Condor Conundrum : Plan to Reintroduce Endangered California Bird to Grand Canyon Area Angers Residents of Region, but a Compromise Is Reached

Never in a million years did Robert Mesta expect the good people of Grand Canyon country to greet his beloved California condors with such contempt.

But there it is, on top of a stack of like-minded public comments sitting in his Ventura office, the honest opinion of Orderville, Utah, residents Janice and Larry Esplin.

“The condor is not a majestic bird but a common buzzard which lives on road kill,” the Esplins wrote. “If you think that we or any tourist would be excited to see these birds gnawing away on a dead animal carcass along the road you are very mistaken.”

So much for the welcome wagon.

Not only had the Esplins voiced their opposition to a U.S. Fish and Wildlife plan to reintroduce the endangered birds to the Grand Canyon region, so had just about every elected official in southeast Utah and northern Arizona, from the mayor of Panquitch, Utah (pop. 1,444), to U.S. Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah).

“The California condor was just beat up,” Mesta said ruefully. “They said, why don’t you just keep them in California?”

As the mastermind behind the Grand Canyon plan--formally known as the Experimental Release of California Condors at Vermilion Cliffs--Mesta found himself in unfamiliar territory. The perspective from his office, the headquarters of Fish and Wildlife’s decade-long effort to save the condors from extinction, is quite different.

Here the bird gets reverential treatment. Audubon drawings of the condor vie with glossy telephoto images for wall space. A visitor is handed an enormous feather to admire. A new egg hatching is cause for celebration.

And the goodwill extends beyond the Ventura office. Southern Californians have rejoiced in every successful condor release in the Los Padres Forest and mourned every time a zoo-bred bird has died from eating antifreeze or landing on an electric pole.

This is unabashedly condor country.

But what the Esplins and others were telling Mesta was that Utah and Arizona are not condor country. Sure, U.S. Fish and Wildlife officials say the condor lived there before the Ice Age and returned briefly in the 18th century. Sure, some bird-watcher reported seeing a condor swooping in for a carcass dinner near Williams, Ariz., in 1924. But who believes any of that? Certainly not Janice Esplin.

“I wouldn’t believe anything they say,” she said. “I just don’t want any more of their monkey business.”

Apparently, many people in southern Utah and northern Arizona, like Esplin, are fed up with the Endangered Species Act of 1973. The California condor is just the latest in a string of threatened creatures whose need for environmental protection has caused a deep bitterness and mistrust of the government among residents.

“Only in America would this happen,” said Joe Judd, a commissioner in Utah’s Kane County, just miles from Vermilion Cliffs in Coconino County, Ariz., where the release is planned. “All the people that do not live here want to enact laws to control how we live.”

The list of sins that residents recount about endangered species is long. The desert tortoise is blamed for destroying millions of dollars in development opportunities in the city of St. George in Utah’s Washington County. The prairie dog, victim of too many deft poisoners over the years, is now one of the most pampered and least welcome residents of Panquitch, Utah. Along the Utah-Arizona border, many residents believe that the Mexican spotted owl is responsible for shutting down a lumber mill in Fredonia, Ariz., last spring, costing 400 people there and in outlying areas their jobs.

The mill closing hit Janice Esplin hard. Her niece’s husband was out of a job, as were many of her friends in Orderville.

“It was really terrible,” Esplin said. “And it was all because of the lies that were told about the spotted owl.”

Into this atmosphere, Mesta first set foot last fall.

“What we walked into was a tradition,” he said. “A tradition of anti-endangered-species feelings. These folks had been stewing, with no outlet, for years.”

Outraged residents turned to local politicians who were familiar with the desert tortoise, the spotted owl and the prairie dog. And they found plenty of sympathy, in particular from Republicans Hatch and U.S. Sen. Bob Bennett.

“There was already a feeling of very great and intense distrust of and almost anger at the Endangered Species Act in Washington County,” said Hatch aide Robert Dibblee. “It’s obvious that the Kane County people were seeing what was happening to their neighbor county and didn’t want to go through the same hell.”

At the request of Hatch and Bennett, the agency extended its public comment period twice. By the time it finally ended April 1, Mesta had 206 written comments to answer. A little more than half were favorable, such as that of Tom Morrison of Salt Lake City, who called the Utah senators closed-minded.

“Perhaps they fear the condors are more intelligent than imagined,” he wrote. “And knowing the Republicans’ abysmal voting record on the environment, they fear they will be the first carrions used by these great birds.”

Environmentalists questioned whether the birds would be safe in the hostile country. Those opposed to the condor also had a lot of questions--some ridiculous but some pertinent and sensible--that Mesta had to respond to.

And he had to come up with a way to soothe all those angry feelings.

What resulted was a lengthy memorandum of understanding between the agency and the county and municipal governments of the affected areas. Because the condor has a vast range and is capable of flying 150 miles in a day, that area extends through a quarter of Utah and into Arizona. The agreement isn’t finished yet, but Mesta is optimistic that it will resolve the debate over the birds.

Under the agreement, the local governments will have a say in the program, including the power to ask the agency to take the condors elsewhere if things aren’t working out.

“We’ve come to an agreement that I think will satisfy everyone concerned,” Kane County Commissioner Judd said. “No economic development would be stopped because of the condor. If we wanted to develop a coal mine, this bird couldn’t stop it.”

The agreement also offers assurances that anyone who accidentally kills or harms a condor won’t be prosecuted. Concerns that the birds might be struck by cars while feeding on road kill on busy Highway 89, near the release site, have been alleviated by promises that agency staff will patrol the road, pulling any carcasses onto the shoulder.

The agency plans a hunter education program to gently encourage--but not force--hunters to stop using lead bullets. Lead can contaminate a deer carcass, killing a condor who feeds on the remains.

Finally, the agency has built in a timeline for the reintroduction program. If, after five years at Vermilion Cliffs, 40% or more of the condors are dying and the birds are not finding their own food, “serious consideration” will be given to terminating the project.

Both Utah senators are willing to accept the document, as long as their constituents agree to sign it.

“If they are comfortable with that proposed plan, then we would be comfortable as well,” said Dibblee, Hatch’s aide.

But the debate over the condor continues to fuel Hatch’s distrust of the 1973 act, Dibblee said.

“My boss believes the Endangered Species Act should be reformed,” he said. “The human factor has been lost. We need to protect species but should be able to take into account the economy.”