Legacy Magazine

Heidi Eijgel

Educator Kurt Hahn said that it is wrong to coerce people into opinions, but it is a duty to impel them into experience. An example of this lies in two different ways of telling the story of horse-drawn vehicles. Both ways compel visitors into experience, both ways connect the audience to the artifact, and both ways sit on the opposite ends of the interpretive spectrum—conservation versus restoration or replication of horse-drawn vehicles. But, are they really opposite?

Many people believe, inaccurately, that they are conserving a horse-drawn vehicle by restoring it. Indeed, conservation of any artifact stabilizes the deterioration of it while also preserving the original luster and texture of the paint, decorative art, woodwork, carving, other materials, and identifying features. A completely original vehicle contains the materials it was originally constructed with—the original wood, paint, upholstery, and other components. It also contains, or more accurately, carries the evidence of wear and tear of its use throughout its existence, essentially appearing in “last-used” condition.

Creation of Adam, Sistine Chapel

I like to use the Sistine Chapel to illustrate this idea. Michelangelo’s artwork in the ceiling was conserved recently; the more recent paint and chemicals covering the original art work were removed and the original Michelangelo paintings revealed. It is a perfect metaphor for what interpreters do: reveal meaning or stories. Wear and tear of the work through the ages cannot be removed in the process of conservation, though continued deterioration can be slowed or even halted. The thought of restoring the Sistine Chapel—scraping the “old paint” off the ceiling and redoing the whole work of art to replicate its look right after Michelangelo finished it—well, the idea is not only impossible, it is simply not appropriate. The result of this absurd treatment would cause the entire meaning of the work and the story behind it to be lost. And is there even another artist who could “copy” the quality of the original artist’s work? Restoration is done with horse-drawn vehicles and other artifacts. It has its place, but caution must be used if the goal is to preserve an interpretive story.

Historian and consultant David J. Glass says, “Conservation and stabilization, when and where applicable, allows retention of original materials and fabric of an artifact; essentially the observable record of what was made in the past. Restoration attempts to duplicate these materials and fabrics, and must only be regarded as such.”

A restored vehicle may retain some of the original wood and other materials, but anything that is not like the vehicle was as a new one, freshly rolled out from the factory, is lost. A restored vehicle is one that has undergone extensive work: paint is removed, broken components are repaired or replaced, and upholstery is redone. Done well, a restored horse-drawn vehicle looks exactly like it was when first built, but it is nothing more than a silhouette of the original—useful to demonstrate how it looked as a new vehicle, but lacking in the real stuff. The real stuff was wood from an ash, hickory, or yellow poplar tree cut down in 1880 and paint and cloth manufactured from early North American factories.

What is truly important to the art of interpretation is the “real stuff” of stories—provenance, the story behind the artifact. How is the provenance of an artifact valuable to its interpretation? The provenance tells us the story behind the specific artifact.

There is an interesting story behind a panel of rock art at Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park, a national historic site in southern Alberta, Canada. The interpreter leading a rock art tour I participated in this spring explained it in such a way that it will always stay with me. This relatively recent piece of rock art was drawn by a First Nations person who rode to the Milk River Valley in one of the first automobiles of the time. The content of the art tells us a bit of the story, especially about when the rock art was created because it shows people riding in an early automobile. But it is the story behind the art, the provenance, that really sticks in my mind. Interpretive specialist Bonnie Moffet described how researcher Michael Klassen, in looking at archival photos for the new interpretive center displays, discovered a photo of a First Nations man, Bird Rattle, a Blackfoot person who lived from 1861 to 1937. The photo showed him standing at the base of the sandstone cliff in the process of carving that very image of the automobile!

It illustrated his personal journey from the new reserve, by special permit, to visit the spiritual place along the Milk River he remembered as a child. He had become friends with an engineer who was building roads in the area, and his new friend had driven him back to the sacred valley. And the return to the area riding in an automobile was indeed a life experience for Bird Rattle. The early caption of the photo showing Bird Rattle in the process of carving the art read:

Piegan elder, Bird Rattle, carving the automobile petroglyphs at Writing-On-Stone on September 14th, 1924. Roland H. Willcomb photograph.

Roland Willcomb was the engineer who drove Bird Rattle that day. It is the only piece of rock art in the area that I have heard of where the exact time and date of its creation is known and the actual artist is known. Nothing replaces this story, and nothing can. Only being on that spot, at the base of the rock wall, looking at the original carved work and hearing the story from Bonnie made the connection for me. All I could say was, Wow.

Modern-day carriage-driving competitions give spectators a close-up demonstration of driving skill and the incredible power of the horse pulling a vehicle around obstacles at speed. Photo by Lorraine Hill.

How is a restored artifact valuable to the story? What can a silhouette tell us? It tells the active story, how the vehicle worked, how it was used, and what it looked like new. It could tell the showroom story, the factory story—general stuff. If you want particulars, the nitty gritty, make sure you have some of the original artifact left. On the other hand, you cannot underestimate the power of action, when providing the audience with a full interpretive experience. A restored vehicle, or better yet, a replica vehicle, can be used, adding the active component to storytelling. To see that pair of horses in traditional harness pulling the restored Yellowstone coach helps us understand early interpretive tours of Yellowstone National Park. Better yet, hop on and take a ride! This was the way travelers saw the first national park in America, at the turn of the century. You would never do this with an original Yellowstone coach; no matter how you treat the wood of a conserved vehicle, at 100 years it is not structurally sound and the use would destroy the visual clues to the story. But with a replica, the feel, the emotion, and the smell can be added to the story and it becomes an experience.

Charles Philip Fox, author of Horses in Harness, describes early visits to Yellowstone with his grandfather in the 1920s. When asked how he felt, Fox’s grandfather, a horseman all his life, would inevitably answer, “Oh, head high, tail over the dashboard.” One would not understand this response unless one spent a great deal of time driving a fancy horse “put to” (pulling) a nice little carriage. The person seeking understanding of the horse-drawn vehicle era might notice a horse “feeling his oats” while observing demonstration driving in an arena, but only when actually sitting with the driver, or as a passenger in a carriage, would “tail over the dashboard” come to a fuller understanding by the participant.

Whether you are seeking to enable your visitors’ experiences with active interpretation, or to inspire awe with an authentic story, there is an artifact or a replica that can make it happen in many instances. Deciding what type of the horse-drawn vehicle story or experience to give visitors will help you choose where or how to tell the story. To tell a more complete part of our history, you need both the original artifact and its provenance, as well as the replica experience. Conserve the story with an original artifact where possible, and actively use a replica or restored vehicle in sound, safe condition to fully immerse yourself in the active historic experience.

For More Information
Klassen, Michael, James Keyser, and Lawrence Loendorf. 2000. “Bird Rattle’s Petroglyphs at Writing-On-Stone: Continuity in the Biographic Rock Art Tradition.” Plains Anthropologist vol.45, no.172.

Heidi Eijgel is a visitor services specialist for Southwest Alberta Parks.

By David W. Moore & Nancy Rogers

Cooperating agency personnel (from left) Elliot Doss, Bill Cox, and Joel Miller shock and remove fish from the old channel.

As interpreters, we know through experience and training that connecting an audience with a resource can lead to understanding and better yet, inspiration. We were counting on that when we started the Lake Sonoma Stream Restoration Demonstration Project, adjacent to a fish hatchery about 60 miles north of San Francisco. The project “journey,” as it has become known to us, began over two years ago when a group of fisheries biologists, interpreters, habitat restoration specialists, and park managers from three different agencies bought into a single idea—that converting a weedy, man-made ditch into a demonstration site for interpretation of habitat restoration techniques would transcend a simple resource management activity. The interpretive context becomes one of moving select audiences from understanding and to inspiration and action. The journey proved to be full of blind curves, but ultimately one of hope.

We had recently developed a new interpretive master plan with no money to implement it. Does this sound at all familiar? We had confidence that we, as representatives of partner agencies, would work together like a stream leading to solutions. Sometimes bureaucratic systems make it hard to combine resources, and we came across some of that, especially regarding different agency needs with contracting. Each of us had internal agency audiences to satisfy. But we were as opportunistic as salmonids seeking survival. We emphasized bridging to parts of the larger plan wherever we could, always with a mutual desire to move ahead. We were beginning to get our feet wet.

The Early Headwaters

Invasive plants were removed and banks were reseeded with native grasses. The channel was lined with river gravel and a new stream habitat was created with root wads, redwood logs, and rock weirs.

The interpretive master plan completed in 2006 for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Warm Springs Dam/Lake Sonoma project described a new theme based on the Russian River Watershed. This stream restoration endeavor was an opportunity to move forward and begin to engage and link to the local watershed concepts. To mitigate loss of steelhead and coho salmon, the Don Clausen Fish Hatchery was constructed at Warm Springs Dam in 1980 and is operated by California Department of Fish and Game, a partner in the master planning process. For nearly 30 years, a man-made ditch directed fish from the dam’s fish ladder to the hatchery entrance. Over time, the ditch had been invaded with Himalayan blackberry, silt, and a chokehold of willow roots. We needed a way to rethink and connect the old ditch with our new interpretive vision.

Every winter, visitors and school children flock to the fish ladder and wade through wet, muddy grass along the ditch to witness the returning steelhead. We learned a lot about our audiences through visitor surveys and focus groups. They enjoy learning about the steelhead and want more direct contact with the fish. They love to see them coming back to the hatchery and want to know more about how the hatchery works. What we didn’t anticipate was how hard it would be to convince the managing agencies that our habitat restoration idea could be successful as well as protect the steelhead, a threatened species in the Russian River Watershed. The take-home message for us was that the seeds for sustaining our partnership and achieving our goal were founded in the power of a good idea and our ability to communicate that idea.

A preliminary survey helped refine the master plan, retooling exhibit and office area spaces in the visitor center and providing data on abating noise conditions in the hatchery. Yet, it didn’t scratch the surface on getting to interpretive installations. The giant interactive salmon that looked so good in the slick pages of the master plan was only a holding place for the future. What could we accomplish now to keep the momentum for progress alive?

Flow Arrives at a Confluence: Zeroing in on the Project

Before: The channel is choked with non-native plants and years of sediment buildup. There is no stream habitat and public cannot see migrating steelhead.

The fish ladder and fish channel to the hatchery always figured in the master plan, but the full potential was never really examined until an out-of-the-box idea came up from staff through a routine exercise at a conference session. Why not use this small stretch of off-stream migration corridor to demonstrate the different kinds of stream restoration techniques used to enhance salmon and steelhead habitat? We can have explanatory interpretive signage—students and landowners will have a place to come see. The conference committee simply loved the idea. So it was time to put the proverbial shoulder to the wheel once again. We looked for hope in our hearts and focused on a plan to restore the steelhead passage (“ditch”) leading to the hatchery gate.

After: A new structure mimics native stream water flow through gravel beds, rocks, and logs for returning steelhead.

The primary partners in our habitat restoration project—U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, California Department of Fish and Game, Friends of Lake Sonoma, and Sotoyome Resource Conservation District—worked together to create practical and interpretive goals. We wanted our project to provide both a demonstration for salmonid stream restoration techniques along with opportunities for inspiring stewardship. The ditch would be drained and cleaned out, invasive plants removed, and new habitat features installed that mimic natural stream profiles. Rock weirs, root wads, fallen logs, willow walls, deep pools, and gravel beds—all things that private landowners could do on streams running through their property to improve fish habitat—were to be put in place as a living classroom experience.

The learning would also extend to supporting the popular Classroom Aquarium Education Program through the California Department of Fish and Game. Students would raise steelhead in their classrooms and release the fry in the newly restored channel.

The Russian River watershed is 90 percent privately owned, so private landowners hold the key to successful restoration in waterways connecting to the Russian River. In our vision, this project would provide a microcosm of ideas and a demonstration to inspire them. Casual visitors and organized school tours would benefit from a new wide wheelchair accessible path—close enough to see the migrating fish without having to get their feet wet or trample the ground. Elevated platforms would be constructed out over the water for enhanced viewing and even greater connection. Elements rounding out the plan included new interpretive panels, native riparian plantings, and a rain shelter over the fish ladder viewing area. We were convinced we had a great vision, and everyone loved the idea—but, no good deed goes unpunished. The real journey had just begun.

Flood of Challenges
Our first attempt to gain grant funding was only partially successful. The Corps provided $10,000 seed money, the Friends of Lake Sonoma donated $5,000, and the other partners submitted a $200,000 grant proposal to the state of California only to be turned down.

Huh? “We love the project,” we heard, “but….” We tried again, submitting a revised proposal the following year only to run hard up against California’s budget crisis. All grants were suspended. Adding insult to injury, a new term, “Furlough Friday,” entered our vocabulary and directly affected the state partners. But the power of our good idea would not let go. We met to discuss how we could move forward with the $15,000 we had in hand. With reduced staff resources, we cobbled together donated labor and materials to complete the first phase of restoration. What seemed simple at the time was becoming much more complex.

Our best interpretive efforts would prove invaluable in the numerous meetings to communicate our intentions and coordinate implementation of the actual construction. It became time for adaptive management considerations. One partner felt a bit left out—most of their work was to be funded from the grant that was suspended. How do we keep them included? Once again, our good idea was like a beacon. We’ll find a role for them and the money to pay for it—and we did.

Next, there came a new wrinkle. Corps of Engineers leadership now wanted the project to represent a much larger effort to restore creek habitats as outlined in a Russian River Biological Opinion—suddenly our little project was becoming political football. “We love your project, but….” Front and center, interpretive fast talking and a few more huddles put that football in the end zone. Then, more setbacks and more meetings ensued—when could we be left alone to start the work?

Meanwhile, we were fortunate to have a close network of professional interpreters with whom we met on occasion to share stories, projects, and the like. They were the perfect group to provide the room we needed for catharsis and restoration of inspiration that inevitably followed. The power of interpretive networking cannot be underestimated.

Build it and They Will Come
You wouldn’t think it, but habitat restoration can be a bit ugly and scary. It includes large machinery, lots of dirt moving, and piles of logs and boulders. This is not to mention concern over regulations for water quality, threatened and endangered species, and adhering to scientific protocols for everything you do. It’s all enough to make anyone say, “We love your project, but….” Countless times we could hear that refrain coming. But we couldn’t shake the hope we shared.

Wonderful words must be said for the folks who worked with us, whose can-do attitude began to reshape the landscape bit by bit. We had to close off the stream area due to construction conditions on site. “Fish Ladder Closed” signs adorned the hatchery interior. But the real work was outside. At the peak of summer season with migratory runs far away, the small channel was pumped dry in order to rescue a few resident juvenile fish. Next, scraping away large swaths of non-native blackberry and application of herbicide took place to thwart the return of invasive plants.

We had finally headed down a road and we couldn’t turn back. We’d physically torn the “ditch” apart and had to put it back together. The important thing now was to keep everybody focused on what we were trying to do, and to keep the flame alive. When we worked, momentum took over.

Then one day, the process culminated with the excavation of the channel and artful placement of gravel, stone, and woody structures for re-creation of natural habitat. A rock weir created a fish pool; logs and boulders offered in-stream complexity for protection of fish; and banks were stabilized with native grass seeding, erosion-control blankets, and straw. The foundation for a wheelchair-accessible trail was laid in and adjacent upland areas were contoured to resemble a more natural landscape.

From High Reach to Ocean Deep
Throughout our travails, we had kept a vigilant beam focused on issues that mattered. The science of habitat restoration and fisheries management had to be kept connected to the people who support these efforts through taxes and personal interest. Guiding interpretive principles of provoke-relate-reveal had recaptured the initial naysayers.

Now that the restored stream is taking shape, it seems that everybody wants to be part of a successful idea. The rains have come, the water gurgles through the former ditch like a native stream. The rocks, cobbles, redwood logs, and root wads peek up through the water as it dances along the gravel beds. The native grasses we seeded are beginning to sprout, and a new walkway has a temporary but serviceable base. In recent months we welcomed the first steelhead back. They took to the restored habitat immediately. We’ve even observed spawning activity at this site for the very first time.

Feedback as of late is quite simply music to our ears. The stream of hope and inspiration of the good idea had carried us each step of the journey. Payoff is finding inspiration in the work you are doing and the people you are doing it for. We survived to tell this story. You can, too.

David W. Moore is interpretive services supervisor for California Department of Fish and Game, Bay-Delta Region. Nancy Rogers is the San Francisco District park ranger and interpretive specialist with the US Army Corps of Engineers. They can be reached at dmoore@dfg.ca.gov and nancy.l.rogers@usace.army.mil.

By Kevin Damstra

Fifty miles east of San Francisco, where the interior foothills of the Coast Range give way to the great Central Valley of California, two eras of California’s mining history come to life at Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve. Managed by the East Bay Regional Park District, this 6,000-acre park protects historic town sites, coal and sand mines, and a pioneer cemetery.

In the late 1800s, the coal mining town of Somerville was one of the largest towns in Contra Costa County, California. Photo courtesy Louis Stein collection.

From the 1860s through the turn of the 20th century, miners in the Mount Diablo Coal Field, once California’s largest coal-producing region, provided fuel for the young state’s growth. From the 1920s through the 1940s, another generation of miners removed over 188,000 tons of silica sand for glass production in Oakland, leaving behind a maze of approximately eight miles of massive underground rooms and supporting pillars. The park district is working to restore several aspects of these dynamic pieces of California’s past. For nearly 40 years, staff have focused on three areas of restoration: repairing the greatly vandalized pioneer Rose Hill Cemetery, opening the 1930s era Hazel-Atlas Silica Sand Mine for public tours, and maintaining the cultural landscape of the town sites through the management of vegetation that is non-native, though historically significant. Today, due to these restoration efforts, school groups and public visitors are able to explore the town sites, mines, and cemetery to discover clues to this nearly forgotten piece of history.

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Like a swarm of buzzing bees, the students disembark from their school bus. Even though most are from communities relatively close to the park, they have just entered a completely new world, and the questions begin with increasing urgency.

“Where are we? It seems like the middle of nowhere!”

“Is this really the bathroom?!”

“Why is there a cemetery up on that hill? Do we have to walk there?”

“Is that a COW?”

Slowly the naturalist begins to usher the students out of the parking lot and onto the trail to begin their exploration of the Somersville town site. During this journey of discovery, students will have the opportunity to learn about the area’s coal and silica- sand-mining history, including a tour of the 1930s-era Hazel-Atlas Mine. They will also investigate a former coal mining community and learn about the people who lived here. Although the students do not realize it, they will be interacting with three different restored historical settings today.

East Bay Regional Park District works to maintain the historic layout and vegetation of the Somersville town site, while allowing for modern park uses. Photo by Robert Kanagaki.

After a short hike to the Hazel-Atlas Mine, the group finds itself about to enter into an underground world. Before crossing the threshold, the naturalist explains that they will be exploring approximately 1,000 feet of the mine, and will have a chance to see what this mine could have looked like in the 1930s. Gradually, everyone’s eyes adjust to the illuminated sections of the mine. Wide-eyed, these students collect their hard hats and flashlights before following the naturalist further into the earth.

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The Hazel-Atlas Mining Museum grew out of a passion for and a desire to share the mines and their history with the public. In 1973, when the East Bay Regional Park District began acquiring the land that would become Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve, the district’s primary concern was to locate and close all the coal and sand mine openings on park property. For over 20 years, people from the area had come to the abandoned mines to explore, party, and even use them as a camping spot. Over the years conditions in the mines had deteriorated to the point that many had collapsed and some contained carbon dioxide gas. People were getting injured and even killed while exploring them.

Eventually, the idea was born to restore a portion of the Hazel-Atlas Mine into a representation of an underground silica sand mine from the 1930s. This would prove to be a daunting task. After the Hazel-Atlas Glass Company closed the sand mines in the 1940s, visitors to the site removed equipment and artifacts, leaving an empty maze of tunnels and pillars supporting the hillside above. Before the park district could use this mine as an interpretive site, it would need to build support timbers and work stations, locate and re-lay ore car tracks, and construct stairways and bridges to allow access through areas that had been mined. Staff and contractors, led by mine manager John Waters, would soon learn that this would be more complicated than they ever imagined.

Retired mine manager John Waters was the driving force behind restoring the Hazel-Atlas Mine and opening it for public tours. Photo courtesy EBRPD Archives.

The tunnels that riddled these hills presented many new challenges. First, the mine was mapped, structural safety was determined, and the location for the mining museum and underground visitor center was chosen. A plan was developed to routinely check structural integrity and air quality in the portions of the mine slated for public use. Finally, material accurate to a 1930s sand mining operation was acquired. Park district staff worked with state and federal mining offices to meet safety standards, and the restoration work began. In 1985, the Hazel-Atlas Mining Museum opened to the public for the first time. Over the years it has undergone renovations to continually meet safety standards and expand the tour route. Currently the museum averages 17,000 visitors annually.

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Close to 1,000 feet into this underground world, the students are staring up at the ceiling (called the “back” in a mine) 30 feet above their heads. The naturalist has already explained the mining techniques from the 1930s, even showing the students the type of machinery used. Now the group has to reverse direction and head out of the mine. Eventually, groups will be able to exit the mine through a second entrance one level down—alleviating the need to reverse direction. But today another class is waiting to come underground, and this group will continue their exploration on the surface.

Once outside, the naturalist explains that they will be leaving the sand-mining history behind and going further back in time—back to the late 19th century. This was the heyday of the Mount Diablo Coal Field. Miners who lived here dug hundreds of miles of workings while they removed four million tons of coal. The town of Somersville, in which the group is standing, filled the valley. The naturalist explains that during the late 19th century, nearly 1,000 people lived here, working, playing, worshiping, and dying. Somersville served as an important community in the Bay Area with schools, churches, community organizations, and even a baseball team.

Today, there are no buildings and no residents, but there are clues that help us catch a glimpse of this vanishing past. It is these clues that the naturalist has asked our students to keep an eye out for. “Look for things that seem out of place; things that look like nature didn’t put them here.”

As the group hikes down into the valley the students begin to identify things that look out of place.

“I see a picnic table.”

“What about that sign board over there?”

Then, as if at once, the students cry out, “That! That giant pile of dirt!” A waste rock pile from the coal mining days now sits directly in front of the group. These are the rocks that the coal miners had to dig through to get down to the coal. They didn’t want to transport the waste rock far, so it was dumped near the mine.

After a quick exploration of the waste rock pile to discover the ingredients that make up the surrounding hills, the group continues the search for clues. Now that they know what to look for, many are seeing more subtle clues: scattered bricks from an old path and broken pottery unearthed by recent rains. Occasionally some begin to notice the depressions in the ground where buildings once stood. Even the trees are clues about the town’s past. Many were brought by town residents to California from previous places they had lived: black locust came from the central and eastern United States, pepper trees from South America, and tree of heaven from China.

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Across the country in recent years, park managers have taken to eradicating non-native, invasive plants found in parks. The East Bay Regional Park District is no exception to this; many of our parks have impressive eradication programs. In contrast, Black Diamond Mines has chosen to protect and even restore non-native, historically significant plantings within the town sites. Rangers are drafting a plan to remove the invasive tree of heaven growing outside the town sites, while simultaneously managing its growth within the town site as a historically significant species. In rare cases, such as in the cemetery, replacement trees have been planted in the exact location where an ancestor tree has died in order to restore the cultural landscaping of the site.

The Somersville town site is maintained in a natural state, allowing modern park use such as hiking and bike riding while restoring and preserving clues to the past. District staff works hard to protect resources like the historic trees, waste rock piles, historic features, and archaeological artifacts. Former building locations and mine sites serve as picnic areas and railroad beds as trails. The result of this effort is a landscape that is natural, yet maintains aspects of the past. Visitors interact daily with the history of this place, often without even thinking about it.

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A half-mile from the waste rock pile, we find our young scholars trudging up to Rose Hill Cemetery. This 160-foot climb seems almost unbearable for some of the students, and it gives them pause to learn that the town’s school used to sit just down from the cemetery. As the group enters, the naturalist tells them about the people who are buried here. Of the nearly 250 individuals interred here, more than half are children, many of whom died from diseases. Due to their expense, gravestones were often shared, while some people were buried with only a wooden grave marker, and others had no marker at all.

Each student is given a scavenger hunt sheet, and they spread out across the cemetery, scouring the stones for information. “Who was born in another country? Who is the youngest person buried in the cemetery? What do you think the carved designs (motifs) symbolize?” As these students explore the cemetery, they begin to develop a more personal connection to the people who lived, toiled, and died here. What these students do not realize is the amount of work and passion it has taken to restore the cemetery to its present condition.

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Prior to the park district’s acquisition of the land in 1973, the trail leading up to Rose Hill Cemetery was an unpaved county road winding through cattle country. The barbed-wire fence surrounding the cemetery deteriorated over time, allowing cattle access to the site. It is believed that many of the gravestones were broken by cattle rubbing up against them. As residents moved out of the coal field, fewer people remained to keep an eye on the cemetery and it became a magnet for vandals. Many gravestones were broken and nearly half disappeared. To make matters worse, the soil in the cemetery was sterilized to eliminate the need for mowing. This removed any erosion control on the hillside, and after heavy rainfalls the mud began to bury gravestones and gravesites.

In an effort to safeguard the gravestones, some individuals began securing them to the ground with concrete. It was this act of preservation that saved many of the gravestones, giving the park district much of what it would use in the ongoing restoration work. This work has been twofold. First, research is being done to locate gravesite locations as well as the identities and family stories of those interred here. This historical research, headed by supervising naturalist Traci Parent, is nearing a milestone as the culmination of 30 years of research will soon be published under the title Rose Hill: A Comprehensive History of a Pioneer Cemetery in the Mount Diablo Coal Field, restoring knowledge about the cemetery and those who make it their final resting place.

The second cemetery restoration effort is led by park rangers who are working to repair and restore vandalized gravestones. This can be extremely difficult since some of the stones were broken into multiple pieces, with many of the pieces missing. Park Ranger Doug Fowler leads the efforts to restore these gravestones. Following nationally recognized conservation standards, he and his coworkers have developed various methods for repairing these broken stones. Currently nearly 30 gravestones have been restored and more are in the works.

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With broad smiles on their contemplative faces, the students load back onto the bus to begin the trip home. Their field trip is over, but they have begun what may become a lifelong journey of discovery, as they connect modern life with the past that surrounds them. As the bus pulls away, a smile grows across the naturalist’s face; he knows that he will see some of those students again. Maybe they will bring their families to visit the mine. Perhaps they will become future volunteers. There is always the possibility that someday some of these students might become naturalists themselves. The bus disappears from sight and the naturalist turns back to regard this nearly forgotten landscape. There is much left to do, because the more we selectively restore the historic setting of Black Diamond Mines, the more those visiting strive to connect with the past.

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Kevin Damstra is a Naturalist with East Bay Regional Park District based at Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve. He can be reached by email at kdamstra@ebparks.org.

By Skot Latona

Natural wonders such as Old Faithful (pictured here) and Delicate Arch (above) are icons of our national identity. What happens if they change? Photos by Marco Soave, Palacemusic.

At what point does restoration or management intervention erase the inherent value in our park resources? I first began puzzling over this question years ago after a simple joke on a backpack trip to the heart of Yellowstone. As my brother and I headed out for the backcountry, we left the noise of the roads behind and with it the fabulous megafauna. During the days we spent in a silent, flower-filled valley, we never saw anything larger than a squirrel until we returned to our car, which was surrounded by bison and elk.

“With such a beautiful valley, why would these animals hang out along busy roads?” I asked.

“They’re fed on the roadsides and trained to stay for visitors,” was my brother’s retort.

The rest of the trip we pointed out “clues” that Yellowstone was managed just to maximize the tourist experience: massive bull elk within a fenced cabin yard, bison licking the roadsides, and wolves denned conveniently across from a viewing overlook. What evolved became a complex theory worthy of the most fanatic conspiracy buffs. It confused my own once-firm grip on the reality of the Great Outdoors.

For example, we discovered that Old Faithful has continued to spout on average approximately every 91 minutes for the past 30 years. In 2002, over 2,300 earthquakes were measured in Yellowstone. Geothermal features are so sensitive that a single quake in Denali 1,900 miles away sent an impact rippling through Yellowstone. This distant quake caused five geysers to erupt more frequently and three to erupt less frequently, yet Old Faithful has experienced only minor changes amidst all this geologic turmoil. That information seems innocuous until it is noted that in the same year of 2002, tourism was responsible for $1.8 billion in the state of Wyoming. Old Faithful was the most popular overnight destination, accounting for nearly 40 percent of all tourist trips to the entire state. As we watched the famous geyser erupt on schedule, we noticed the water quickly run off through a grouted rock channel and our conspiracy theory was established. What would happen to the Yellowstone tourist industry, the cash cow of Wyoming, if Old Faithful dried up? We asked each other whether, in September 1988 when the Park Service evacuated the entire Old Faithful Village citing wildfire concerns, crews used their shovels to build fire lines or bury plumbing.

Subsequent journeys added fuel to the fire. Arches National Park is home to 2,000 natural arches, including the famous Delicate Arch (of Utah’s license plate fame) and Landscape Arch, which some argue is the longest natural rock span in North America. It is impossible to gaze at these delicate structures and not feel that they are defying gravity. In the last 20 years, 42 arches, including many less delicate looking than these massive wonders, are known to have collapsed in the park. In June of 1995, Landscape Arch itself shed three massive sections of rock, each a week apart, then it stabilized and has been quiet ever since. Did the Park Service close the trails around this arch to protect visitors from falling rock? Or, as in our twisted logic, was it to keep us from seeing braces that prop up the span from behind? Before you answer too smugly, consider that an obvious concrete beam already reinforces Agate Bridge in Petrified Forest National Park to keep that natural wonder from collapsing.

With our theory well under development, it was not shocking to hear a National Public Radio story about New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain. This iconic landmark featured on coins, license plates, and memorabilia slid into a jumbled pile of boulders after eons of gazing out across the land. A year after the tragedy, NPR was reporting on plans to develop a memorial to the lost profile and to interpret its history and the changing landscape. The reporter was serious when she said someone from Disney had approached the commission offering “a little Hollywood magic” to rebuild the feature on the mountainside.

If you’ve visited theme park facilities, you’ve certainly seen the quality of “re-creations” built to attract visitors. Denver has a quarter-scale replica of Delicate Arch on a miniature golf course. From natural caverns in the lion’s den at the zoo to coral reefs in the city aquarium, natural wonders are duplicated with incredible realism. Given the realism we can achieve, how is a visitor to know where natural resources are being restored versus enhanced, or even created?

Before I’m shunned from the world of interpretive naturalists or banned from our national parks, recognize that I’m not honestly suggesting a planned conspiracy or even inappropriate manipulation of all the resources mentioned. However, once you buy into the joke just a little, suddenly funny bits of “evidence” appear wherever you go and the line between natural, managed, and artificial is quickly blurred. Examples of “improvements” to our natural wonders abound and the creative eye can spot them at almost any park or wayside.

The Great Wall of China at Badaling, constructed in 1505 or 1953?

It is openly acknowledged that Bosque Del Apache and other national wildlife refuges grow crops and artificially flood fields to attract the incredible clouds of waterfowl that darken the skies. Irrigation gates control the life-giving flow in the Everglades more than natural runoff. In Belize, dramatic friezes on Mayan temples are excavated, studied, then buried under fiberglass-and-concrete re-creations to protect them from weathering. The ruins of Mesa Verde have been “restored” to make them safe for visitors with little distinction made between what was rebuilt from a pile of collapsed bricks and structures that have remained standing for centuries. The Great Wall of China at Badaling was rebuilt in the 1950s with newly fired bricks fully encasing the historic wall, so none of the original can be seen. In Canyonlands National Park, steps are chiseled out of the sandstone to improve safety on challenging trails but are then camouflaged as natural fractures. California condors and Yellowstone’s wolves are tagged and every movement is tracked more closely than that of suspected terrorists.

Art restorers in museums have been working on tricks to clean and even retouch famous canvases, but when does the brush of the technician trump the stroke of the master? Is it any different for our natural wonders? When protecting weathering rock art, do we draw the line at diverting rainfall from running across it? Shellacking it with a protective coating? Or can we even touch up damaged or missing portions, as with a da Vinci painting?

Resource interpretation is described by National Park Service trainer David Larsen as finding a tangible icon, and—just like an icon on your computer desktop—“clicking” on it to reveal a whole new set of information and meanings. The interpretive technique is to use a tangible item to transport the mind to a world of universal concepts. Is that possible with reconstructed and manipulated icons? At what point does the resource lose its inherent authority over the imagination of the visitor?

True interpretive integrity requires that we interpret the resource for its inherent values and its current condition. Without restoration, many resources may disappear forever. Yet with improper interpretation, the values of those resources may be threatened. We need to be able to say comfortably and honestly that the visitor is viewing a re-creation or an artificial system when that is the case. We also need to admit that we are not able to indefinitely preserve every resource—and that perhaps our love of it is the cause of its demise. In some places this is done very well. In others, it is ignored or disingenuously minimized.

Our joke theory lives on over a decade later, with one of us throwing out a cynical observation of almost any natural wonder we experience. Maybe it is a coping mechanism to deal with our true awe of nature. Yet, as management of our natural resources becomes more and more intricate, where will the line of preservation fall and how is it interpreted? How will our meddling affect the meanings inherent in our natural and cultural wonders? At what point will we have gone too far, and will we know? Next time you visit Yellowstone, see if you can tell where the channels and manholes lead in the meadows around Old Faithful. Enjoy the joke. Then, ask yourself how much intervention is too much.

Skot Latona is a Certified Interpretive Trainer at South Platte Park in Littleton, Colorado. He appreciates sharing examples, photos, or creative outlooks that could add to the “research” on his conspiracy theory. Some of his photo “evidence” can be viewed at http://picasaweb.google.com/skotlato/AConspiracyTheory or he can be reached at skotl@sspr.org.

By Amy Dee Stephens

At the Oklahoma City Zoo, the remodeled bathhouse will become the museum. Photo by Amy Dee Stephens

Shhh! Don’t tell anyone, but zoos aren’t just in the animal business anymore.

Sure, elephants and giraffes are the main reason over 150 million Americans walk through zoo gates each year. Snakes are cool, hippos are funny, and monkeys steal the show—except these days, those poor monkeys have so much to compete with!

As entertainment venues, zoos offer a vast array of options to suit visitors’ tastes: playgrounds, IMAX theaters, ropes courses, birthday party pavilions, food courts, spray parks, etc.

But zoos are suddenly finding themselves in a new and unexpected role: keepers of culture and community history. Many American zoos are celebrating their 50th or 100th birthdays, and quite by accident, their buildings reflect the changes that have occurred during that time.

For example, the Toledo Zoo possibly has the largest collection of existing buildings from the Works Progress Administration (WPA) from the 1930s.

The Toledo Zoo’s WPA-era amphitheater played host to a Paul Simon concert in 2006. Photo courtesy the Toledo Zoo.

“Our community has a strong association with the WPA,” said Andi Norman, director of marketing and public relations for the Toledo Zoo. “It put our ancestors back to work during the worst economic time in our country’s history.”

According to Norman, restoring their 1934 Reptile House, rather than tearing it down, was well received by visitors, who appreciate both the history and ambiance it creates.

The Oklahoma City Zoological and Botanical Garden is soon opening a zoo history museum. Memory Junction, housed in a WPA bathhouse, will share the story of the animals and visitors who have passed through the zoo’s gates for over 100 years. The quaint 80-year-old building will take on a new life—an unexpected time capsule, nestled between the ultra-modern elephant barn and the newly constructed stadium.

Although preservation projects such as these pose an array of wonderful opportunities to showcase history and architecture, zoo officials must also wade through complicated decisions:

• Doesn’t our audience expect us to build new exhibits?
• How do we house large animals now that space requirements have outgrown our existing buildings?
• Wouldn’t it be cheaper to start over rather than renovate an older structure?

Sentiment aside, preserving zoo buildings often comes down to real estate and finances. The new exhibits that bring visitors through the gates require space—space that can be created by demolishing outdated structures.

The Oklahoma City Zoo is currently working to develop a 10-year master plan. Historic structures complicate the process as architects struggle to develop newly themed exhibits or simply redesign pathways to improve traffic flow, all while trying to accommodate old structures that, quite frankly, are in the way.

Because none of Oklahoma City Zoo’s buildings are designated as official landmarks, the zoo is not required to keep them. Management must grapple with the issues of historic value, social obligation, and the best long-term interest of the zoo.

The Zoo Center at the Bronx Zoo, pictured here in 2008 and 1909, was once the zoo’s elephant house building. Photos courtesy Julie Larsen Maher © Wildlife Conservation Society.

The Bronx Zoo, on the other hand, works under the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission. Some structures within the zoo are designated as historic property. Astor Court includes stately buildings, gardens, and pools where the elite once went to be seen in the late 1800s. Over time, keepers moved animals out and Astor Court became office space. Under the direction of Susan Chin, director of planning and design, Astor Court has been converted back to animal exhibits.

Two years ago, the Bronx Zoo reopened the 1903 Lion House with exhibits based on Madagascar. It became the state’s first LEED-certified historic landmark, recognized for meeting energy-saving standards. The landmarks commission even allowed some structural changes, such as skylights and an extended basement for mechanical systems.

“But make no mistake,” said Chin, “it can take a lot of money for redevelopment. Building a new Madagascar exhibit from the ground up would have been less expensive.”

Oregon Zoo also remodels its older buildings. In 2001, two primate enclosures underwent a $750,000 remodel to create the Amazon Flooded Forest exhibit.

“We took bare, modernist cages and transformed them into split-level underwater and upper canopy viewing,” said Brent Shelby, exhibit and interpretive design manager. “I’m not sure the building was historically valuable, but from an environmental perspective, it reinforces our message about reusing resources.”

In this case, the Amazon renovation was less expensive than starting over. According to Shelby, the building had a good “skeleton,” including good structure, electrical service, and heating and air-conditioning systems.

“We added new contours and flesh to the skeleton instead of demolishing the building and sending it to a landfill somewhere,” Shelby said.

Behind all the financial and physical considerations of saving historic structures, one must ask, “How will the public respond if their favorite zoo landmark is destroyed?”

It’s a valid concern, because communities have great ownership in their zoos. The public supports their site through ticket sales, tax levies, and membership fees, and they have other entertainment choices if they lose faith in their zoo.

According to Norman, preserving visitor accommodations is equally as important as saving animal exhibits, from the favorite sculpture every zoo visitor photographs to the beloved 50-year-old amphitheater. For Toledo Zoo, the community is so linked to its heritage that tearing down a historic structure is out of the question.

“We’d need an awfully strong case for demolition,” Norman said. “The outcry from the community would be intense. I wouldn’t want to be the public relations director!”

“It’s a great thing to try to protect architecture that is meaningful, but also understand that there are tradeoffs when the facilities house a living collection,” said Chin.

No one wants to be in the position that London Zoo faces. Nearly all of its Victorian-era buildings are government-mandated as historic landmarks, so they have little option when it comes to modernizing.

To combat such challenges, London Zoo has focused upon improving its infrastructure with energy-efficient mechanical systems, living roofs, and visitor messaging about reducing environmental impact. As a result, it has received awards for both “green tourism” and sustainability. To maintain animal care standards, however, larger animals were moved to London’s sister zoo, Whipsnade Zoo.

The Bronx Zoo faced similar challenges with its 1908 Elephant Building. Keepers complained about archaic conditions, the American Zoo and Aquarium Association required more space, and even visitors recognized the housing as inadequate. A few years ago, elephants moved out and rhinos, tapirs, and babirusas moved in. It was a good solution for animals and staff.

The Oklahoma City Zoo has dealt with aging grotto exhibits in a similar fashion. The grotto design, a concrete island or pit surrounded by a moat, was an innovation from the late 1800s that provided a view of the animals without bars or caging. In Oklahoma City, the concrete grottoes that once housed bears and cats are now filled with landscaped foliage and are home to smaller species like anteaters and meerkats.

This presentation works better, but it poses its own challenge. Many visitors remember watching bears pace back and forth on hot concrete. Although grottoes were once considered state-of-the-art, today’s improved conditions cause visitors to question the animals’ treatment in the past—a negative connotation that zoos don’t want their visitors to dwell upon.

So, is this a proverbial “free pass” for zoos to eliminate their grotto exhibits and start over?

Zoos with interest in their historic structures say no, because old-style exhibits represent the changes that have occurred in zoos over time.

“We need our old buildings as a point of reference, not just to tell us about the past, but to help place the present and future in perspective,” wrote Constance M. Greiff, author of Lost America.

Norman suggests that visitors have more appreciation for zoo improvements when they know the background information. At Toledo Zoo, a plaque in the Reptile House lists the recycled materials from which the WPA built the structure: stone from the Miami canal and reclaimed brick from city buildings being torn down.

According to Greiff, the appreciation of architecture seems to operate under the “great-grandfather clause.” Aesthetically, people most appreciate the architecture from several generations ago.

That may be the reason the WPA buildings are attracting such interest, while newer structures seem to have less historic value—at least for now.

Zoos span decades of social memory. In many instances, architecture is the visual trigger for conversations that begin, “I remember the zoo when….”

William Murray, a recent visitor to the Oklahoma City Zoo, said, “I’m all for progress, but I beg you not to take away those historical markers that make Oklahoma City Zoo unique. Those are my childhood memories.”

“As the zoo continues to grow and change, it’s important to look back,” said Dwight Scott, executive director of the Oklahoma City Zoo. “Giving our visitors an avenue to share their zoo memories across the span of time is a valuable contribution to this community.”

Most zoo officials and even historians will agree that not all buildings can or should be saved. However, heightened awareness that other zoos are viewing their property with new eyes is giving decision-makers pause. Do visitors value nostalgia along with modern entertainment?

“I foresee many conversations about zoo preservation,” said Shelby. “We will have to consider a building’s intrinsic value and nostalgic purpose and decide whether to preserve that piece of history.”

No, zoos aren’t just in the animal business anymore.

Monkeys are competing with both the spray park and the artistic stone architecture. Rhino keepers are now also caring for 100-year-old buildings. And zoo directors find themselves looking back to the past as they strive to look to the future—wondering when conservation took on such new meaning for zoos.

Is it that living museums have turned into, well, history museums?

Amy Dee Stephens is a naturalist educator at the Oklahoma City Zoo. She is also a freelance writer and author of the book Oklahoma City Zoo: 1902–1959.