Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs: Living and Writing in the West.

A MAN, A PLACE, A COMMUNITY OF WRITERS

In an essay entitled Hearing Silence Western Myth Reconsidered, Marilynne Robinson writes, "From my memory and my experience, I conclude that the true, abiding myth of the West is that there is an intense, continuous, and typically wordless conversation between attentive people and the landscape they inhabit, and that this can be the major business of a very rich life."(1) Lucky for us that the conversations between the western landscape and Wallace Stegner--indeed the business of a very rich life--were far from wordless. Stegner's last book a collection of non-fiction essays, takes us on a three-part tour of western writing. Although the essays contain little new material and reflect themes and subjects familiar to Stegner's fans, the collection is unique in that it brings together in a single place the elemental components of Stegner's attentive and articulate conversation with his landscape.

The collection begins with a section labeled Personal. It contains three close-to-the-bone essays that are the most revealing and heartfelt in the book, illuminating Stegner's own experience of the West. Then he moves on to Habitat, a collection of five essays describing the unique physical context of the West and reflecting on what the geography, climate, and history do to westerners' visions, expectations, and myths. The collection is rounded out with eight pieces grouped together under the heading of Witnesses. Three of these final eight essays explore Stegner's own sense of what it means to be a western writer, the other five delve into the work of others, further developing the theme that where you come from shapes who you are and what you have to say.

The title for this collection, Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs, comes from the same "hobo ballad" that gave the title to Stegner's first major work, The Big Rock Candy Mountain.(2) Stegner tells us that both titles represent the mirage, the fantasy, the dream of something-for-nothing that has so often been the lure of the West.(3) But he also acknowledges that underlying the mirage is an unquenchable optimism and incorribility of spirit(4) which in the end is what this collection, and Stegner himself, stand for.

In eulogizing Stegner after his death last April, University of Colorado law professor Charles Wilkinson called him "the greatest intellectual influence on the American West in the 20th Century."(5) Stegner's academic and literary awards and achievements were many, including a Pulitzer Prize for Angle of Repose(6) in 1972 and a National Book Award for Spectator Bird(7) in 1977. Dean of at least two generations of accomplished western writers, he founded and for many years directed the writing program at Stanford University.

Stegner's productive writing career lasted well over fifty years. It lasted from the years when, "there was a great deal about the West ... that was not getting into literature, or not finding responsive readers if it did,"(8) to a decade in which, it seems, no one can get enough of the West, whether it is western furniture or western literature. Long before the myth of the West started appearing in Better Homes and Gardens, long before Edward Abbey and John McPhee and Marc Reisner started writing about the ruination caused by excess in inhospitable terrain, Stegner was warning the West with forceful eloquence to slow down, set aside, and live sustainably. The essays in his last collection illuminate that message. In Where the Bluebird Sings, Stegner returns again and again to two familiar themes: first, that landscape unifies and informs the lives and literature of the American West; and second, that the western landscape is, after all, a dry and fragile place that cannot endlessly bear the insults of resource exploitation so characteristic of its history.

A Man

As we begin to read, the title's mirage is the furthest image from our minds. The first three essays are so clear, so alive, so perfectly rendered in their description and detail that we have no doubt about their absolute truth and veracity. it is hard to believe they were written some fifty years after the actual events they depict. But, as Stegner himself says in the first essay, Finding the Place: A Migrant Childhood, "[Those] years ... were the shaping years of my life. I have never forgotten a detail of them."(9)

Although the opening essay describes a migrant childhood full of moving around the West in search of his father's big chance, Stegner admits that what really shaped him were the nonmigratory periods, the longer pauses between the moves. These were the years from age five to eleven in Eastend, Saskatchewan and from twelve to twenty-one in Salt Lake City, Utah. In those two places he "stayed long enough to put down roots and develop associations and memories and friends and a degree of self-confidence."(10) In fact, he says that his years in Salt Lake were "the happiest years I ever knew or ever will know."(11)

Stegner tells us in exquisite detail how he grew up western, becoming attuned to the distance and space, the clear air, and the sharp smell of sage. Commenting that he has "never understood identity problems," Stegner explains that "there is something about exposure to that big country that not only tells an individual how small he is, but steadily tells him who he is."(12) In Letter, Much Too Late, Stegner also credits his mother with the resilience, grace, and strength to create a home and family in the face of her husband's constant movement. It is apparent that he believed that her emotional rootedness shaped the boy and eventually the man as surely as the physical facets of his western childhood.

Last in the personal essays is Crossing to Eden. Another gem, this essay is a short, finely wrought piece about a special spot in the Uinta Mountains of Utah. Again, the lucid evocation of ancient detail is breathtaking. We are in this place as if it were today, even though Stegner's visit was in 1923. This piece, aside from being a simple poem-like gift of beauty, is a variation on a favorite theme of Stegner's--the importance of preserving wilderness. After sharing with us the sensory pleasures of mountain air, bountiful trout, an ice-cold swimming hole, and an other-worldly view, he concludes that "[t]he best thing we have learned from nearly five hundred years of contact with the American wilderness is restraint, the willingness to hold our hand: to visit such places for our souls' good, but leave no tracks."(13)

Stegner's Eden will undoubtedly bring back memories of the reader's own personal Edens, as it did ours. A creekside camp in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, the canyons of the Bighorns in Wyoming, and the Great Sand Dunes National Monument in Colorado all came to mind. Although we are grateful that we have also been able to see, touch, taste, and smell paradises like these, the feeling is tinged with sadness and concern that there are too few such places left and that too many of us have left tracks.

The glimpse of Stegner's personal development provided by the first essays in this collection can enhance and expand the reading of Stegner's other works. In each of these essays, it is Stegner the optimist speaking, digging out of his pocket the smooth stones of his younger years and polishing them up to shimmer and shine for the rest of us even though, at the time, they may have been unwanted weights in his pocket. Stegner says it best himself, near the end of his novel, Recapitulation: "What he liked about the past he could coat with clear plastic, and preserve it from scratching, fading, and dust What he did not like, he could either black out or revise. Memory, sometimes a preservative, sometimes a censor's stamp, could also be an art form."(14) In these essays, as in all of Stegner's works, Stegner's memory is indeed an art form. He paints for us an intricate mural of his life, and it is recognizable to us, whether westerners or not, for its universality and its acute understanding of the human condition.

A Place

In the essays grouped under Habitat, Stegner weaves a complete tapestry out of a single thread--aridity. The overwhelming truth of the West, with the exception of a small comer of the Pacific Northwest, is the incredible dryness and its geographical accompaniments--open space, stark topography, and scattered population. Even the titles are itchy and thirsty--Thoughts in a Dry Land, Living Dry, Striking the Rock. Stegner's point here (and one of the main themes of his whole body of writing) is that the land and the climate have created a resilient, innovative, and even mythical western character, but that we are in danger of destroying the West and ourselves unless we abandon the myth and learn to live within nature's limits. He notes Mary Austin's "quiet but profound truth, that ~the manner of the country makes the usage of life there, and the land will not be lived in except in its own fashion.'"(15) Stegner suggests that we have yet to realize this truth.

It is in the Habitat section that Stegner's optimism is stretched most thinly. Having noted earlier that "we may love a place and still be dangerous to it",(16) he reaches rock bottom in Striking the Rock, an essay about the Bureau of Reclamation and our attempts to reengineer western water. Stegner despairs that "neither nostalgia nor boosterism can any longer make a case for [the West] as the geography of hope."(17)

But Stegner cannot leave it at that. He bounces back in Variations on a Theme by Crevecoeur to say that the real West is not represented by the mythic cowboy or rugged individualist but rather by "little cities," like Missoula, Montana and Corvallis, Oregon, which hold the "seedbeds of an emergent western culture."(18) Stegner continues, "It is in places like these ... that the West will realize itself, if it ever does: these towns and cities still close to the earth, intimate and interdependent in their shared community, shared optimism, and shared memory ... leaving the stickers to get on with the business of adaptation."(19) The Habitat section closes with just such a business-like "get-on-with-it" admonition in A Capsule History of Conservation: "Environmentalism or conservation or preservation, or whatever it should be called, is not a fact, and never has been. It is a job."(20)

Aridity and how it both clarifies and confuses westerners' relationship with the harsh land around them also informed Stegner's fiction. In Big Rock candy Mountain(21) and Angle of Repose,(22) two of Stegner's grandest works, he wrote Passionately and compassionately of human drama acted out on the stage of an unforgiving landscape. Families were laid low by droughts, floods, and failures of human engineering and judgment Yet the families struggled on, sometimes eking out the barest survival with a thin emotional life to match, and other times managing to build both grand projects and grand lives that were rich in dream and emotional infrastructure. Angle of Repose is itself a geologic term representing the angle at which deposited material comes to rest on a slope. Human lives, too, eventually find an angle of repose, more or less precarious, depending on the substantiality of the "stuff" of which they are made and the physical forces they have endured.

This theme of lives lived out in a harsh land was important to Stegner, and he had a special gift of interpretation. His ability to capture the complexities of human experience and emotion and to make diverse characters resonate--whether old, young, male, female, modem, or historical--explains why reading Stegner is a formative experience for so many of us. The Bluebird essays help illuminate this talent because they consolidate in one place much of Stegner's essence--his own view of significant childhood influences, his curiosity and attentiveness to the world around him, his molding of characters based on his experiences, and his impressions of his and other writers' work.

For more than fifty years, Stegner continued to paint one literary portrait after another in rich works of both fiction and non-fiction. Each work quietly and subtly rendered lives recognizable in their struggles and victories. Stegner's biography of John Wesley Powell, Beyond the Hundredth Meridian,(23) is required reading for anyone trying to understand the accidents and intentions of western history that have brought us the West we know today--the West of giant dams, struggling ranches, dwindling fish runs, and a spirit that just won't quit His fiction is required reading of a different sort. Nearly twenty years ago, we passed Angle of Repose(24) among friends because it contained some truths that somehow seemed crucial and important, even though its characters and events were set in turn-of-the-century frontier California. More recently, we did the same with Crossing to Safety,(25) published in 1989 during Stegner's eightieth year, even though it is about a phase in life we haven't yet reached. This resonance occurs because the writing is true and good and pure, carrying with it an elemental clarity like the view of a western mountain ridge on a clear day. Stegner knew and loved his habitat, both physical and human, and he shared it with the rest of us generously.

Ironically, Stegner was responsible for more than a few modern western migrations. For many of our generation, and especially those of us who came to the West as adults, Stegner's writing was at once a travel guide, a beacon, and a comforting confirmation of our choices. Because he wrote so freely of his own past and personal development, because his voice was both gentle and compassionate, because we shared many of his great passions, Stegner was like an old friend in a new place. He helped us put down tentative roots in our new habitat before we even arrived.

A Community of Writers

In Witnesses, we are treated to a glimpse of Stegner as a literary critic. He begins with a brief celebratory essay, announcing that western writing has finally "arrived" in Coming of Age. The End of the Beginning.(26) He maintains that western writing is still unique in certain particulars: "Western literature differs from much other American literature in the fact that so much of it happens outdoors."(27) Western writing "is close to the outdoors and big space,"(28) and "[s]pace does something to the vision."(29) Stegner rejoices that even though western writing may still be separate, it is now equal. It has so many rich voices and the entire literary infrastructure to back them up--publishers, reviewers, bookstores, and a reading public.(30)

Stegner then offers us four critical pieces, ranging over John Steinbeck, George R. Stewart, Walter Clark, and Norman McLean. Again, the theme of the land, landscape, and climate speaking through literature intrigues Stegner. He demonstrates, with a literary scalpel, Steinbeck's artful use of mountains, darkness, and wild animals to illustrate a boy's passage into manhood.(31) He shows us how Stewart wrote inisightfully about the process of "naming" and thus growing into the West.(32) He says that he recognized when he read Clark that they were "members of the same tribe, inheritors of the same western estate," and "alike in our response to country."(33) He credits McLean with creating a story that requires a reader, like a fly-fisherman, to read the water, leaving the reader in the end "hollow with loss ... haunted by waters."(34)

Finally, Stegner ends his witnessing with a trio of pieces: The Sense of Place, A Letter to Wendell Berry, and The Law of Nature and the Dream of Man Ruminations on the Art of Fiction. He begins this closure by quoting Wendell Berry with obvious affirmation: "If you don't know where you are ... you don't know who you are."(35) It is a writer's job to help locate, and thereby define, us all. In fact, Stegner goes so far as to say "that no place is a place until it has had a poet."(36) A poet of a place can help articulate the

kind of knowing that involves the senses, the memory, the history

of a family or a tribe .... the knowledge of place that comes from

won't in it in all weathers, making a living from it, suffering from

its catastrophes, loving its mornings or evenings or hot noons, valuing

it for the profound investment of labor and feeling that you,

your parents and grandparents, your all-but-unknown ancestors

have put into it.(37)

It is this love and labor of writing a place that Stegner believes helps move us beyond "ownership" to "belonging."(38)

Stegner resists the notion that western literature's tie to the land somehow diminishes its worth. "[M]y work" he notes, "even if it is with cows, may have as much dignity as honest work anywhere."(39) At the same time, Stegner belies that "[y]ou achieve stature only by being good enough to deserve it, by forcing even the contemptuous and indifferent to pay attention, and to acknowledge that human relations and human emotions are of inexhaustible interest wherever they occur."(40) "Wherever they occur"--and yet, would the family struggle recounted in Angle of Repose have the same effect if set in Florida? Or, for that matter, would Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' The Yearling have had the same intimate, backwoods feel if it had taken place in the Big Sky country of Montana? Probably not. In any event, we read what we love; if it is western landscape that we love, we'll read about it wherever we can, whether in Tony Hillerman's mysteries or Elizabeth Woody's poems.

In fact, to less critical eyes (admittedly influenced by what Stegner called "local puffery"(41)) the literature of the West is rich, varied, and satisfying. Among the writers produced by the dry country, however, Stegner stands alone in his contributions to both literature and intellectual thought in the West It is impossible to read about the West without encountering Stegner and his influence. In our own small libraries of western literature, Stegner is quoted and cited by everyone from Daniel Kemmis (Community and the Politics of Place(42)) and Phillip Fradkin (A River No More(43)) to the late Edward Abbey. In 1987--only a few years before his death--Abbey wrote "The few such writers whom I wholly admire are those, like Thoreau, who went far beyond simple nature writing to become critics of society, of the state, of our modem industrial culture .... Such writers are few today and they are mostly ageing or dead. . . ."(44) Stegner headed Abbey's list of such writers.(45)

Stegner also worried that the literature of the West is "a literature of motion, not of place," and that the few place--loving books we have--he mentions Ivan Doig's This House of Sky and Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It--are "memorials to places that used to be, not celebrations of ongoing places."(46) He gently chides that "we have made a tradition out of mourning the passing of things we never had time really to know . . . ."(47)

Neither Stegner nor Abbey (always a little too quick to condemn) needed to worry. Stegner's celebration of place and his cautionary message about protecting the West are being carried on by any number of people writing in and about the West today. In the past few years, several books have been published (by New York publishing houses) which, like much of Stegner's writing, weave personal and regional history into a fabric that reveals something about both life and land, past and future.

Listen to a few of today's voices--voices which are hardly "ageing or dead." Teresa Jordan, writes about growing up in the tiny community of Iron Mountain, Wyoming, in the introduction to Riding the White Horse Home:

There have been no buffalo in Iron Mountain for over a century,

and today there are few humans. This is a book about a place and

the people attached to it, about a way of life that has almost disappeared.

It came out of my attempts to understand the forces that

shaped me, which are in large part the forces that shaped the rural

West. Because this is a book about loss, it is much involved with

the process of grieving, but it has allowed me to know where I

came from. In that knowing, I have a way to keep my people with

me and also let them go. I have a way to hold to the land.(48) Or Bill Kittredge in Hole in the Sky:

My mother, I have come to see, knows things I never

imagined. She knows that knowing the story of your people in a

kind of gossipy detail means you can name at least some of your

most intimate connections to what has been called the blood of

things. It means knowing the names of places, and who named

them, and what happened there. In this way the incessant world is

closer to becoming a territory where you might be able to take

some rest.

Such fantasies of connection drive my inclination to keep

revisiting the high deserts of southeastern Oregon. I am continually

trying to find some name for my dream. The long horizons of that

country are imprinted in my synapses like a genetic heritage. It is

the real world.(49) And Terry Tempest Williams in Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place:

[O]nly the land's mercy and a calm mind can save my soul. And it is

here find grace.

It's strange how deserts turn us into believers. I believe in

walking in a landscape of mirages, because you learn humility. I

believe in living in a land of little water because life is drawn together.

And I believe in the gathering of bones as a testament to

spirits that have moved on.

If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that

allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every pilgrimage

to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self. There is no place

to hide, and so we are found.(50)

All three of these writers were born and raised in the western landscape; they have a special claim to bear authentic witness to the interplay of life and land in this region. But even Abbey grew up in Pennsylvania, and non-native westerners need not feel excluded from the community of place described in these and other western works. "[T]hat human attention that at its highest reach we call poetry" is being bestowed upon places by "hundreds ... of people, gifted or not [for the places they) were born in, or reared in, or have adopted and made their own."(51)

In addition to writing lucidly and lovingly about the writers of his own era and before, Stegner also praises and encourages the work of this current, living generation of writers. He says they made him "feel the surge of the inextinguishable western hope," as they build a civilization, and compile a history and a way of looking at the world and humanity's place in it.(52) Along with the other "stickers," they are doing their part to create a region "both prosperous and environmentally healthy, with a civilization to match its scenery."(53)

We hope Stegner is right. Conversing with the landscape will always be an important part of the tradition of western writing, as will reverential memoirs of place. Place, in the West, is too powerful ever to be overlooked. However, Stegner's great gift, as Abbey said, was to move beyond mere place poetry to criticize complacency; to inform and inspire us to act on behalf of our home, whether native or adopted. For those of us whose careers involve the issues he wrote about, Stegner polished our work with a literary sheen and gave us comfort. How could we be wrong if someone as lucid, clear-eyed, and right-thinking as Stegner was with us?

Now it is time to travel even further, beyond criticizing complacency, beyond informing and inspiring. It is past time to get on with "the job" of environmentalism, of belonging to the land rather than owning it, and finally to envision and enliven the civilization to match the scenery. We will continue to use the written word to shape and inform that vision. Some of the writings are personal and healing, like those quoted above. Others turn their examination outward, to social issues, like Daniel Kemmis, Patricia Limerick, and Charles Wilkinson.(54) But we will need all of them and more to help us graduate from personal history to a community history and a future that springs authentically from our diverse relationship with landscape.

Recapitulation: Summing it Up

Stegner tells us:

Without consciously intending to, I have written my life ....

I have been trying to make natural chaos into human order, trying

to make sense of an ordinary American life, for a long time now,

more than fifty years ....

... You take something that is important to you, something you

have brooded about. You try to see it as clearly as you can, and to

fix it in a transferable equivalent. All you want in the finished print

is the clean statement of the lens, which is yourself, on the subject

that has been absorbing your attention. Sure, it's autobiography.

Sure, it's fiction. Either way, if you have done it right, it's true."(55)

Stegner says he wrote to try and make sense of his life. We read for the same reasons--and to be entertained, enriched, provoked, inspired, moved, reminded, taught, and to revisit experiences of loss and belonging. Whether native or newcomer, Stegner has helped us make sense of our lives as westerners. "For Mary," writes Stegner in the dedication to this final collection of essays, "who ... has ... been indispensable and enspiriting all the way."(56) So too has Stegner.

Stegner's gift to us, in his body of novels, essays, and nonfiction, is his brooding, his labor of love, his clear lens, and in the end, that undeniable truth. In writing his life, he has written our lives as well. Is the bluebird singing to the lemonade springs fact or fantasy? It really doesn't matter, because if you close your eyes, you can hear it. Our gift to the memory of Wallace Stegner will be to keep the bluebird singing. ([dagger]) Once I said in print that the remaining western wilderness is the geography of hope, and I have written, believing what i wrote, that the West at large is hope's native home, the youngest and freshest of America's regions, magnificently endowed and with the chance to become something unprecedented and unmatched in the world.

Wallace Stegner, Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs: Living and Writing in the West xv (1992). (1.) Marilynne Robinson, Hearing Silence: Western Myth Reconsidered in The True Subject: Writers on Life and Craft 150 (Kurt Brown ed. 1993). (2.) Wallace Stegner, Big Rock Candy Mountain (1943). (3.) Wallace Stegner, Where the Bluebirb Sings to the Lemonade Springs: Living and Writing in the West xxi (1992) [hereinafter Where the Bluebird Sings]. (4.) Id. (5.) Charles Wilkinson, A Tribute to the Man Who Imagined the West We Now Seek to Build, High Country News, may 3, 1993, at 16. (6.) Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose (1972). (7.) Wallace Stegner, Spectator Bird (1977). (8.) Wallace Stegner, Coming of Age: The End of the Beginning, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 137. (9.) Wallace Stegner, Finding the Place. A Migrant Childhood, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 5. (10.) Id. at 4. (11.) Id. at 16. (12.) Id. at 10. (13.) Wallace Stegner, Crossing Into Eden, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 41. (14.) Wallace Stegner, Recapitulation 264-65 (1979). (15.) Wallace Stegner, Striking the Rock, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 87. (16.) Wallace Stegner, Thoughts in a Dry Land, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 55. (17.) Stegner, Striking the Rock, supra note 15, at 98. (18.) Wallace Stegner, Variations on a Them by Crevecoeur, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 116. (19.) Id. In his introduction to the Bluebird essays, Stegner contrasts the western "boomers" from the "stickers"--those who pillage and run from those who "settle, and love the life they have made and the place they have made it in." Where the Bluebird Sings, Supra note 3, at xxii. (20.) Wallace Stegner, A Capsule History of Conservation, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 132. (21.) Stegner, supra note 2. (22.) Stegner, supra note 6. (23.) Wallace Stegner, Beyond the Hundredth Meridian: John Wesley Powell and the Second Opening of the West (1954). (24.) Stegner, supra note 6. (25.) Wallace Stegner, CROSSING TO SAFETY (1989). (26.) Stegner, Coming of Age, supra note 8. (27.) Id. at 139. (28.) Id. (29.) Id. at 138. (30.) Id. at 135. (31.) Wallace Stegner, On Steinbeck's Story, flight, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 150-54. (32.) Wallace Stegner, George R. Stewart and the American Land, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 157. (33.) Wallace Stegner, Walter Clark's Frontier, in Where the Bluebird Sings, Supra note 3, at 175. (34.) Wallace Stegner, Haunted By Waters: Norman Maclean, in Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 197. (35.) Wallace Stegner, The Sense of Place, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 199. (36.) Id. at 205. (37.) Id. (38.) Id. at 206. (39.) Stegners, Coming of Age, supra note 8, at 137. (40.) Id. (41.) Id. (42.) Daniel Kemmis, Community and the Politics of Place (1990). (43.) Phillip Fradkin, A River No More: The Colorado River and the West (1981). (44.) Eedward Abbey, Desert Solitaire, Preface at xi (University of Arizona Press, 1988). (45.) Id. (46.) Stegner, The Sense of Place, supra note 35, at 203. (47.) Id. at 203-04. (48.) Teresa Jordan, Riding the White Horse Home (1993). (49.) William Kittredge, Hole in the Sky 28-29 (Vintage Books 1993) (1992). (50.) Terry T. Williams, Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place 148 (Vintage Books 1992) (1991). (51.) Stegner, A Sense of Place, supra note 35, at 206. (52.) Stegner, supra note 3, at xxii-xxiii. (53.) Stegner, supra note 3, at xv, xxii. (54.) Kemmis, supra note 42; Charles Wilkinson, Crossing the Next Meridian: Land, Water, and the Future of the West (1992); Patricia Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American West (1988). (55.) Stegner, The Law of Nature and the Dreams of Man: Ruminations on the Art of Fiction, in Where the Bluebird Sings, supra note 3, at 223-24, 227. (56.) Stegner, supra note 3.

Janet C. Neuman, Assistant Professor of Law, Northwestern School of Law of Lewis & Clark College.

Pamela G. Wiley, Government Relations Coordinator in The Nature Conservancy's Portland, Oregon Field Office.