand on this tundra ridge, deep in the wonderland of the Arctic coastal plain. The golden-plover circles overhead again, sending forth that haunting whistle that speaks of wilderness and vast distances. It is sad to think that it might return next year after its long migration only to find that its place on the tundra has been taken away forever.
If we are going to drill in the Arctic refuge, we should not do it under the pretense that it is “all worthless tundra” or that “there’s nothing there.” We should go into it with full knowledge of what we will be destroying.