Recently in National Wildlife Category

A rare form of black bear--that is actually white--faces threats to its survival in its British Columbia habitat

by Jessica Snyder Sachs

FROM THE DOCK of British Columbia's Hartley Bay, guide Marvin Robinson looks across the waters of the Douglass Channel to Gribbell Island. The 96-square-mile island--thickly forested in hemlock, cedar and fir--is home to the world's highest concentration of the rare "spirit bear"--a pale color variant of the American black bear. Long revered by the First Nations of British Columbia, scientists dubbed it the Kermode bear in 1905 after one of the first scientists to study the species, Francis Kermode. ... READ MORE at NATIONAL WILDLIFE.

The editors of National Wildlife asked me to report on how wild animals are changing their diets, behaviors, and in a few cases, even their genetic makeup in their struggle to cope with global warming. It's in the December/January issue.

For this month's issue of National Wildlife magazine, I got to delve into some great environmental news. (Welcome change.) It's a feature-length roundup of newly discovered populations or rare and endangered animals--both here in North America and abroad. No random discoveries, these. Many are solid evidence that protective measures are working. 

Unbridled development and pollution threaten the Chattahoochee's ability to be all things to the millions who use and abuse the fabled river

Copyright Jessica Snyder Sachs, as originally appeared in National Wildlife magazine

GRIDLOCK seizes metro Atlanta by 8:00 am most weekdays, as traffic grinds to a halt along hundreds of miles of urban highway. Ironically, it's from this road-rage-inducing vantage point that millions have fallen under the spell of the river the Creek Indians called Chattahoochee--"the river of painted rocks." For as the waterway dips and weaves beneath dozens of the city's thoroughfares, an ethereal mist rises from its waters, broken only by the herons and kingfishers that dive from its wooded banks. Look long enough and you can imagine an ancient hunter in a dugout canoe slipping through the billowing vapor. Look again and imagine it's you, disappearing downriver, far away from the exhaust and blaring horns.

Ask anyone who lives in this sprawling metropolis of 3.5 million and you'll be hard pressed to hear a negative word about their beloved 'Hooch. They boat and fish in its waters, picnic and play on its banks, draw power from its dams and drink from its spigots. Even as the river passes through the most industrialized sections of this city, its banks remain cloaked in the river birch, sycamore and tulip poplar that inspired southern author Pat Conroy to describe Atlanta as "where they built a city and left the forest."

But despite its serene appearance, this same river also flushes metro Atlanta's toilets and silently accepts the equivalent of a major oil spill in polluted runoff each year. As a result, the 70-mile section of river south of Atlanta ranks among the five most polluted waterways in the nation. Meanwhile, the metro area's breakneck growth continues to devour the Chattahoochee's watershed--the smallest to supply a major American city--at the unprecedented rate of 50 acres a day.

Not that Atlantans stand alone in loving the Chattahoochee to death. Over the last decade, the state governments of Georgia, Alabama and Florida have remained locked in a water war over their competing rights to use the river as both water source and sewer. So great are the demands that not only water quality but water quantity--an issue more often associated with the arid West--has become a severe regional problem. So much water is being drawn from the Chattahoochee along its 540-mile journey to sea that its declining volume threatens one of the world's most productive estuaries: Apalachicola Bay in the Gulf of Mexico.

"We are at the crossroads," says Sally Bethea, director of the Upper Chattahoochee Riverkeeper, a river advocacy group founded in 1994 by Laura and Rutherford Seydel, daughter and son-in-law of Atlanta media mogul Ted Turner. "We have already changed this river forever, with 15 dams from one end to the other," adds Bethea. "But it still supports an immense diversity of wildlife. The crucial issue now is whether our leaders will insist the river be protected as a healthy ecosystem or whether we continue using it as a toilet and dump."

This workhorse of a river begins as a weeping-rock spring in the Blue Ridge Mountains, 80 miles north of Atlanta and a stone's throw from the Appalachian Trail. Surrounding the headwaters is the lush, 750,000-acre Chattahoochee National Forest, home to some 500 species of animals.

Several miles downstream, after the river tumbles out of federal land, it flows south through poultry farms and fertilized fields, picking up a heavy load of agricultural runoff. This section of the upper Chattahoochee is a magnet for construction of new, luxurious retirement communities. The development increases downstream as the river widens to form the aquatic playground of Lake Lanier, created with the completion of Buford Dam in 1956. By releasing water from the chilly bottom of its reservoir, the dam transformed the section of river below its turbines into the nation's southernmost cold-water trout stream.

Lanier itself has become the country's most-visited federal reservoir. As a result, the 38,000-acre lake is now visibly filling with tons of silt. Add to this mix the discharge of high-phosphorus wastewater from poorly regulated treatment plants and the tainted runoff from oil-slicked roads and chemically pampered lawns.

Concluding that the lake can cope with the onslaught, Georgia's Environmental Protection Division last year signaled a willingness to permit the rapidly growing counties bordering the lake to increase their wastewater discharges, contingent on enforcement of water-treatment standards. "That the state is finally setting water-quality standards for the lake is a step in the right direction," says Russ England, assistant chief of fisheries with the Georgia Department of Natural Resources. But the environmental pressures on Lanier won't abate as long as the region's unbridled growth continues, he cautions. "If they halfway try, a lot of upstream communities can learn from Atlanta's mistakes," adds England. "But their interests remain with rapid growth and against anything that would drive up the cost of that growth."

Existing regulations include a prohibition on disrupting a 25- to 50-foot buffer zone along the riverbank and requirements for erosion-control barriers on construction sites within the watershed. But enforcement is lax, claims Bethea. Part of the problem is lack of manpower. Though Georgia is the largest state east of the Mississippi River, its Environmental Protection Division staff is disproportionately small.

Between Lake Lanier and Atlanta, the Chattahoochee winds for 48 miles through the metro area's affluent suburbs. The riverfront here lies protected from further development by dozens of municipal parks and the 4,000-acre Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area, a string of 13 riverfront units. Even private homes on this stretch of the river remain largely hidden by the resilient vegetation that typifies Georgia's Piedmont region.

But just 50 feet back from the river begins a sea of impervious pavement and brick. During rainstorms, runoff that would naturally filter through vegetation-bound soil instead collects on hot surfaces and slaloms down streets to pour into the river and its tributary creeks. The unnatural wallop of sediment and heated water has already exterminated the Chattahoochee's native shellfish and now endangers temperature- and sight-sensitive fish such as trout, says naturalist Henning von Schmeling of the Chattahoochee Nature Center, a 130-acre riverfront educational facility north of Atlanta.

 

Over the next ten miles, as the river flows through Atlanta proper, it absorbs more than 250 million gallons of treated sewage and nearly a billion gallons of heated power-plant discharge a day. Even worse are the millions of gallons of raw sewage that spill into the river when rainstorms swamp the city's overburdened treatment plant.

From 1995 to 1997, the Riverkeeper spearheaded a lawsuit against the city for its sewer system's long-standing violations of the federal Clean Water Act. As a result, Atlanta was forced to pay $2.5 million in fines and comply with a strict eight-year timetable for improving water quality that included spending $360 million to upgrade its main sewage plant and committing another $25 million for watershed restoration.

A greater problem remains in polluted runoff from roads, construction sites and other nonpoint sources. The longstanding provisions of the federal Clean Water Act require the state of Georgia to reduce such pollution to a level that the river can absorb without threatening wildlife. "But the state has yet to determine the level of pollutants going into the river, let alone what it can safely handle," says biologist Andrew Schock, director of NWF's Southeastern Natural Resources Center. NWF has become particularly involved in training community activists in Atlanta's poorer neighborhoods to lobby for the restoration of the heavily polluted waters where their children fish, swim and play.

 

"Success," adds Schock, "means having the people who live in those neighborhoods involved in the decisions that affect their daily lives."

South of the city, the Chattahoochee opens up for a slow, 40-mile meander through floodplain farmland to West Point Lake on the Georgia-Alabama border. West Point's quiet waters--a stark contrast to Lanier's buzz of activity--have become a settling pond for Atlanta's tainted runoff. But even as pollution levels dampen the lake's popularity for swimming, the high load of nitrogen and phosphorous has made West Point one of the nation's most fertile bass hatcheries. Bald eagles, osprey, and heron share the world-class fishing with sports anglers, though the humans know better than to eat what they catch.

After West Point, the Chattahoochee continues south along the state border and over the fall line, where the hard rock and red clay of Piedmont Plateau give way to the soft sandstone of the coastal plain. Wildlife becomes even more abundant as the river fills its last reservoir, the shallow and reedy Lake Seminole. There, the waters of the Chattahoochee mingle with those of the Flint River before entering the Florida Panhandle under a new name: the Apalachicola. Over its final 100 miles, the meandering stream nourishes millions of acres of hardwood swamp, including the world's largest stands of tupelo trees.

The river's final act is to deliver some 16 billion gallons of fresh water a day into Apalachicola Bay, a protected estuary where fresh and salt water mix slowly to produce a world-class harvest of oysters, shrimp and fish valued at more than $100 million a year. Imperative to the health of this breeding ground is the massive influx of fresh water that keeps deep-ocean predators at bay. Declining volume and pollution have already begun to take their tolls.

"A lot of hip Atlantans love to eat Apalachicola oysters at the city's finest restaurants," comments von Schmeling. "They need to realize that the road grease from their commutes and the chemicals from their over-fertilized yards are ending up on their plates." In many ways, Atlanta's appreciation of fine Apalachicola oysters epitomizes the larger issues facing the Chattahoochee. The millions of Southeasterners who benefit from this river must now face the cost of ensuring its long-term welfare.

"The answers must come from a sense of wise stewardship," says Lindsay Thomas, the federal commissioner appointed to oversee the ongoing negotiations between the three states for the Chattahoochee-Flint-Apalachicola River Basin. But solutions have not come easily. Over the last three years, state negotiators have failed to meet four deadlines for a mutually satisfactory water-management plan. Georgia and Alabama want enough water to sustain another 50 years of booming development, without sacrificing irrigation for agriculture or river levels for commercial navigation. Florida remains desperate to stem the dwindling flow that threatens Apalachicola Bay and 90 percent of its oyster harvest.

Fighting to be heard above the fray is the 17-member TriState Conservation Coalition, which includes the Riverkeeper and two NWF affiliates, the Georgia Wildlife Federation and Florida Wildlife Federation. Lobbying for negotiators to go beyond sheer quantity, the coalition is raising complex "flow" issues that directly impact the wildlife that make southeastern rivers among the most biologically diverse on Earth. Many of the Chattahoochee's 170 species of fish, for example, rely on spring floods to reach their spawning grounds in surrounding wetlands. As withdrawals lower the river's flow, the careful timing of dam releases becomes crucial to these natural cycles. Cyclic flooding is even more pivotal to the Apalachicola Bay system, with its vast fishery nurseries.

The coalition's demands are bolstered by such federal laws as the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Coordination Act, which requires federal negotiators to consider ecological impacts; and the Clean Water Act, which mandates that waterways be kept clean enough to maintain wildlife.

Meanwhile, water-quality issues remain largely in the control of local communities, particularly metro Atlanta and its northern neighbors. Sensing the shift in mood, some of the region's developers have begun to go beyond the letter of the law to protect the Chattahoochee. "More developers are approaching us with a sincere attitude of wanting what's best for the community," says Bethea. "Other times, they're forced to work with us."

A recent case involved construction of the massive Mall of Georgia, the centerpiece of a sprawling retail complex that laid bare some 500 acres of red Georgia clay south of Lake Lanier. "The developers needed a variance to build within stream buffers and knew we could raise holy hell about it," explains Bethea. "As result we got a seat at the planning table." Specifically, the mall's developers consulted closely with Riverkeeper engineers to keep construction runoff from rolling into bordering creeks.

On the public side, Georgia Governor Roy Barnes recently budgeted 60 new positions in the state's Environmental Protection Division, primarily in programs focusing on water quality, with a promise of 140 more over five years. Barnes also vetoed a bill that would have allowed the state legislature to strike down environmental regulations set forth by the agency. Perhaps the most exciting opportunity on the horizon is the creation of a 180-mile greenway protecting riverbank from Helen to Columbus. Though it would leapfrog privately held land, the proposed Chattahoochee Riverway would become the longest river park in the nation--a project that will require $180 million to complete.

Clearly, the momentum for saving the Chattahoochee has never been greater. "What makes this river so remarkable is the fact that there are so many people who love it and depend on it," concludes England. "But the same environmental issues are being faced by great rivers across the nation." What happens here in the next few years, environmentalists agree, will largely determine whether the Chattahoochee becomes a national paradigm or a legacy lost.

Writer Jessica Snyder Sachs is the author of Good Germs, Bad Germs: Health & Survival in a Bacterial World (Hill&Wang/FSG) and Corpse: Nature, Forensics, and the Struggle to Pinpoint Time of Death (Perseus/Basic Books).

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A fragile linkage exists between the nation's water supplies, the wild places where they come from, and the life that the two support together

copyright Jessica Snyder Sachs, as first appeared in National Wildlife

FOR TENS OF MILLIONS of years, a corps of natural hydrologists ensured the continuous cleansing of our continent's water supplies. In woodlands across North America, some 200 million beavers slowed rivers and streams to a silt-dropping crawl with their semiporous dams. Moreover their relentless logging created an elaborate network of wetland meadows that absorbed and cleansed surface runoff.

Beyond the forests, tens of millions of bison and elk worked in tandem with wildfires to sustain the short-grass and tallgrass prairies that soaked up the torrential downpours of seasonal thunderstorms. Beneath these same grasslands, hundreds of thousands of prairie dogs dug vast networks of tunnels that channeled groundwater deeper, to feed and refresh underground rivers that, in turn, continually recharged the continent's lakes and above-ground streams.

In these ways, a network of keystone species helped maintain a clean supply of the continent's most vital, life-sustaining substance. For while many forms of life can survive without oxygen, none can do so without water. Indeed, 60 to 80 percent of every living cell consists of water, and all vital biological processes begin or end with this simple molecule.

So far as science can discern, life on this planet began in a watery cradle. And when astronomers scan other planets for the potential to support life, they look first for signs of the molecule H20.

As seen from space, the sparkling blue ball that is Earth reveals itself to be a paradise of wetness. Above the oceans and lakes that cover more than 70 percent of the planet's surface drifts an ever-shifting lace of water-vapor clouds. Water pours from our skies, courses down our mountains and flows across every continent, back to the seas where the warming sun sends it skyward again. In this manner, our planet continually recycles an estimated 370 quintillion gallons (18 zeros), most of it older than the oldest fossils.

As life in North America and elsewhere evolved around water's unique properties, elaborate ecosystems developed to ensure continual recycling and purification. In Water: A Natural History, environmental engineer Alice Outwater describes the consequences of disrupting these ecosystems, particularly the large-scale decimation of North America's pre-Columbian populations of beaver, bison, elk and prairie dogs. "By tampering with and in some cases eliminating the ecological niches where water cleans itself," she says, "we have simplified the pathways that water takes through the American landscape, and we have ended up with dirty water."

Without wetlands and prairie grasslands to absorb rainfall, water slaloms across the landscape, picking up and dumping sediment into streams and lakes. Without beaver dams to brake their flow, streams frequently deepen into brown-water gulleys, continually eating away at their own banks. In an even more dramatic manner, development that clears natural vegetation speeds sediment-laden runoff during rainstorms, while adding a potentially toxic load of pesticides and other chemicals. The U.S. Geological Survey's recently completed ten-year assessment of the nation's water resources found multiple pesticides and unnaturally elevated levels of phosphorus and nitrogen in virtually all streams and groundwater sampled outside undeveloped wilderness. The majority of these streams contained pesticides at levels that exceeded--and often far exceeded--federal guidelines for the protection of aquatic life. These same chemicals can likewise endanger humans if they enter the drinking water supply.

"Scientific studies have repeatedly shown that our ability to protect our water sources from pollutants--and there are many of them--relates closely to our ability to safeguard our own health, especially that of our children, with their growing bodies," observes Monty Fischer, National Wildlife Federation policy director of water resources. "As conservationists, we're also keenly aware of the crucial role an untainted and abundant water supply plays in sustaining wildlife."

Certainly, Fischer points out, part of the solution is increased water efficiency--from turning off the faucet when we brush our teeth to making sure that our municipalities repair leaky water mains and otherwise invest in efficient water-delivery systems. But more important, he says, "is a public understanding of the linkage between the water flowing out of your tap and the wild places where it comes from, both in terms of the quantity and quality of that water, and the commitment it takes to protect those water sources."

Outwater agrees, adding: "An undeniable symbiosis exists between our country's water, the land from which it springs and the life that the two support together. Safeguarding that symbiosis is a responsibility all of us must share."

New Jersey journalist Jessica Snyder Sachs wrote about the effects of pesticides on endangered species in the December/January issue.

SIDEBAR:

H₂O: The Incredible Molecule

What is it that makes H₂O the liquid of life itself?

In chemical structure, the water molecule could hardly be simpler: two hydrogen atoms stuck like Mickey Mouse ears onto a single atom of oxygen. But in that simplicity can be found water's unique properties.

In essence, every water molecule is a tiny magnet, and its strong polar nature gives it the ability to dissolve an unparalleled range of substances, including a wide range of salts. In addition to the familiar sodium-chloride molecule we know as table salt, these include scores of biologically important substances such as potassium chloride, magnesium chloride and calcium sulfate. Indeed, all living beings--from plants to humans--depend on water to release the life-sustaining minerals contained in these salts.

Water's remarkable solvent powers provide the perfect medium for virtually every biological reaction that occurs inside a living cell--from energy-storing photosynthesis to energy-consuming respiration. And water has the remarkable ability to dissolve gases--most importantly, oxygen and carbon dioxide. It is water's oxygen-carrying capacity that sustains aquatic animal life.

A water molecule's mini-magnet configuration generates a host of other queer qualities, as well. Given its simple structure and small size, it should fly apart into gaseous form at extremely low temperatures. But water molecules cluster into tight groups, with each molecule's negatively charged oxygen atom lining up with the positively charged hydrogen on its neighbors. The considerable amount of energy needed to break these "hydrogen bonds" gives water the unusually high boiling point of 212 degrees F (100 degrees C). As a result, the planet's surface water never completely evaporates under the beating sun. Instead, oceans and lakes act as impressive energy sinks for storing and slowly releasing solar energy to temper seasons, and smooth out temperature differences between day and night.

As temperatures drop toward freezing, the hydrogen bonds between water molecules perform another impressive trick. They preassemble into the open-lattice structure that gives snowflakes their beautiful patterns and makes ice lighter than water. This bizarre quality of water being lighter as a solid than as a liquid has a huge consequence: It is the reason that lakes and oceans don't freeze from the bottom up, solidifying into a global ice block that even the hottest summer would never melt.--Jessica Snyder Sachs

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Copyright Jessica Snyder Sachs, as first appeared in National Wildlife

THE EARLY MORNING SUN glints off the amber, "swamp tea" waters of Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge, as an eager group of Sunday birders clamber up its wetland observation tower. For the last half mile of boardwalk, they've heard the croak of sandhill cranes above the rustling sound of the sawgrass blocking their view. "They'll be lifting off any day now," says refuge ranger Maggie O'Connell of the swamp's winter population of several thousand greater sandhill cranes. Though only mid-February, winter is already loosening its halfhearted grip on southern Georgia's Great Okefenokee, one of the largest intact freshwater ecosystems in the world.

Atop the 50-foot tower, O'Connell surveys her domain. "Seventeen miles to the horizon without a stitch of solid ground," she marvels. Indeed, the dense vegetation of this landscape grows atop floating peat-bog islands, the largest crowned by bald cypress draped in ghostly green Spanish moss. For good reason, the Creek Indians dubbed this Oguafenogua, the "land of the trembling earth." Stomp hard enough and even the trees shake.

Like the majority of the 539 units in America's National Wildlife Refuge System, the Okefenokee was protected to serve as sanctuary for migratory waterfowl such as the cranes, teals, mergansers, herons and egrets seen feeding across its open, wet "prairie." But the Georgia reserve has evolved far beyond its "duck factory" genesis.

This refuge's expanded purpose becomes clear as the sun rises high enough to banish the morning chill, and boaters begin paddling and motoring up the swamp's 120 miles of canals and slow-moving streams. Blinking back at them from the shore or half-submerged in the shimmering blackwater are the sleek American alligators that are among the Okefenokee's star attractions. Many of the visitors will linger after returning to dock--lunching on the refuge's grassy picnic grounds, touring its new million-dollar environmental education exhibit, and shopping for souvenirs in the gift shop. Some will spend the night, either in the state park easement on the refuge's west side or deep in the swamp, on one of seven overnight canoeing platforms.

In addition to playing host to more than 400,000 visitors a year, the staff of this national wildlife refuge have launched an ambitious long-term project to restore and expand the area's upland stands of rare longleaf pine and wiregrass habitat--home to endangered red-cockaded woodpeckers and threatened gopher tortoises, indigo snakes and Florida black bears. To this end, nearly half the refuge staff work on the fire crews that conduct prescribed burns to beat back the saw palmetto and slash pine that once were kept in check by seasonal wildfires. "We figure it'll take about 300 years of active management to restore the area," says O'Connell.

Now, as it prepares to celebrate its centennial year beginning in March, the National Wildlife Refuge System as a whole is experiencing an equally radical deepening and expansion of its purpose. Administered by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, it is the world's only national network of public lands set aside specifically for wildlife. And for years, it struggled without any sense of unifying mission. Beginning with President Theodore Roosevelt's founding of the first refuge--Florida's Pelican Island in 1903--one unit after another has flickered into being with its own narrowly defined mission. Before Roosevelt left office in 1909, these included 56 big game preserves and bird reservations such as Idaho's Mindoka refuge for ducks and geese, Oklahoma's Wichita Mountains for bison and elk, and Alaska's Fire Island for moose.

In addition to playing host to more than 400,000 visitors a year, the staff of this national wildlife refuge have launched an ambitious long-term project to restore and expand the area's upland stands of rare longleaf pine and wiregrass habitat--home to endangered red-cockaded woodpeckers and threatened gopher tortoises, indigo snakes and Florida black bears. To this end, nearly half the refuge staff work on the fire crews that conduct prescribed burns to beat back the saw palmetto and slash pine that once were kept in check by seasonal wildfires. "We figure it'll take about 300 years of active management to restore the area," says O'Connell.

Now, as it prepares to celebrate its centennial year beginning in March, the National Wildlife Refuge System as a whole is experiencing an equally radical deepening and expansion of its purpose. Administered by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, it is the world's only national network of public lands set aside specifically for wildlife. And for years, it struggled without any sense of unifying mission. Beginning with President Theodore Roosevelt's founding of the first refuge--Florida's Pelican Island in 1903--one unit after another has flickered into being with its own narrowly defined mission. Before Roosevelt left office in 1909, these included 56 big game preserves and bird reservations such as Idaho's Mindoka refuge for ducks and geese, Oklahoma's Wichita Mountains for bison and elk, and Alaska's Fire Island for moose.

Since 1934, the Migratory Bird Hunting and Conservation Stamp Act has funded the acquisition of millions of acres of additional waterfowl habitat, concentrated up and down North America's four major migratory flyways. Among the first, Montana's Red Rock Lakes refuge became the last-chance sanctuary for the highly endangered trumpeter swan in 1935.

In 1966, Congress passed the National Wildlife Refuge Administration Act, enlarging the refuge system further with several thousand small prairie pothole wetlands designated as "Waterfowl Production Areas." And in 1980, the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act nearly tripled the refuge system's holdings with some 54 million acres of pristine arctic and subarctic habitat.

By the time the 500th refuge--West Virginia's Canaan Valley--was established in 1994, the system encompassed more units than the National Forest Service and more land (90 million acres) than the National Park Service's holdings. Yet much of the refuge system continued to be managed under a mishmash of policies and regulations that left its lands vulnerable to such strangely incompatible uses as jet skiing, dune-buggy racing, livestock grazing, oil drilling, even military war games and bombing runs. Refuge managers opposing such uses stood on shaky legal ground unless they could show that the activities directly threatened the specific purpose for which their refuges had been established.

A case in point: In 1990, the manager of Aransas National Wildlife Refuge on the Texas Gulf Coast tried to remove privately owned cattle from the preserve's wildlife-rich Matagorda Island. Biologists had determined that overgrazing had already degraded the island's otherwise pristine habitat, including nesting sites for endangered sea turtles and underbrush vital to wintering songbirds. The problem was that Congress had established the refuge in 1937 specifically as a sanctuary for the world's last wild population of whooping cranes.

"We could show that the cattle were definitely degrading the overall ecosystem of Matagorda Island," explains National Wildlife Refuge System Director Dan Ashe. "But technically, in order to deny the grazing permit, we had to show that it was incompatible with the refuge's original purpose." In the end, federal administrators stood behind the refuge manager's claim that cattle grazing constituted an incompatible use. "But a lot of people, including our own attorneys, thought we were stretching things," admits Ashe.

Such legalistic hand-tying came to an end in 1996, with an executive order by President Clinton, followed the next year by the bipartisan passage of the National Wildlife Refuge System Improvement Act. These two legal directives set forth "conservation" as the refuge system's singular and all-encompassing purpose--a purpose against which any proposed use had to be judged. The groundbreaking Improvement Act also required the staff at every refuge to create a 15-year comprehensive conservation plan--guided, in large part, by public input. Indeed, by placing an emphasis on "wildlife-compatible" uses such as observation, photography and limited hunting, the law acknowledged that refuges are for people too.

Specifically, some 2 million hunters and 6 million anglers visit the refuge system each year. Twice that number--some 16 million visitors--come solely to watch wildlife or soak in the beauty and serenity of the nation's wildest places. Add busloads of students and tour groups taking advantage of environmental education programs and the tally swells to at least 35 million visitors a year. The importance of their input in setting the system's agenda for its second century can hardly be underestimated, says Jamie Rappaport Clark, former director of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service during the Clinton administration and now NWF senior vice president for conservation programs. "The pressures on the refuge system have grown tremendously in recent years," she explains. "We have more threatened and endangered species, more demands for human activity on the landscape, and more development and encroachment from the outside. As a result, the job of safeguarding these wild places and passing them on to new generations demands a high level of public engagement."

In fact, the most serious threats to refuge wildlife and habitat--urban sprawl, water depletion, pollution and invasive species--originate outside refuge borders and, therefore beyond the system's authority. Consequently, progress depends on activism on the part of local citizens and allied conservation organizations.

In recent years, for example, the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge has depended on a large coalition of conservation groups, including NWF and its affiliate, the Georgia Wildlife Federation, to stave off plans by the chemical giant DuPont to excavate a 30-mile-long, 50-foot-deep titanium strip mine a few feet from the refuge's eastern border. The proposed mining operations would generate a 24-hour-a-day onslaught of dust, smoke, exhaust, noise and light directly alongside the refuge's main wildlife observation drive. Worse, scientific studies indicate the mine could irrevocably alter the Okefenokee's delicate hydrology and ecology. With no authority to stop operations off refuge grounds, refuge managers continue to rely on sustained and vocal public opposition to keep DuPont's plans at bay.

Public opposition has, at least for the time being, helped play an even larger role in confronting what many people view as the greatest single threat to the refuge system in its 100-year history: the proposed opening of the coastal plain section of Alaska's 19.6 million-acre Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil drilling--a plan that the U.S. Senate voted down last year. Scientific studies by government wildlife biologists had confirmed that petroleum operations on the Arctic refuge would disrupt its vast caribou calving grounds and irreparably harm the region's delicate tundra ecosystem. More importantly, says Clark, "opening Arctic to drilling would totally blow apart the purpose of the entire refuge system. For if there's the will to violate a refuge as spectacular and ecologically unique as Arctic, what would stop the same from happening at the system's 75 million other acres?"

At the least, adds Clark, the 1997 Refuge Improvement Act makes doing so extremely difficult. "As there's no possible way to open up the heart of this refuge to drilling and call it 'compatible' with conservation," she says, "it would require Congressional legislation to literally set the Refuge Improvement Act aside."

More insidious threats to the system include a widening budget shortfall for staffing and maintenance, says Evan Hirsche, president of the National Wildlife Refuge Association, the umbrella organization for more than 200 local refuge volunteer "friends" groups. "Wildlife refuges have long been the black sheep of federal land holdings in terms of monetary support," he says. Specifically, the system must manage more than 94 million acres--and the welfare of more than 200 threatened or endangered species--with an annual budget of $370 million, or less than $4 an acre.

"As a result," says Hirsche, "a great deal of conservation objectives are not being met." Primary among these has been the refuge system's losing battle with invasive species such as the Australian pine and Brazilian pepper trees supplanting native habitat at Florida's Pelican Island National Wildlife Refuge; the zebra mussels and purple loosestrife crowding out native mollusks and wetland plant species in the Upper Mississippi National Fish and Wildlife Refuge; and nutria, a beaver-like Central American rodent, tearing up tidal marshes in Maryland's Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge. Also showing the strain of underfunding is the refuge system's aging infrastructure of access roads, buildings, water-management facilities and other assets.

The severe underfunding for maintenance and staff has also slowed the system's opening of new refuges, despite the annual influx of "Duck Stamp" money for land acquisition. "Before we acquire new areas, we have to ask ourselves whether we'll have the funds to manage them," explains Ashe. "Too often, I hear the argument, 'You don't have to do anything, just buy the land and protect it.' But 'protect' is an active verb."

Indeed, though much of the refuge system consists of wilderness where humans seldom tread, at a minimum, these places must be posted and patrolled. "In this day and age, even our most remote areas are no longer insulated from such illegal activities as drug trafficking, poaching and garbage dumping," says Ashe. "If we just left these places alone, I don't think anyone would be happy with what we'd find when we came back five years later." Moreover, a large percentage of the refuge system requires intensive management such as controlled burning to maintain ecosystem balance and active farming to provide grain for migratory waterfowl. "We need more maintenance workers, more equipment operators, more law-enforcement officers," says Ashe.

In particular, Ashe and conservation activists agree, the system needs more wildlife biologists. "The lack of biological expertise undermines any effort at strategic planning and wise management," says Clark. "Many of our refuges need extensive habitat restoration that can't be carried out because of this lack of biological expertise." At the very least, she explains, the system needs enough biologists to conduct wildlife surveys, monitor wildlife threats and prioritize spending at individual refuges.

For all these reasons, a coalition of 20 conservation groups, including the National Wildlife Federation, recently called on President Bush and Congress to nearly double the refuge system's budget. "Because of their strategic locations and acreage, our refuges provide safe havens for hundreds of threatened and endangered species, provide migratory stopover for millions of birds, while at the same time provide terrific areas for solace and enjoyment for people who want to experience nature," argues Clark. "But it's a system that desperately requires increased funding if it's going to address the needs of both wildlife and people."

The good news is that authorities in Washington, D.C., are finally getting the message. "We've seen sustained budget increases over recent years, including Secretary of the Interior Gale Norton's endorsement of a nearly $57 million increase for maintenance and operations in 2003," says Ashe, who credits conservation groups for their persistent lobbying on behalf of the refuge system. "Constituent organizations like the National Wildlife Federation have in the past five to six years rallied to our defense. It's in large part thanks to them that government leaders have been able to set aside political differences and support us."

Admittedly, recent federal funding increases fall far short of the refuge system's staggering maintenance backlog--currently estimated at more than $526 million, with another $700 million needed for high-priority projects such as restoring degraded habitats and promoting the recovery of endangered species.

Increasingly, refuges have come to rely on volunteers to pick up the slack. Every year some 30,000 volunteers donate more than a million hours of their time to driving heavy equipment, conducting habitat surveys, building boardwalks, running bookstores and nature programs, and lobbying for increased local, state and federal support. "That translates to about $13 million worth of services a year," notes Hirsche.

The need for volunteer support will only increase in the refuge system's second century. "These precious places are mere islands in the landscape, and we can't hope to ever acquire all the land we need," he explains. "As a result, the success of the system's conservation mission will depend on local volunteers becoming envoys to neighboring landowners and local governments, and in this way extending each refuge's wildlife objectives beyond its borders."

In the future that Hirsche envisions, "refuges will become shining examples for private landowners, state land managers and other federal land agencies of how they can all develop management policies consistent with species conservation."

New Jersey-based journalist Jessica Snyder Sachs visited the Okefenokee and Pelican Island National Wildlife Refuges while reporting for this article.

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Copyright Jessica Snyder Sachs, as first appeared in National Wildlife

FROM A DISTANCE, the oddly stunted mangrove trees of Florida's Pelican Island look dusted in snow. Approach closer, however, and the snowfall turns out to be hundreds of nesting egrets, herons, ibises, wood storks and downy young pelicans. The mangrove's dwarfed greenery likewise results from the birds, whose continual pruning for nesting material has produced an island-wide bonsai effect. Scientists estimate that this tiny islet, a stone's throw from the East Florida mainland on one side and barrier islands on the other, has provided the birds and their nestlings safe haven from predators for thousands of years.

Yet in the closing years of the 19th century, this ancient rookery came within a hair's breadth of extirpation. First came the winter tourists, shooting clouds of island birds for idle entertainment. Plume hunters followed, systematically raking the island for both nestlings and adults to feed the insatiable demand for fashionable feathered hats. Naturalists and scientists only added to the massacre in the late 1800s with their wholesale collection of eggs and specimens for display.

Watching it all from the mainland, boat builder Paul Kroegel cursed the mindless slaughter. In 1881, Kroegel established his boat shop across from Pelican Island in order to enjoy the sight of reeling birds. But by 1898, the herons, egrets, roseate spoonbills and white ibises were gone, the pelicans severely reduced. Over the next five years, Kroegel and pioneering wildlife conservationists William Dutcher and Theodore Palmer lobbied officials in Washington, D.C., for protection. In 1903, they finally convinced President Theodore Roosevelt to declare Pelican Island a wildlife sanctuary--the country's first national wildlife refuge.

Hired as the sanctuary's first manager, Kroegel earned $1 a month to keep his eye on the island rookery. He kept a ten-gauge shotgun in his dockside skiff to help persuade trespassers to move on. The mild-mannered conservationist started the island on its slow recovery.

A century later, refuge manager Paul Tritaik continues the fight to protect Pelican Island and its spectacular diversity of nesting birds. Instead of a gun, Tritaik faces the island's modern-day threats with an impressive array of bureaucratic wrangling and artfully harnessed public activism. "I try every angle I can," says Tritaik of his ten years managing a refuge that until recently didn't so much as provide him with his own budget, let alone a wildlife biologist or other full-time help.

When he arrived at the refuge in 1993, Tritaik realized that Pelican Island was literally disappearing. "I noticed it when I was looking at old aerial photos of the island," he explains. "The shape of the island was dramatically different than it is today." A survey confirmed Tritaik's worst fears: Over the course of the 20th century, the island had eroded from a 5.5-acre triangle to a 2.2-acre comma.

Part of the problem, Tritaik realized, was the island's location--dead center in Florida's busy Intracoastal Waterway. The wakes generated by the heavy boat traffic had been pounding on the fragile islet for decades. "At some point, I knew the island would simply be too small to support a viable rookery," he says. But Tritaik remained powerless to stop or even slow the traffic.

Though the refuge had acquired some 4,700 acres of surrounding water from the state of Florida in 1963, the additional territory came with the precondition that no restrictions be placed on fishing or boating. Tritaik first turned to volunteer labor to try to stabilize the islet's battered shore. When that made little headway, he finagled Pelican Island's designation as a National Historic Landmark into getting money for hiring a helicopter to dump 250 tons of oyster shell.

Similarly, Tritaik has wrangled Environmental Protection Agency funds to help clean and restore the surrounding Indian River Lagoon, even as he gleaned other restoration money based on its status as a National Wilderness Area. Most importantly, perhaps, Tritaik continues to network with Pelican Island's many passionate local supporters, who stand ready to wield their lobbying clout as well as their physical labor.

A sea change in government support arrived in 1999, says Tritaik, when U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Director Jamie Rappaport Clark committed her agency to transforming this, the nation's first wildlife refuge, into a showcase for the system's upcoming centennial. Within three years, the refuge had acquired more than 150 acres of neighboring barrier island. The newly acquired acreage will allow the refuge to welcome the public for the first time with hiking trails, boardwalk, rookery observation tower and visitors' center. "Pelican Island today," says Tritaik, "stands as a monument to the National Wildlife Refuge System that it spawned."

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Understanding plains zebra society could prove crucial to conserving Africa's tropical grasslands

Copyright Jessica Snyder Sachs, as first appeared in National Wildlife magazine

THE DRY SEASON grips the highland savanna of eastern Africa between late May and early June. As the relentless sun drives the last bit of moisture from the soil, the verdant highlands shrivel to yellow and brown. Herds of antelope, gazelle, wildebeest, elephant and buffalo gather by the hundreds of thousands, chafing to begin their annual migration to the lowlands to find water. Lions, hyenas and other predators likewise ready themselves to follow their prey on the seasonal journey.

But none can leave the depleted highlands until the plains zebra departs--and readies lowland grasses for the grazers that follow. "They start the whole grazing succession," says Princeton University ecologist Daniel Rubenstein, who has been studying the species for the past 15 years. Because zebras have an unusual hindgut digestive system rich in fermenting microbes, they can gorge on the low-quality coarse straw available at the start of the rainy season. Buried beneath this sunlight-blocking thatch lies the tender new growth upon which all other grazers depend. This means that from the vast, acacia-dotted savannas of the Serengeti, south through Zambia's scrubby woodlands and the treeless veldt of South Africa, the plains zebra plays an unmatched role in maintaining some of the most biologically diverse habitat on the planet.

Consequently, the long-term conservation of Africa's tropical grasslands relies on the wise stewardship of this linchpin species, says Rubenstein. In partnership with the African Wildlife Foundation and Earthwatch Institute, he currently heads a broad-based project aimed at integrating zebra conservation with the rapid growth of agriculture, livestock and game-ranching industries in eastern Africa.

To the tourist on safari, the plains zebra certainly looks to be thriving. Indeed, where these zebras still occur, their inimitable stripes dominate the landscape, with a population of nearly 665,000, dwarfing that of its two gravely endangered cousins--the Grevy's zebra of Kenya and the mountain zebra of Namibia and South Africa.

"But if you actually look at the details," says Rubenstein, "you see that the plains zebra has been extirpated from much of its historic range." Today, 70 percent of its population concentrates in just two countries, Kenya and Tanzania. Ecotourism dollars have enabled these nations to protect large swaths of lowland zebra habitat inside national parks. But just outside park borders, farms and ranches have sprung up to block many of the age-old migration routes that zebras need to cross between dry season refuges and lusher uplands. Though the lengths of these migration routes vary widely, many populations travel hundreds of miles a year.

In Tanzania, for example,"there used to be nine migratory routes out of Tarangire National Park," says Rubenstein. "Now there are only two or three left, all on privately owned land." Because of the low quality of their grasses, dry-season refuges such as Tarangire can't support large populations of zebras unless the animals can fatten up in adjacent highlands during the wet season.

How this changing landscape will affect the plains zebra is unknown. But what is certain, given Rubenstein's studies, is that human activities are affecting the species' unique multilayered social structure.

At the core of plains zebra society is a breeding group, or harem, with a single breeding stallion, up to six mares and their young. Rubenstein has discovered that although the stallion defends his harem from danger and harassment, the mares generally call the shots. "The males that let their females do what they want--organize behind the scenes and choose the kind of grazing they want--those are the stallions that get the most females," he says.

As with many social mammals, female plains zebras form strong, long-term bonds with one another and stay together even after the death of a stallion. What's unusual is that the females in a zebra harem are not related. And unlike many other large mammals--such as lionesses and female elephants, which form alliances with sisters and daughters--plains zebra mares cast out all of their offspring. "In fact, it's usually the young females who get the message first and take a hike," says Rubenstein. In her second year, a maturing filly goes in search of a young stallion. A young male leaves by his third year, either to join a bachelor group or begin recruiting his own harem.

Adding more complexity, stallions and their harems often band together to form a much larger, loose-knit herd of several hundred, where the females freely comingle. Yet the stallions generally resist pilfering each other's mares. The purpose behind these superherds appears to be defense against raiding parties of bachelor males. "A single stallion set upon by a large group of bachelors has little chance of defending his females. As he barrels into the mob, taking on five or six of the marauders, the others just stream around him and head for the females," says Rubenstein. By contrast, a coalition of stallions can present a united front to keep the interlopers at bay. Rubenstein has observed that the more bachelors in a given area, the larger the combined-harem herds.

This elaborate social system complicates the task of conserving and managing the plains zebra. Many zebras live on private game ranches, where hunters target established stallions--the male's brighter coat makes for the most desirable trophy and the "homebody" stallions tend to be easier to find than the farther-ranging, vagabond bachelors. But increasing the proportion of bachelors causes surviving stallions and mares to band together even more, producing an unnatural herd size. "It's creating a whole new population structure," says Rubenstein, "It's not clear whether this is natural or sustainable, or what it might mean for the future."

More clear-cut is the impact that stallion hunting has on the zebra birth rate. Remove a harem's stallion and the fertility of the surviving mares drops dramatically for at least two years while young and inexperienced bachelors vie for control. "From a game management point of view, that means fewer babies," says Rubenstein, "a fact that has to be taken into consideration when setting hunting quotas if zebra populations are going to remain self-sustaining."

That said, wild populations as large as the plains zebra's can adapt to new pressures. But only if they have enough space. "Free run is the issue," says Rubenstein. "The zebras can take care of themselves."

Jessica Snyder Sachs, a regular contributor to National Wildlife magazine, is the author of Good Germs, Bad Germs: Health and Survival in a Bacterial World (Hill&Wang/FSG) and Corpse: Nature, Forensics, and the Struggle to Pinpoint Time of Death (Perseus/Basic Books).

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Copyright Jessica Snyder Sachs, as first published in National Wildlife (photo courtesy mercuryinyourhome.com)

SOMETHING SHINY caught my eye when I glanced at the old thermostat the repairman left behind. I was about to toss it in the trash, when I realized that it contained a glass bulb filled with mercury. I had done enough reading to know that I had enough toxic metal in my hand to contaminate a large lake, rendering its fish unsafe to eat for years, if not many decades, to come. The challenge would be to safely and responsibly dispose of it. Unfortunately, thermostats are just one example of the scores of mercury-containing products found in a typical American home. Few bear any indication of their status as hazardous materials. Some contain enough mercury to pose an immediate danger if they break and release toxic vapors. All of them present homeowners with the same challenge I faced: How do you dispose of these items safely so the mercury doesn't get into the environment and return in a more dangerous form inside a can of tuna or bite of sushi?

As for the food products containing mercury that are already in our pantries and refrigerators, consumers today have good reason to think hard about what kinds of fish they're feeding their family, and in what quantity (see "Dietary Cleanup" box). "We need to look at the mercury problem through two lenses," explains Felice Stadler, national policy coordinator for NWF's Clean the Rain Campaign. "The first lens concerns what we can do to minimize our exposure today. The other lens concerns identifying sources of mercury so we can minimize environmental contamination and reduce exposure through tomorrow's food supply."

Though mercury occurs naturally in the environment-in rocks, soil, oceans and air-only in modern times has it become a pervasive and pernicious threat to health. Indeed, scientific research indicates that the rate at which mercury enters our food chain has increased considerably in recent decades.

What makes this dangerous is mercury's extreme neurotoxicity. That is, its devastating effects on the brain and nervous system. The "mad hatters" of Victorian times suffered from mercury poisoning when they rubbed the metal into felt cloth to preserve it. Mental confusion, trembling and eventually death can result from inhaling the vapors of this liquid metal, which readily evaporates at room temperature. As the dangers of mercury exposure became known in the early 20th century, acute poisonings became rare. But they still occur, as when children find and play with mercury or when someone eats large quantities of contaminated fish over a relatively short period of time.

Of far greater concern today is the harm that is done to developing fetuses, infants and young children exposed to even low levels of methylmercury. A recent report by the National Academy of Sciences concluded that the amount of methylmercury (an especially problematic form) consumed by pregnant women in this country results in at least 60,000 children born at risk of developmental harm. The risk of permanent injury continues for at least the first five years of life, as the brain and nervous system continue to develop and children consume mercury through breast milk and food.

The vast majority of methylmercury in our diet turns up in large, commercially caught fish, such as tuna and swordfish, and in smaller species pulled from contaminated waters by recreational anglers. Scientists have traced the source of the contamination primarily to coal-burning power plants, certain industrial processes and the incineration of mercury-containing products.

Once mercury enters the planet's water cycle as a pollutant, bacteria convert it into methylmercury, which bioaccumulates (or concentrates) in the tissues of organisms that consume it. So it occurs at greater concentrations as it moves up the food chain. In top predators such as tuna and swordfish, methylmercury can be present at concentrations 10,000 to 100,000 times that found in surrounding waters.

The good news is that mercury-free alternatives now exist for many of the metal's uses in household and automotive products. This has encouraged a handful of states to bar the sale of easily replaced mercury devices such as thermometers and switches. Only two, Vermont and Minnesota, require manufacturers to label mercury-added devices. Until such labeling requirements become widespread, ferreting out mercury in the home takes some detective work. Understanding the metal's useful properties can help you recognize where it's likely to be found.

Thermometers and thermostats: Elemental mercury expands and contracts evenly with changes in temperature. So it has long been used in glass thermometers and the mercury-bulb switches in thermostats. Mercury switches can likewise be found inside heating elements that shut off when they reach a set temperature-such as those inside clothing irons and older microwave ovens. The most easily recognized nonmercury alternatives have digital displays-an indication of electronic sensors.

Vapor lamps: Fluorescent, neon and high-intensity-discharge (HID) light bulbs contain mercury vapor. Fluorescents more than make up for their added mercury by conserving energy and so reducing mercury emissions from coal power plants. Until mercury-free alternatives are available, the best options are low-mercury bulbs as long as they are disposed of properly; they are recognized by their green end caps.

Batteries: Over the last 20 years, U.S. manufacturers have reduced the amount of mercury in household batteries by 99 percent. Small amounts can still be found in "button" batteries, such as those used in watches and hearing aids; as a result, they should be properly disposed.

Barometers and blood-pressure gauges: Mercury expands and contracts with pressure. So it is used in conventional barometers and blood-pressure gauges. Indeed, a typical home blood-pressure device contains a whopping 1.5 pounds! Mercury-free alternatives include "Bourdon tube" barometers and "aneroid" blood-pressure gauges.

Old pesticides and latex paint: Mercury's toxicity makes it an effective preservative and pesticide. Fungicides and herbicides produced before 1994 and latex paint made before 1992 release significant amounts of mercury vapor during application. Though the sale of such items is now phased out, countless half-used containers remain in America's garages and basements.

Toys and novelties: Old children's chemistry sets (1960s vintage or earlier) often contained vials of liquid mercury. Until recently, athletic shoe manufacturers used mercury in the blinking heels of light-up sneakers. Toy importers still occasionally sell novelties that contain a drop of mercury that rolls through a maze.

Tilt switches: Mercury conducts electricity and flows when you tilt it. So it is used in switches that stop motors or turn on lights when you open a lid. Think washing machines, top-loading freezers, car hoods and trunks. Alternatives include electronic sensors and nonmercury mechanical switches (check with the manufacturer). In 1995, the International Automobile Manufacturers Association announced that it had completely eliminated mercury switches from foreign vehicles. U.S. carmakers pledged to do the same by 1997, but have been slow to fulfill their promise, says Clean Car Campaign spokesman Dean Menke.

More mercury in cars: Contrary to their pledge, U.S. automakers have actually expanded the use of mercury in cars, says Menke, who calculated more than 10,000 pounds of mercury in model-year 2000 passenger vehicles. This poses a colossal problem as neither manufacturers nor car recyclers want to take responsibility for safe disposal. Until they do, Menke advises car shoppers to ask for evidence that light switches, headlamps, antilock brakes, convenience lighting and active ride-control systems have been manufactured without mercury.

Disposal: Mercury sealed inside solid devices poses no immediate danger to the user. The key is proper disposal at the end of the product's useful life, followed by replacement with mercury-free alternatives when possible. (The Clean Car Campaign's national "Switch-the-Switch" exchange program, for example, enables vehicle owners to exchange mercury for nonmercury light switches. More information can be found at www.cleancarcampaign.org.)

Mark as "containing mercury" any device you suspect may contain the metal. Then contact your local solid waste department to determine your disposal options: Many communities have disposal sites or neighborhood pickup dates. Collected mercury in most cases is sent to recycling facilities where it is then reused in new mercury products. Environmental advocates are working on national policies to get mercury used in products or in manufacturing completely out of circulation.

Should a mercury spill occur in your home, don't panic. Elemental mercury does not readily absorb through the skin or even the digestive tract, says Lynn Goldman of the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health. The health danger is vapor inhalation. So in the case of a small spill-say, a broken thermometer or thermostat bulb-move children out of the room and open doors and windows to ventilate. Never try to sweep or vacuum mercury. Doing so can contaminate an entire building by scattering toxic particles through the air. Use adhesive tape or an eyedropper to collect small amounts and seal them in a plastic container. Dispose of contaminated clothing, carpeting and upholstery in sealed plastic bags. Place contaminated materials outside and inaccessible to children and animals, until they can be disposed as hazardous waste. In the case of a large spill, such as that from a blood-pressure gauge, leave the area immediately, notify your local public health agency and call your physician for possible treatment.

NWF recently published a guide to products that contain mercury, alternatives available and local actions being taken to remove mercury products from the marketplace. For copies, contact Kathleen Eales at 734-769-3351, eales@nwf.org, or see www.nwf.org/greatlakes. New Jersey writer Jessica Snyder Sachs is a regular contributor to this magazine.

Dietary Cleanup
Sadly, what should be one of the most healthful foods in the American diet has become potentially one of the most dangerous. Persistently high mercury levels in streams, lakes and oceans render many kinds of fish unsafe for children and women of childbearing age. Currently, 43 states have advisories against eating some or all fish caught from local waters. But don't count on finding the warnings publicized or posted. Check with your state environmental agency before eating any recreationally caught fish, and check for new advisories each season.

As for fish from the grocery store, in 2001 the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) advised that young children and women of childbearing age not eat shark, swordfish, mackerel and tilefish because such fish were found with levels of methylmercury greater than 1 part per million (ppm). That the FDA did not warn against tuna proved controversial. Though most tuna falls below the 1-ppm mercury limit, Americans tend to eat more of it.

Methylmercury studies by the EPA suggest that levels as low as 0.25 ppm may be unsafe for consumption. In recent tests by Consumers Union, canned tuna averaged about 0.31 ppm; light tuna averaged about 0.16 ppm. Based on these test results and EPA guidelines, a 132-pound woman should eat no more than 9 ounces of light tuna or 5 ounces of white tuna a week. A 44-pound child should eat no more than a third that amount. (This assumes that no other fish is consumed by the child during that time.) The FDA recommends eating no more than 12 ounces of cooked fish per week. Far less mercury turns up in smaller commercially caught fish such as flounder, haddock, butterfish, herring and sardines.

Mercury in Medicine
Medical studies have not documented any harm from the mercury used in amalgam dental fillings, but a problem nevertheless exists with disposal of mercury wastes by dentists. Currently, no federal requirements mandate safe disposal techniques. Research also has not uncovered problems resulting from the trace amounts of mercury preservatives (thimerosal, phenylmercuric acetate and phenylmercuric nitrate) used in some vaccines, nasal sprays and contact lens solutions. Importantly, thimerosal contains a form of mercury that does not bioaccumulate in the body. In any case, mercury-free options exist for all of these products. An increasing number of physicians and dentists recommend using these alternatives. (Ask your physician before having your children vaccinated.)
 
Jessica Snyder Sachs, a regular contributor to National Wildlife magazine, is the author of Good Germs, Bad Germs: Health and Survival in a Bacterial World (Hill&Wang/FSG) and Corpse: Nature, Forensics, and the Struggle to Pinpoint Time of Death (Perseus/Basic Books).

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