Note: I wrote this back in 2002, for one of my columns in Bird Watcher’s Digest. Unfortunately it’s still relevant today, a full 15 years later, as the Arctic Refuge is once again under attack.
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 I’ve heard too many times. The lie fostered by 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 apologists say this over and over. 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’ve been there in summer, when the land is bursting with life. Picture this:
It’s late evening but the sun is still high in the sky, and it will not set any time this month. We’re standing on a rise near 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 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.
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 I’ve heard too many times. The lie fostered by 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 apologists say this over and over. 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’ve been there in summer, when the land is bursting with life. Picture this:
It’s late evening but the sun is still high in the sky, and it will not set any time this month. We’re standing on a rise near 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 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.
Birds that want to sing from elevated positions must take wing, and they have: The sky is alive with birdsong.
It’s a male American Golden-Plover. He stands poised, 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 eastern Canada or 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 on swift strong wings across the Amazon Basin, across the Caribbean, and up through the corridor of the Great Plains, traveling thousands of miles to stake his claim to this patch of supposedly worthless frozen tundra.
Maybe this golden-plover already has a mate, hiding somewhere among the matted tundra plants. But even if not, he is not alone: Other birds are all around us. The ridge where we stand is only a few feet higher than the surrounding country, but from here the land stretches out for miles to the flat horizon under a wide pale sky. The land is covered with tussocks of grass, clumps of reindeer moss, boggy low spots, the occasional snowdrift, but broken everywhere by innumerable little ponds. There’s 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.
On the other side of the nearby pond, a small bird is fluttering high. Slim, long-winged, patterned in subtle browns, the bird hovers with odd slow wingbeats, singing a short trilled song that it repeats over and over, on and on. The endurance in this song-flight seems incredible ... but then again, perhaps not. This is another champion flyer, a Baird’s Sandpiper. He spent the winter far south of the equator, perhaps around lakes of the high Andes in Bolivia or Chile. Like the American Golden-Plover, he flew thousands of miles to be here.
Other long-distance migrants add to the chorus. The Pectoral Sandpipers—what odd birds they are, or at least the males are odd, as they gather on nearby to outdo each other in courtship displays. One of the males will puff out his chest unbelievably with air, the feathers bristling out so that he looks like a cross between a balloon and a porcupine. He takes off and flies in a circle, giving a series of low booming hoots and sounding like anything in the world but a sandpiper. Odd indeed—although, if female Pectoral Sandpipers are attracted by this, they must be rather strange themselves. These birds have flown back here from as far away as Australia or South America to take part in this annual mating ritual.
Maybe this golden-plover already has a mate, hiding somewhere among the matted tundra plants. But even if not, he is not alone: Other birds are all around us. The ridge where we stand is only a few feet higher than the surrounding country, but from here the land stretches out for miles to the flat horizon under a wide pale sky. The land is covered with tussocks of grass, clumps of reindeer moss, boggy low spots, the occasional snowdrift, but broken everywhere by innumerable little ponds. There’s 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.
On the other side of the nearby pond, a small bird is fluttering high. Slim, long-winged, patterned in subtle browns, the bird hovers with odd slow wingbeats, singing a short trilled song that it repeats over and over, on and on. The endurance in this song-flight seems incredible ... but then again, perhaps not. This is another champion flyer, a Baird’s Sandpiper. He spent the winter far south of the equator, perhaps around lakes of the high Andes in Bolivia or Chile. Like the American Golden-Plover, he flew thousands of miles to be here.
Other long-distance migrants add to the chorus. The Pectoral Sandpipers—what odd birds they are, or at least the males are odd, as they gather on nearby to outdo each other in courtship displays. One of the males will puff out his chest unbelievably with air, the feathers bristling out so that he looks like a cross between a balloon and a porcupine. He takes off and flies in a circle, giving a series of low booming hoots and sounding like anything in the world but a sandpiper. Odd indeed—although, if female Pectoral Sandpipers are attracted by this, they must be rather strange themselves. These birds have flown back here from as far away as Australia or South America to take part in this annual mating ritual.
There are other sandpipers and plovers here as well. Though we call them shorebirds, most of them are really tundra birds in summer. A White-rumped Sandpiper, another small species, flutters and glides overhead while he makes odd honking and rattling sounds. Not very musical but definitely champion migrants, White-rumps concentrate in southernmost South America in winter, with many in Tierra del Fuego, and they have even been seen in Antarctica.
A year’s worth of living is crowded into a few weeks, and the skies ring with the cries of birds that have traveled thousands of miles to be here.
But there are other birds here whose wintering grounds are on the open seas. Consider the silvery, long-tailed Arctic Terns, hovering lightly over tundra pools. They are not nearly as delicate as they appear. For much of the year they live the life of true seabirds, far out over the ocean. During the past nine months they may have traveled some 25,000 miles, to the edge of Antarctica and back, out of sight of land for weeks at a time, somehow finding their way back to this spot for the brief Arctic summer.
In their ocean travels, Arctic Terns will have crossed paths with Long-tailed Jaegers out at sea, and during the summer the jaegers are here as well. These piratic seabirds come coursing low over the tundra, graceful and swift, their long streamers of central tail feathers waving up and down with each wingbeat. There are actually three kinds of jaegers here, and the largest, the Pomarine Jaegers, are among the major predators of the region. In most summers the Pomarines are not common, which is just as well for the smaller birds on which they often prey. But in big lemming years—summers in which these little brown rodents are at a population high—the Pomarine Jaegers move in and become lemming specialists, competing with the resident Snowy Owls.
In their ocean travels, Arctic Terns will have crossed paths with Long-tailed Jaegers out at sea, and during the summer the jaegers are here as well. These piratic seabirds come coursing low over the tundra, graceful and swift, their long streamers of central tail feathers waving up and down with each wingbeat. There are actually three kinds of jaegers here, and the largest, the Pomarine Jaegers, are among the major predators of the region. In most summers the Pomarines are not common, which is just as well for the smaller birds on which they often prey. But in big lemming years—summers in which these little brown rodents are at a population high—the Pomarine Jaegers move in and become lemming specialists, competing with the resident Snowy Owls.
No matter how much the oil companies try to minimize
the effects of their operations, large areas will
be destroyed or degraded.
Ah, yes, the Snowy Owls. These magnificent, powerful birds, white with glaring yellow eyes, are perfectly at home out on the coastal plain. Some may even stay through the harsh winter. If they do, in spring they will get to watch one of the most remarkable transformations in the world, as the deep freeze and darkness of winter give way to an explosion of life. The summer is brief, but with constant daylight the grasses, mosses, and wildflowers grow. Butterflies skim low over the tundra along with myriad other tiny insects, lemmings scamper about, and birds make feverish haste in raising their young before autumn sets in. A year’s worth of living is crowded into a few weeks, and the skies ring with the cries 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 just move to another spot. It simply doesn’t work that way. The land has only a certain carrying capacity, and the good spots are already taken. Destroy a bird’s habitat and the bird is dead, for all practical purposes, just as if you had shot it.
These are sobering things to consider as we stand on this tundra ridge, deep in the wonderland of the Arctic coastal plain. The golden-plover is up there again, flying wide circles in the sky, sending forth that haunting whistle that rings with wilderness and freedom and vast distances. Sad to think that it might come back here next year, after braving another long migration, to find that its own special place on the tundra has been taken away forever. If we’re going to drill in the Arctic refuge, we should not do it under the pretense that “it’s all worthless tundra” or that “there’s nothing there.” We should go into it with the full knowledge of what we will be destroying.
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 just move to another spot. It simply doesn’t work that way. The land has only a certain carrying capacity, and the good spots are already taken. Destroy a bird’s habitat and the bird is dead, for all practical purposes, just as if you had shot it.
These are sobering things to consider as we stand on this tundra ridge, deep in the wonderland of the Arctic coastal plain. The golden-plover is up there again, flying wide circles in the sky, sending forth that haunting whistle that rings with wilderness and freedom and vast distances. Sad to think that it might come back here next year, after braving another long migration, to find that its own special place on the tundra has been taken away forever. If we’re going to drill in the Arctic refuge, we should not do it under the pretense that “it’s all worthless tundra” or that “there’s nothing there.” We should go into it with the full knowledge of what we will be destroying.
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