The $25 Million Bird

By J. MADELEINE NASH CHICAGO

Framed by snow-capped mountains and an ice-blue sky, a 10-kg (22-lb.) adolescent California condor named Chocuyens poked his head out of a man-made nest on a rocky promontory in Southern California's Los Padres National Forest last week. With that timid move, he became the first member of his endangered species to return from captivity to the wild. Minutes later, his nestmate Xewe and two young Andean condors sent along as companions emerged. The birds jumped up and down and flapped their immense wings in an apparent preflight dance while jubilant naturalists watching from distant cliffs poured champagne.

Xewe and Chocuyens, direct descendants of the last breeding pair captured in the wild in 1987, stayed cautiously on the sandstone cliffs all day. Unlike most birds, which take off easily with sheer muscle power, young condors must learn to ride the wind. As beneficiaries of a $25 million U.S. government program to save their species, Xewe and Chocuyens seemed to sense the political importance of flying right the first time.

The California condor is a prime example of what conservationists have labeled charismatic megafauna, a charmed circle of struggling species that are cute enough or distinctive enough to capture the public imagination. Among the others: the gray wolf, grizzly bear, bald eagle, desert tortoise and, of course, the northern spotted owl. Since the Endangered Species Act, which commits the government to protecting all life forms from extinction, became law in 1973, this select group of animals has received an inordinate share of funding.

But while the public relations value of such special treatment is clear, its biological value is not. "Of 676 native species on the endangered and threatened lists," says Faith Campbell of the Natural Resources Defense Council, "only around two dozen are receiving a significant amount of recovery effort." Waiting in the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service classification pipeline are nearly 4,000 other dwindling species, most of them little known plants and tiny invertebrates. "They may not be sexy," admits Campbell, "but such organisms are what make ecosystems work."

Will they be saved? The Endangered Species Act is up for reauthorization this year, and a throng of interest groups is determined to weaken it. Not since 1977, when an 8-cm (3-in.) fish called the snail darter halted construction of Tennessee's Tellico Dam, has this critical piece of environmental legislation generated so much controversy.

The reason is as plain as the spots on the owls perched in the way of loggers bent on felling the ancient forests of the Pacific Northwest. To critics, the Endangered Species Act is an inflexible barrier to economic progress. "Never before have we had a natural-resource conflict of this dimension," says U.S. Fish and Wildlife biologist John Fay. A little gray bird called the California gnatcatcher is pitted against Southern California real estate developers who covet the same sea view. The Snake River sockeye salmon is about to clash with hydropower generators in the Pacific Northwest. A small fish known as the delta smelt, if it gets onto the threatened-species list, could force changes in the flow of irrigation water to farmers in California's Central Valley. Complains Tom Hirons, a contract logger from Gates, Ore.: "The Endangered Species Act is the most powerful law in the U.S. It can stop any human activity. I intend to fight like hell to get it amended."

Defenders of the law deny that it is enforced in an unreasonable way. The World Wildlife Fund cites a study of 34,000 endangered-species consultations conducted by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service between 1987 and 1991. Less than 0.1% of the total (21 in all) could not be resolved. Far more commonly, the consultations determined that a simple commonsense solution sufficed. In Illinois, for instance, a highway-widening project was rerouted to avoid a roadside patch containing specimens of a rare plant, the prairie bush clover.

But serious conflicts will become more common as human development pushes more species into less and less favorable habitats. Such dilemmas call for imaginative, if imperfect, compromises. Near Palm Springs, Calif., a huge tract of land that provided habitat for the Coachella Valley fringe-toed lizard has now been opened for private development. In exchange, the lizard was given the run of three nature preserves totaling 6,900 hectares (17,000 acres). Fences protect its remaining habitat from marauding motorcyclists. Within the confines of two preserves, at least, it has become fruitful and multiplied.

While only a few endangered species have prospered enough to be removed from the list (the American alligator, for example), others have begun to make notable comebacks. Populations of bald eagles, whooping cranes and peregrine falcons are all rising.

The program has focused far too much effort, though, on rescuing glamorous species. If science alone drove policy, it would emphasize protection of keystone species that hold major ecosystems together. Many romantic plans, such as reintroducing wolves to Yellowstone National Park, would take a backseat to preserving unsung species of bees, butterflies and bats. "No one likes bats," observes environmental attorney Daniel J. Rohlf, of Portland, Ore., "but they often play a critical role. Without bats, many species of plants don't get pollinated." Thus ecosystem protection should take precedence over protection of individual species.

As the spotted owl fight illustrates, protecting ecosystems, even those unique systems like ancient forests, will not be politically easy. But it will be necessary if the nation wants to preserve the intricate web of life that supports humans and slime molds alike.

With reporting by James Willwerth/Los Padres National Forest