Protests II: Astronomers Versus The Red Squirrel

The University of Arizona thought it had a perfect plan to pull astronomy in the United States out of its doldrums. In a single bold stroke the university would end the nation’s serious shortage of telescopes (The Scientist, August 8, 1988, page 1)—and establish itself as one of the leading observatories—by building the world’s largest instrument and six other scopes on the 10,000-foot peak of southeastern Arizona’s Mt. Graham. The university dubbed the plan the Columbus project, and hoped to be close to completion in 1992, perhaps even to be part of nationwide celebrations of the 500th anniversary of Columbus’s voyage of discovery. But the astronomers’ grand scheme was brought to a halt by opponents far more potent than any Columbus could have imagined—environmentalists. Charging that the planned Mt. Graham observatory threatened both a pristine mountaintop and an endangered red squirrel, conservationists and ecologists—along with federal agencies—bogged the university down in a labyrinth of environmental regulations. “The observatory plans posed a hazard that we could not accept,” explains Paul S. Martin, a University of Arizona geoscientist and staunch opponent of the observatory. The result was a nasty struggle that pitted scientist against scientist, charge against countercharge, and only came to an end late last month when the university succeeded in outmaneuvering the opposition with a political end run. In October, Congress passed legislation which effectively circumvented the legal hurdles that had blocked the observatory. The law gave the university “special use” authorization to build three telescopes, with the possibility of four more, on 120 acres of Emerald Peak atop Mt. Graham. So the telescopes will go up after all—too late for the Columbus cinquecentennial celebration, of course—but at least the university will have managed to put the U.S. back in the first rank of celestial observers. Still, the long battle has left University of Arizona astronomers and officials frustrated, bitter, and wondering what they could have done differently to head their foes off at the pass. “The controversy wasn’t about science,” fumed J.T. Williams, chairman of the university’s Mt. Graham Task Force, a week before Congress’s decision. “It was generated by misinformation and emotional reaction.” But whatever the source of the controversy, the tangled tale offers lessons in how a university might bet- ter anticipate—and deal with—opposition to its plans. Certainly, the University of Arizona never expected that its version of scientific progress would arouse such determined protests, not merely by members of the public but from scientists as well. In fact, when the astronomy task force first started negotiating with the Forest Service, which oversees Mt. Graham, in 1984, it fully expected to be able to begin construction within two years on not just seven scopes but on a dozen, covering 60 acres on four separate Mt. Graham peaks. But the Forest Service brought the stargazers down to Earth. The agency took those same two years just to issue a draft environmental assessment, and then it offered only seven acres on one peak (the least desirable of the two requested by the university) for a maximum of five telescopes. Robert B. Tippeconnic, supervisor of the Coronado National Forest, explains: “We felt, given the facts, that we could only permit telescopes on that limited basis.” His reasoning? Ecologists were already worried that roads and fuelbreaks on the peaks were harming the plants and animals on the fragile mountain slopes. Adding a dozen telescopes seemed, to the Forest Service, beyond endurance. Much Rejoicing In particular, biologists feared for a subspecies of red squirrel that lives only on Mt. Graham. The creature had long been considered a possible candidate for the endangered species list. But with the threat of the observatory looming, Arizona Game & Fish Department biologists and national conservation organizations pushed harder to get the squirrel listed. Not only would this protect the animal, biologists reasoned, it would also force the university to leap a daunting hurdle of additional environmental assessments. So there was much rejoicing among the small group of biologists and environmentalists who opposed the observatory when in June 1987 the Mt. Graham red squirrel officially became an endangered species. That meant that the Forest Service, and, consequently, the observatory plan, had to comply with guidelines established by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, which is charged with ensuring the survival of all endangered species. There wasn’t any celebrating among the university astronomers, even though they now claim that they supported the listing. Tippeconnic recalls many to have voiced frustration. Nevertheless, the university forged ahead. In August 1987, officials notified the Forest Service in no uncertain terms that its offer of five telescopes on seven acres was unacceptable. For the project to be feasible, they said, it had to have a minimum of seven telescopes over two peaks. “It takes seven large, modem instruments to satisfy the scientific needs,” explains Williams. And with less than seven, the university argued, overhead costs per instrument would be too high. But the university was in for a pitched battle. By this time, its plans had become a cause célébre in Arizona, and the opposition was gathering strength. More than 100 biologists took a stand against the observatory by joining a group called Scientists for the Preservation of Mt. Graham. Their main argument was that the mountain’s peaks offer a rare desert “sky island” of subalpine spruce-fir forest that has been isolated from similar habitat since the last Ice Age. Any development would seriously threaten this pristine environment. The biologists and their environmentalist allies couldn’t directly block the observatory. But they could—and did—put pressure on the Forest Service and Fish and Wildlife Service by threatening to sue the agencies if they deviated even slightly from the complicated environmental assessment requirements of the National Environmental Policy Act and the Endangered Species Act. The Forest Service and Fish and Wildlife Service then took almost a year to evaluate the university’s “minimum viable” seven-scope observatory plan. Finally, in July 1988, the agency issued its long-awaited report, concluding that a two-summit, seven-telescope observatory was too great a threat to the squirrel. “The worst thing going for this species is that it is one population located on one mountain in the world,” explains Forest Service biologist Randall Smith. The squirrel must stockpile cones to make it through snowy winters. If the caches—piles of dirt and debris in which food is stored—are subjected to too much sun or wind, which could happen if the land was cleared for an observatory, the cones would dry out, the nutritious seeds would fall out, and the squirrel would lose its food. To make matters worse, biologists estimated that there were only 215 red squirrels left. The observatory task force, predictably, was infuriated by Fish and Wildlife’s report. How could the Mt. Graham sub-alpine forest be a pristine relic of the Ice Age when there had already been extensive logging on the peaks, astronomers wondered? The observatory’s impact would be minimal given that the mountain already sported two villages, an artificial stocked lake, and, on one peak, radio repeater towers. And the squirrel, the astronomers charged, was threatened far more by competition with the tassel-eared squirrel, introduced by wildlife agencies 40 years ago, than it would be by a few telescopes. “It is hard to escape the conclusion that the squirrel is being used to stop the observatory,” Williams said before Congress’s action. But what rankled university officials even more was what they perceived to be the intransigence— and lack of objectivity—of the two federal agencies. “They have taken more than four years and still have failed to reach a conclusion, despite the fact that none of the six studies to date has shown any major impact of the observatory on the environment,” said Williams bitterly. “[Looking back] the project should not have assumed that all agency employees are disinterested observers with primary concern for establishing truth.” Forest Service officials are distressed by the charge. “I feel the Forest Service has been very objective all along.” says Tippeconnic. “Some people have said, ‘You dreamed up the squirrel,’ but as time goes on, we keep learning more.” The university, however, had already learned enough. Frustrated and angry, it tried a new tack, one guaranteed to arouse the animosity of local branches of the federal agencies. In August, the observatory task force called on Arizona’s congressmen to propose a federal law transferring the right to use 120 acres on Mt. Graham—including the best peak for astronomy—from the Forest Service to the university as an astrophysical research site. Such a law would effectively circumvent the agencies and streamline the assessment process. ‘Ethically Incorrect’ The move escalated the war of words over the Mt. Graham observatory. “I think it’s ethically incorrect,” said W.L. Minckley, a professor of zoology at Arizona State University in Tempe who has done field work on Mt. Graham. Arizona Game and Fish scientists said the university should hang its head in shame. And other biologists wondered if the university really cares about the rare mountain habitat and its inhabitants. “The astronomers are more interested in the money and the scientific prestige that’s going to come from the telescopes than the biological conservation issues,” charged ecologist. James H. Brown, a professor at the University of Arizona who served as an informal adviser to the observatory’s planners before moving to the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque in late 1987. “Universities—and science—are supposed to be above that.” A Hot Potato The astronomers maintain that they had no choice, that they tried to compromise but that misinformation prevailed. “I can understand that some people are for and some people are against the observatory, but I don’t like to see objective data misused for subjective reasons,” says Peter A. Strittmatter, director of the university’s Steward Observatory, which will be responsible for the new facility. The issue became such a political hot potato that even astronomers outside the University of Arizona, despite the serious shortage of telescope time for U.S. scientists, were careful not to take sides. “It’s not a case that one side is all right and one side is all wrong,” said Sidney Wolff, director of the National Optical Astronomy Observatories. With Congress’s help, the University of Arizona astronomers have won this particular battle. Opponents of the observatory concede that only another act of Congress can reverse the situation---and that’s not likely to happen. The university task force now hopes to begin construction of the world’s largest telescope, a binocular 11.3-meter instrument, by the end of next year. But it’s been a long, bitter fight. And university officials are trying hard to convince the community that the observatory will not harm the environment. “The university will be a responsible steward,” says spokesman Allan Beigel. For their part, opponents vow to keep the university honest. “Yes, they won, but we won too,” says Tice Supplee, a biologist with the Arizona Game and Fish Department. “Their complete arrogance cost them four years. If they had laid the groundwork first, then it might have ended differently. Now the University of Arizona has essentially put their reputation and ego on the line. The public and the press will be watching them very carefully. They’ve got a lot to live up to.” Elizabeth Pennisi is a freelance writer based in Tucson, Aris.

Protests II: Astronomers Versus The Red Squirrel

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