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Environment Reporting
Gale Norton said in early 2002 that
knowledge of the fish was so unclear it
did not support cutting off water to
farms. They also said it did not support
severe cutbacks to fish. They did not
say it was bad science—a crucial distinction
lost on distressed farmers and
in most press accounts—only that science
could not prove extra water would
save fish. After federal agencies delivered
farmers a full supply of water that
left downstream salmon with less, more
than 33,000 salmon died in the fall of
2002 in what is thought to be the largest
adult salmon kill in U.S. history.
Again, science is unclear. Did the
low water kill the fish or the high temperatures?
Were there too many fish?
Was it disease or stress? More likely, it
was some combination of all those
factors. As much as it’s unfair to blame
any one factor, it’s just as unreasonable
to excuse it.
After all, perhaps the only sure thing
I can draw from more than a decade of
environment reporting is that nothing
is clear, but everything is connected. ■
Michael Milstein covers natural
resources and public lands for The
Oregonian in Portland. Before joining
The Oregonian in 2000, he spent
more than 10 years covering
Yellowstone National Park, science
and the environment for the Billings
(Montana) Gazette.
michaelmilstein@news.oregonian.com
Photojournalism and Environment Stories
A photographer’s work ‘explores the increasingly complex relationship between
people and the environment.’
By Natalie Fobes
Sweat and rain dripped from my
body as I shivered in the predawn
gloom of the Guatemalan
cloud forest. The hour-long 1,000-foot
climb in the dark had tested my stamina
and nerves. Now I panted from the thin
air of my 7,000-foot perch, or maybe
from relief at being safely in my makeshift
photo blind, safe from the slick
mud reeking of rot, the night calls from
night creatures, and shapes moving
outside the cone of light from my head
lamp. I was waiting for dawn when
Guatemala’s elusive national bird, the
resplendent quetzal, would begin feeding
the chick nestled in the hollow tree
before me.
I waited. Slowly the cloud forest
shapes formed in the gray mist of dawn.
I waited. The colors of the orchids
gradually emerged. I waited. My stomach
growled, and I ate the cold, homemade
corn tortillas. After three hours
with no quetzal, I was worried. After
five hours, I was depressed. After eight
hours, I gave up. The birds were gone.
The chick must have fledged in the 24
hours since we finished building our
blind.
Once the chick flies, the adults leave
Cloud forest clear-cut in Guatemala: A female quetzal rests on a stump in the middle of a
burned-out cornfield. Photo by © Natalie B. Fobes 1992.
the nest, too. Weeks of scouting the
steep mountains of the cloud forest for
nests and five nights of building the
blind without disturbing the birds were
for nothing. I had supporting photographs
of the birds, but I lacked the
beauty shot, the direct quote, the nut
graf photograph that would excite the
imagination of the viewer. I’d spend
the next few days scrambling to find
another nest and, if successful, several
nights building another blind.
I’d done everything right and, still,
in my initial attempt, I failed. That
56 Nieman Reports / Winter 2002