The Stealth Secretary

By TED GUP WASHINGTON

GIVEN WHAT GEORGE BUSH WAS looking for, Manuel Lujan Jr. was the ideal choice for Secretary of the Interior. During 20 years in Congress, the New Mexico Republican had remained largely invisible despite a dismal record on environmental issues. A gracious man, Lujan always kept his door open, even when his mind was closed. He was wary of environmentalists and the Endangered Species Act and eager to drill for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. His pro-business credentials were impeccable: he would fend off any serious challenge to sweetheart deals on public lands for oil, mining, timber and ranching interests. And though he had so little interest in Interior's affairs that he at first declined the job, he could not resist a personal appeal from Bush.

So it came to be more than three years ago that Lujan was made steward of the nation's natural treasures, overseeing some 440 million acres of precious wilderness, wetlands, parks and open expanses -- one-quarter of the U.S. landmass. By action and inaction, he has already left his imprint upon the American landscape while remaining largely unknown to the public -- a kind of Stealth Secretary. In speeches, Lujan has appealed for "balance" -- his favorite word -- between environmentalism and economic development. "I am not going to let anyone rape the earth," he insists. But in actuality, his policies distinctly tilt toward industry. "He is not the ideologue that James Watt was, but he certainly is advancing much of the same agenda," asserts James Leape, senior vice president of the World Wildlife Fund. "He is a serious threat to conservation."

Last week Lujan again revealed his priorities. The so-called God Squad, a Cabinet-level committee of which he is chairman, announced its intention to exempt from the Endangered Species Act timber sales on various federal lands in Oregon -- despite warnings from biologists that the sales pose a threat to the northern spotted owl. It is only the second time in the act's 19-year history that an exemption has been granted. (The previous case involved the whooping crane and a Wyoming dam project.)

As required by law, Lujan also released a long-awaited recovery plan for the owl, which would add new restrictions on harvesting lumber in areas of Oregon, Washington and Northern California where the birds build their nests. The plan's economic impact, says Lujan, would be very high: 32,000 jobs lost. Shrewdly, the Secretary also offered an alternative plan that he says would cost just 15,000 jobs. That plan, however, would violate the Endangered Species Act by reducing critical habitat for the endangered bird; it would therefore require congressional approval. In effect, Lujan once again fulfilled his role as friend of industry and handed off the tough choice to Capitol Hill.

The spotted-owl controversy has been Lujan's most politically sensitive and personally frustrating issue. He has been criticized for indecision and delays that have left timber-dependent communities in limbo. "It's the Keystone Kops kind of approach to this thing that is driving people out here to pull their hair out," says Oregon Democratic Representative Les AuCoin of the House Interior appropriations subcommittee. Meanwhile, environmentalists say Lujan's department has intentionally exaggerated the economic impact of protecting the owl. Many challenged the 32,000-job-loss figure last week. "Lujan does not have a clue as to what his stewardship responsibilities are," charged Jay D. Hair, president of the National Wildlife Federation. "It's sad to have somebody who is so unqualified in such a high and important position."

Lujan has made no secret of his distaste for the Endangered Species Act, which he sees as overly protective. More fundamentally, he has questioned the very idea of trying "to save every subspecies." Two years ago, when efforts to protect the endangered Mount Graham red squirrel held up construction of an Arizona observatory, Lujan confessed to reporters that he could not see what the fuss was about: "Nobody's told me the difference between a red squirrel, a black one or a brown one."

Such views are rooted both in his upbringing out West and his literal reading of the Bible, which he believes assigns primacy to man. Says Lujan: "I believe that man is at the top of the pecking order. I think that God gave us dominion over these creatures, not necessarily to serve us . . . I just look at an armadillo or a skunk or a squirrel or an owl or a chicken, whatever it is, and I consider the human being on a higher scale. Maybe that's because a chicken doesn't talk."

The Interior Department employs hundreds of biologists, geologists and other scientists. Many would be surprised to learn that their boss rejects Darwin's theory of evolution. "Here's what I believe," says Lujan. "God created Adam and Eve, and from there, all of us came. God created us pretty much as we look today." The Secretary nonetheless has faith in the ability of God's creatures to adapt to changes in the environment. He seems to believe they are rarely at risk. "All species adjust to change," he says. "I can't give you any specific examples, but I'm sure that biologists could give you examples of fish that all of a sudden here comes saltwater intrusion and slowly they adapt to a saltwater environment."

Such views and impatience with mastering factual details got the Secretary off to a rough start at the department, where he oversees a budget of $8 billion and 70,000 employees. In 1989, Lujan told a group of conservationists that he had viewed the Bureau of Land Management's 270 million acres as "a place with a lot of grass for cows." In a press briefing, his description of the government's mineral royalty program was riddled with errors. "Strike whatever I might have said about all that," he said after being corrected. "I don't know what I'm talking about." Lujan apologized to his staff and decided to limit his availability to the press: "I had gone on like that for two or three months before I finally realized, 'Hey this is crazy. Why am I setting myself up to be stoned?' "

The embarrassing incidents became less frequent but did not end. In February 1990, Lujan visited New Mexico's Petroglyph National Monument. There he stunned local officials gathered around the centuries-old "Dancing Kachina Petroglyph" when he bent down beside an adjacent rock and scratched it with a knife. The Secretary was asked to refrain. Lujan explains the incident without a trace of embarrassment: "There was this whole discussion going on, which I knew was not correct, about how hard the rock was, that there must have been enormously sharp instruments to make these petroglyphs. I just took out my knife, and I made a scratch no longer than about a quarter-inch, and that was it."

Lujan's direct, cut-to-the-chase manner has in some instances served him and his department well. Among the bright spots of his administration have been his efforts to upgrade schools for Native Americans, to get a higher return for the government from private concessions operating in federal parks, to protect historical battlefields and to improve Interior's record on minority hiring. He halted the privilege enjoyed by some in Congress and the Executive Branch of using national-park cottages and lodges, off limits to the public, for personal vacations.

On the environmental front, Lujan's admirers say, he deserves credit for supporting a ban on offshore drilling off most of California and a willingness to raise grazing fees on public lands. Finally, his relaxed personality and accessibility have been widely praised even by those who disagree with his policies.

But even some Lujan supporters concede he's short on analytical skills. Colleagues say the Secretary tends to base his decisions on visceral reactions, seeking factual support for his position only after the fact. "I'm frustrated by all that bureaucracy," Lujan admits. "If we can move things along, we move them along." Says one of his top aides: "He wants to get to 10, so he counts 'One, nine, 10.' "

This sort of arithmetic is often ill-suited to the complex and contentious issues faced by his department. Consider Lujan's view of how to define an area as a wetland, a matter mired in a technical debate. "I take the position that there are certain kinds of vegetation that are common in wetlands -- you know, what do you call them? Pussy willows, or whatever the name is . . . ((He probably means cattails.)) That's one way you can tell, and then, if it's wet."

A good deal rides on this question of definitions. By law, Lujan's department must protect wetlands. But if the definition becomes more limited, as the Secretary would like, the areas falling under federal protection would be reduced. Environmental groups estimate that the proposal Lujan supports would define out of existence 50 million acres of wetlands -- half of those under protection.

Wetlands are not the only sites where Lujan is calling for a retreat or refusing to move in the direction of conservation. His support for oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico and Alaska and his unwillingness to significantly reform mining laws and Western water contracts have also set him at odds with environmentalists. Nor does he consider national parks sacrosanct. Two years after knifing Petroglyph National Monument, Lujan proposed another sort of cut there: he favored a proposal to take 74 acres out of the 7,100-acre site to permit the construction of a golf course. "The developer tells me it is not crucial to the park," he says.

Lujan also opposed the acquisition of what would have been the largest wildlife refuge outside Alaska -- the 320,700-acre Gray Ranch in the southwest corner of his home state, New Mexico. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service had touted it as one of the premier refuge opportunities of the decade. But area ranchers opposed federal acquisition of the ranch, fearing that it would affect the livestock market, grazing rights and local taxes. "Westerners aren't that fond of the Federal Government coming in and owning more land," says Lujan. "The Federal Government already owns a third of New Mexico." He brushed aside appeals that the property was unique. "I always tell them, we don't have to own the whole world." In January 1990, a private organization, the Nature Conservancy, purchased the property rather than risk having it sold off. Though protected, it is, for now at least, closed to the public.

For conservationists within his department, one of Lujan's more disappointing actions concerned the "vision document," a joint effort by the managers of six national forests and the heads of Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks to spell out how the Yellowstone ecosystem's 11.7 million acres should be managed in the future. The authors sought to make Yellowstone a world-class model for preserving natural beauty and species: "No place in North America, perhaps no place on earth, is a more fitting site to pioneer ecosystem management," the document concluded.

But timber, mining and energy interests objected to the report, which they thought might lead to limits on their activities around the boundaries of national parks and forests. Lujan agreed. "I am not for buffer zones around our national parks, and that's what the vision document was all about," he said. "Whether I told someone to gut it or do whatever, I don't know." The report was slashed from 60 pages to 10. Language offensive to industry was deleted.

Grand Teton superintendent Jack Stark retired in the midst of the controversy. "It was so watered down," said Stark. "After that, I just shrugged my shoulders and said, 'That's the end of it.' " Another of the report's authors, Lorraine Mintzmyer, the Park Service's director for the Rocky Mountain region, let it be known that she was worried that the revisions left Yellowstone vulnerable. A recipient of Interior's prestigious Distinguished Service Award, she was later "involuntarily transferred" to Philadelphia -- a "routine rotation," says Lujan. In April she retired. "I felt very uncomfortable," she says.

Lujan has frequently sidelined and reshuffled staff members who are conservation-minded, say insiders. In spite of his outward affability, the Secretary is a formidable adversary. Says Interior spokesman Steve Goldstein: "His greatest strength is that people underestimate him -- at their peril."

Amos Eno has witnessed that up close, as head of the quasi-private National Fish and Wildlife Foundation. The organization is a darling of conservative Republicans because it represents a partnership between government and the private sector. Since its creation by Congress in 1984, it has raised $38 million for nearly 500 conservation projects. But on several occasions the foundation has incurred Lujan's wrath by using its influence with Congress and the Administration to fund conservation efforts at Interior that Lujan opposed. "He's disloyal," fumes Lujan, who has tried to cut off all federal funds to the foundation. "I felt they should not be eating out of the federal trough." Lujan has authority over the foundation's board but not over Eno. He asked board chairman James Range to fire Eno. When he refused, Lujan fired Range. The Secretary continues to make life difficult for Eno.

Lujan's staff has intentionally cultivated his image as a tough administrator, in part to counteract early impressions of him as a bumbler. A year ago, agency spokesman Goldstein invited a Republican National Committee pollster to the Secretary's dining room to discuss how to bolster Lujan's image. The pollster's advice: "Find a common enemy." Lujan found one last December, after a Japanese firm, Matsushita Electric Industrial, acquired MCA, which owned the food-and-lodging concession at Yosemite National Park. The Secretary decided to launch a public assault against this foreign incursion into America's crown jewel. The carefully orchestrated campaign was criticized in the press as Japan bashing but was effective nonetheless. MCA reluctantly agreed to sell off the concession. "I am not politically naive," says Lujan, smiling. "I have a good political perception."

Perhaps so. That perception -- along with an odd combination of unforgiving toughness and a folksy manner -- may be what has enabled Lujan to survive self-inflicted wounds as well as those delivered by his critics. "I don't have any grand illusions about being Secretary of the Interior," says Lujan. "I just look at myself as a very common individual."