The Wilderness Warrior - Douglas Brinkley [5]
Theodore Roosevelt, whose father was a founder of the American Museum of National History, not only followed Chapman’s rising career but cheered on his pro-bird activities every step of the way. Thrilled by Chapman’s autonomy from academia, Roosevelt embraced his “public service” work aimed at helping everyday citizens to better understand the wild creatures flittering about in their own backyards. Before Chapman, for example, ornithologists practiced taxidermy on birds, stuffing them with cotton and lining them up on museum shelves. For every specimen on display, there were many others in storage. Bored by this strictly “study skins” approach, Chapman developed innovative dioramas in which habitat was also included as part of the educational experience.5 A profound, inexplicable infatuation with birds was simply part of Chapman’s curious chemistry, and he shared his zeal with Roosevelt and other outdoor enthusiasts. As a protector of “Citizen Bird,” Chapman insisted that ornithologists needed to teach fellow hunters that often “a bird in the bush is worth two in the hand.”6
As the editor of Bird-Lore magazine (precursor to Audubon)—and author of numerous popular bird guides, including Bird-Life: A Guide to the Study of Our Most Common Birds in 1897—Chapman was the bird authority of his generation. Roosevelt enjoyed being his enthusiastic sponsor. Chapman insisted in saving not just birds but their habitat—particularly breeding and nesting grounds in Florida. It was the essential condition, he insisted, for dozens of migratory species’ survival. To Chapman—and Roosevelt—creating “federal reserves” for wildlife and forests wasn’t debatable; it was an urgent imperative.
Roosevelt and Chapman weren’t unique in their promotion of vast reserves. They were, in fact, reviving conservationist convictions that had been stalled by shortsighted politicians. Since the American Revolution the idea of game bird laws and habitat conservation had struck a responsive chord. In 1828 President John Quincy Adams set aside more than 1,378 acres of live oaks on Santa Rosa Island in Pensacola Bay.7 Although Adams’s personal journals did, at times, show an abiding interest in birds, his motivation for saving Santa Rosa Island was ultimately utilitarian: its durable wood could be used to construct future U.S. naval vessels. But even such a low-grade conservationist effort as Adams’s tree preserve drew a fierce backlash. Running for president in 1832, Andrew Jackson denounced Adams’s tree farm as an un-American federal land grab, an unlawful attempt to deny Floridians timber to use as they saw fit. “Old Hickory,” as Jackson was nicknamed, believed God made hardwood hammock to cut and birds to eat. He ridiculed New England swells like Adams as effete, anachronistic sportsmen overflowing with ridiculous notions of “fair chase” rules and regulations for simply killing critters.8
While Jackson clearly lacked the conservationists’ foresight, he was correct in labeling Adams and others who applied etiquette to hunting as aristocrats. Because New England had such strong cultural ties to Great Britain—where the idea of wildlife preserves (hunting) for aristocrats was an accepted part of the society since the reign of King William IV (1830–1837)—it’s little surprise that America’s first true conservationists came from the northeast. Starting in 1783 there were dozens of “sportsman” companion books, which