Time - Man of the Year/Time_Man_of_the_Year_Compact_Publishing_3YX-Disc-1_Compact_Publishing_1993.iso/moy/052592/0525330.000

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                                                                                ENVIRONMENT, Page 57

The Stealth Secretary


Once environmentalists dismissed Interior Department chief
Manuel Lujan as an affable bumbler. Now they're frightened by
his assault on U.S. conservation programs and natural riches.

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, Ma tsushita 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."