[Congressional Record Volume 147, Number 162 (Wednesday, November 28, 2001)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E2158-E2159]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




       HONORING THE DENVER POST'S EDITORIAL WRITER PENELOPE PURDY

                                 ______
                                 

                            HON. MARK UDALL

                              of colorado

                    in the house of representatives

                      Wednesday, November 28, 2001

  Mr. UDALL of Colorado. Mr. Speaker, I rise to congratulate Penelope 
Purdy, a member of the editorial board of the Denver Post. Ms. Purdy's 
columns and editorials on land and natural resource protection issues 
were recently recognized by The Wilderness Society, which selected her 
has the 2001 recipient of the Aldo Leopold Award for Editorial Writing.
  This award was established by The Wilderness Society in 1998. It is 
given to an editorial writer ``who has produced editorials forcefully 
making the case for protecting America's remaining wild lands.'' It is 
named for Aldo Leopold, a celebrated conservationist and a founder of 
The Wilderness Society whose book ``A Sand County Almanac'' has come to 
be viewed as one of the leading guides for the establishment of an 
environmental ethic focused on the conservation of landscapes and 
ecosystems. I can think of no one who is more deserving of this award 
than Penelope Purdy.
  Ms. Purdy's body of work is impressive. She holds a masters degree in 
international and intercultural communications, and writes on a wide 
variety of domestic and foreign-policy issues. But her contributions on 
environmental topics are especially noteworthy. She has come to be seen 
as an expert on these issues, which run the gamut of Superfund 
cleanups, forest policies, public land recreational use, growth and 
open space management, federal land agency budgets and pollution of the 
atmosphere and water.
  Her insights on these issues--so important for all of us in Colorado 
and the west--have had a very beneficial effect on the shaping of 
public policy. But it is her work on lands protection--the work that 
drew the attention of The Wilderness Society--that is especially 
extensive and distinguished.
  Through a number of columns, she has effectively and forcefully 
promoted the practical virtues of protecting special, vanishing lands 
in Colorado and throughout the west. She is not simply an automatic 
proponent of any and all lands protection proposals, but evaluates each 
one on its individual merits and doesn't hesitate to make suggestions 
based on on-the-ground realities and real world politics. Her well-
reasoned arguments have in fact helped persuade others to join in the 
efforts to preserve what is left of the stunning and majestic 
landscapes in Colorado.
  I have heard it said that while good poetry is emotion recollected in 
tranquillity, good journalism is more like apathy stung awake in a 
beehive. In either case, the best writing requires passionate 
involvement. And the quality of Ms. Purdy's prose is no exception. It 
obviously arises from her own passion and perspectives as a person who 
combines intelligence and understanding of complex issues with the 
personal and emotional values that come from experiencing the outdoors. 
She has personally visited many of the special places--in Colorado and 
elsewhere--that have been the subjects of her writings. This personal 
touch helps inform her views and leads to an enhanced understanding of 
her subject matter.
  To illustrate, I am attaching two of her columns. One is an 
informative discussion of the complex realities of the Rocky Mountain 
Arsenal. The other gives a glimpse of Ms. Purdy's mountain-climbing 
experiences. The first is a matter of great importance to all 
Coloradans, while the latter has a particular resonance with those of 
us who have also spent time seeking to reach a summit or two.
  In conclusion, I again congratulate Ms. Purdy on her well-earned 
award, and look forward to many more insightful, well-written 
contributions from her on important issues facing Colorado and the 
nation.

                 [From the Denver Post, Nov. 28, 2000]

                        Arsenal's Harsh Reality

                          (By Penelope Purdy)

       The Rocky Mountain Arsenal exudes such a warm, fuzzy image 
     as a wildlife refuge that Coloradans sometimes forget it's 
     still one of the most polluted landscapes in America.
       In recent weeks, workers at the federal property north of 
     Aurora discovered six bomblets that may contain sarin, a 
     nerve gas so deadly just a drop will kill a person--and each 
     grapefruit-sized mini-bomb could hold 1.3 pounds. Arsenal 
     officials admit more unpleasant surprises might be unearthed 
     as cleanup crews pick through the site's hazardous garbage.
       That confession may surprise folks who view the arsenal as 
     a place scout troops and school groups take guided tours to 
     gawk at bald eagles and 300 species of birds, mammals and 
     reptiles that make their home there.
       But many of these creatures live on the arsenal simply 
     because its 27 square miles represent some of the last open 
     prairie in the metro area. It's a sad comment on the 
     destructive impacts of urban sprawl that wild animals prefer 
     to live atop chemical waste than amid endless strip malls.
       Yet the animals' presence doesn't erase harsh facts about 
     the land they inhabit:
       Starting in 1942, the U.S. Army used the place to 
     manufacture hideous weapons including sarin, mustard gas and 
     wheat rust, a biological agent capable of wiping out crops.
       From 1952 to 1988, Shell Oil Co. used the same property to 
     make pesticides, some now outlawed as too dangerous.
       For 40 years, the feds and Shell dumped deadly liquid and 
     solid wastes into unlined pits.
       Some of these pits, or basins, eventually leaked, letting 
     poisons seep into the drinking water of nearby communities.
       The government didn't keep proper tabs on where it tossed 
     unused munitions, so sarin bomblets and other explosives may 
     be strewn around several parts of the arsenal.
       Worst of all: The 1996 pact between the feds and the state 
     of Colorado really doesn't insist on decontaminating the 
     land. It just calls for the feds and Shell to dig up the 
     worst toxic goo and rebury it elsewhere on the property. So 
     the pact is less a cleanup plan than a reburial plot.
       Changing the signs at the arsenal from army post to 
     wildlife refuge didn't erase decades of lies, delays and 
     political hardball that the feds used to stop Colorado from 
     getting a more thorough cleansing of the place.
       The feds cornered Colorado into this unhappy position 
     despite bipartisan efforts to make the Army do better. In 
     1987, then-State Attorney General Duane Woodard, a Democrat, 
     sued the federal government to force a cleanup. When 
     Republican Gale Norton succeeded him in 1990, she pursued the 
     case with gusto. Indeed, Colorado won several big federal 
     court decisions.
       But the Army maneuvered to stall and complicate the case. 
     Meantime, Congress

[[Page E2159]]

     grew alarmed at how much a full-blown decontamination of the 
     site would cost--estimates ranged up to a mind-boggling $20 
     billion. Congress would never approve such a massive amount.
       So by 1995, then-Lt. Gov. Gail Schoettler, another 
     Democrat, tried to bust loose the logjam. She got a deal 
     inked by the state, the Army, Shell, the U.S. Fish and 
     Wildlife Service and U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.
       The planned cleanup will cost about $2 billion, of which 
     more than $700 million already has been spent.
       Now the job of holding the feds' feet to the fire has 
     fallen to Gov. Bill Owens, a Republican who shows the same 
     high level of concern.
       And rightly so, for the 1996 deal gave Colorado half-a-
     loaf. For example, Adams County communities whose drinking 
     water was ruined by the arsenal's runoff had been promised 
     clean water. But they'll get only 4,000 acre-feet annually 
     instead of the 10,000 acre-feet they need.
       Yet, without the 1996 pact, toxins might still be oozing 
     into the environment; lawyers certainly would still be 
     arguing; and Congress could still be refusing to fund any 
     real cleanup work.
       As it is, some progress has been made. The feds built 
     systems to stop pollution from reaching drinking water 
     supplies. Some chemicals have been incinerated. A vast vat of 
     toxic sludge called Basin F has been dug up, and its 
     materials moved to a more stable containment site. And 
     arsenal workers are investigating suspected problem areas--
     which is how they found the sarin bomblets.
       Much more work lies ahead. In fact, the 1996 plan 
     envisioned the cleanup taking at least 10 years.
       Even when the plan is fulfilled, though, the place will 
     still be polluted by substances that require decades, 
     sometimes centuries, to break down into less toxic forms.
       So despite the eagles and tour groups, here's the harsh 
     reality about the arsenal: It will harbor deadly wastes for 
     longer than our great-grandchildren will be alive.

                                  ____
                                  

                 [From the Denver Post, Sept. 18, 1994]

                       Triumph on the Seventh Try

                          (By Penelope Purdy)

       A rainbow had decorated the previous evening. At dawn, the 
     air's chill reminded us that autumn was peeking around the 
     corner of the calendar. Now, in mid-morning, the cobalt 
     September sky turned hot. Dark glasses replaced head lamps.
       At about 13,000 feet above sea level, I paused and wondered 
     when tenacity mutates into obsession.
       During journeys to this valley near Westcliffe in south-
     central Colorado, my boots had trod many summits--Kit Carson, 
     Challenger Point, Humboldt Peak, Crestone Needle, all of them 
     over 14,000 feet in elevation. Crestone Peak, however, had 
     eluded me. Six times I had been turned back from its top by 
     lightning, fatigue and route-finding errors.
       This commonly climbed mountain should not have stirred such 
     strong emotions. I really had nothing to prove, with a 
     Himalayan ascent, two summits in the Andes, and 52 of 
     Colorado's 54 ``14-ers'' to my credit. Yet I returned 
     repeatedly to battle this heap of loose rock.
       ``We've got it now,'' said the fellow with twinkling eyes 
     who stood by my side. John was his name, and he had already 
     been up this mountain, as he had all Colorado's ``14-ers'' 
     and most of the state's summits over 13,000 feet. He was here 
     this day because he likes the mountains, and because he knew 
     how important this peak was to me.
       For nearly a decade, we had shared a rope, a tent, and many 
     peaks and valleys. The years and the memories had molded a 
     relationship as close as two people can share without 
     physical intimacy.
       ``Yeah, well, partner, I never say we have it until we 
     really have it. I think it's bad karma,'' I said.
       ``I don't believe in karma,'' he replied. As we trudged up 
     the next 500 vertical feet, we debated the relative merits of 
     karmic Buddhism vs. rational empiricism.
       He had saved my hide more times than I could count: 
     grabbing me when I slipped on a slick log bridge so I didn't 
     pitch head-first into a roaring stream with a full pack; 
     carrying me to safety when I had broken a bone in a 
     wilderness fall . . .
       I remembered how on Kit Carson Peak, he and I were with 
     another friend who was an inexperienced climber, and who had 
     grown nervous at a certain tough spot. John had said, 
     ``Steve, if you don't think you can cut the mustard, I have 
     some right here''--and John whipped out of his coat pocket a 
     deli-sized packet of Grey Poupon. Steve's nervousness 
     evaporated into laughter.
       Now, on Crestone, partner John was jesting again, venting 
     his Walter Mitty day dreams, pretending we were grappling 
     with some huge Himalayan summit alongside the great names of 
     mountaineering: Messner, Bonnington, Scott. Perhaps they were 
     souls only other climbers revere, but they were real people, 
     real legends, real inspirations to all weekend warriors in 
     all the world's great ranges.
       As we clambered up the rubble-strewn gully, John began to 
     move faster and so at one point he pulled ahead.
       Looking at his boot soles reminded me of an episode on 
     Mount of the Holy Cross. He and I had finished a splendid 
     early summer ascent of the snow-filled east gully, but during 
     the descent found ourselves traveling over snow so soft it 
     wouldn't support our weight. Underneath this rotten layer hid 
     a hard ice sheet. John slipped, slid, and couldn't stop 
     himself with his ice ax. My choices: step out of the way and 
     let my partner smash into the rocks below, or thrust myself 
     into his path to check his fall. Our chests slammed into each 
     other, and I staggered back, grateful his sharp-pointed 
     crampons had missed my ribs. Friendship is the instinct that 
     overwhelms selfishness.
       Crestone Peak is split like a gun sight, so when we topped 
     the gully we peered down the steep other side. Then it was a 
     short scramble to the top, with its grand views of other high 
     summits and the Great Sand Dunes. The raptor who had been 
     feuding with ravens had flown off, but we still could see the 
     big horn sheep far below. No other humans were in view.
       With the help of a great soul mate, I'd finally triumphed 
     on the seventh try. Now it was clear which was the most 
     important, the peak or the friendship.
       As we descended, I remembered an old climber's saying: you 
     never really conquer a mountain. You stand on its summit for 
     a few moments, then the wind blows your footprints away.

     

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