Bad Friday at the Bird Refuge

In my last blog posting, I used the Mastercard approach in anticipating how the memory of yesterday's spring afternoon touring the Kootenai National Wildlife Refuge was going to be. All those ingredients of blue sky, adult kids on bikes with their 85-year-old mom in her newly-purchased electric golf cart, surrounded by vast natural beauty within the refuge: priceless.

This morning's assessment: clueless, brainless, senseless.

Our best-laid plans went awry, and we're not very happy.

We arrived at the refuge around 2:30 with bikes, cart, and munchies, rarin' to get going and thrilled that we'd finally found a way for our cute, little mother---who loves nature, the outdoors, sunshine and even a little fresh breeze blowing in her face---to join us in the joy we've experienced on past visits to this beautiful wildlife setting in the Kootenai Valley.

After a long winter of generally being cooped up inside her house, Mother could drive her new cart, which does not make a sound, and mosey along with us at her own pace as we pedaled our bikes and stopped about every thirty seconds to snap pictures. Since most readers are used to my digressions by now, let me digress.

This is the same mother who performed as a real-life Rosie the Riveter at a Michigan airbase during World War II, the mother who reared six kids to be productive citizens, the mother who put in 27 years as a 4-H leader, the mother who's spearheaded fund-raisers for St. Jude's Hospital, bringing in thousands of dollars, the mother who's been honored as one of Sandpoint, Idaho's Women of Wisdom, the mother who carries on every day with a renewed zest for life in spite of congestive heart disease and a bum knee that requires the use of a cane.

This mother inspires just about everyone she meets as the ultimate embodiment of what we'd all like to be when we reach her age. This same mother has paid taxes to the U.S. government for 60-plus years which easily amount to six figures or more. Citizenship and giving for the benefit of others have been as much a part of her life as breathing.

Back to the story. We unloaded bikes. Before unloading the golf cart, my brother Kevin went to the office to see if he could back up to a small hill next to the parking lot to unload. We had a plywood plank just in case, but he figured the hill might be just as easy.

His methodology for unloading Mother's cart instantly became a moot point when he was told NO GOLF CARTS allowed. No unlicensed vehicles can go through the "auto" tour on the dirt road surrounding a major portion of the refuge. Cars can go through this area. Bikes can pass through. Motorcycles are welcome, but no golf carts--even if they make not a sound.

Kevin pressed the issue a bit, explaining that our 85-year-old mother who walks with a cane would be driving the cart. No dice.

If golf carts are allowed, then dirt bikers will wonder why they can't come through the refuge, he was told. No bending of the rules in this case, regardless of the fact that this 85-year-old great-grandmother who loves nature as much as her own kids would never think of racing that cart out across those fields to run down a Canadian goose or two. Somehow, none of us could see the connection between senior citizens in golf carts and kids on dirt bikes.

After Kevin came out to the parking lot and explained the situation, to say that we were "mad as Hell" would be an understatement. Our mother raised us to be good citizens, though. We maintained restraint. After grumbling and questioning the sanity of such a rule and the obvious lack of any signage "No Golf Carts Allowed," we resolved to make lemonade out of lemons. Barbara and I alternated on my bike and took turns driving Mother through the refuge.

We took lots of pictures but failed to snap a shot of the lady who unleashed her two big dogs (signage clearly says dogs must be on leashes) and allowed them to swim in one of the ponds where the birds live. We did not take pictures of the young man on the motorcycle, but we still scratched our heads as he passed by, wondering how our Mother in a golf cart could upset the balance of the birds any more than this young man putt-putting by.

Somehow the place no longer felt the same as it has on every other visit I've ever made there---in every season of the year. Yesterday, I wrote in my posting that it was one of my most favorite places on earth. Today I don't know how I feel. Idiotic bureaucracy has spoiled the view. Clueless and senseless bureaucracy has stolen a few moments of joy from our mother who has given so much to others throughout her lifetime.

She has paid all those taxes to that government which would, now in the sunset of her life, deny her a simple pleasure---all in the name of THE RULES. What has happened to common sense and an appreciation for what our senior citizens have given to this country? What has happened to the reverence extended to our elders that dominated that very piece of earth when the Kootenai Indians lived there long before the U.S. government took it over?

We followed THE RULES yesterday. We biked through the refuge, kept Barbara's dog Pita on her leash and made sure our mother behaved. The memory we took away, however, is still sour this morning. We are still "Mad as Hell" and we believe that someone who governs those who govern the refuge needs to hear about this situation.

We've thought and thought and have exhausted all possibilities of how our elderly, law-abiding, nature-loving mother driving a silent golf cart at a snail's pace along that dirt road could be of any harm to any inhabitant of the ponds, fields or streams. We have come up empty.

On the other hand, we have thought of how simple it would be for the powers-that-be to say,"We'd rather not see golf carts here, but since you're here, let's have your mother enjoy the outing." And, if they feel so strongly about potential golf cart damage to the refuge inflicted by a great-grandmother, put up a sign: No golf carts! No grandmothers! All violators will be prosecuted.

As far as prosecution, we followed their rules, but we're all feeling the dull pain today of bureacratic prosecution. That pain is bound to stick around for a long time, so we hope the enforcers slept well last night, knowing that a family in search of a precious memory with their mother have all been duly punished for following the rules.