American History Tellers - National Parks - Playgrounds of the People | 5

Episode Date: September 12, 2018

In 1914, America’s National Parks had a problem: no one was using them. And those few that were faced unmaintained roads, trails strewn with garbage, and a lack of amenities that made it hard for the average American to enjoy themselves. One man had enough, and went to Washington on a mission: establish a new National Parks Service, and transform these neglected, magic spaces into clean, approachable, fun vacation destinations.But in taking the reins, mining tycoon and marketing genius Stephen Mather would face many challenges: wolves, bears, fires, and his own internal torment.If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, here are some additional resources:National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255National Alliance on Mental Illness: 1-800-950-6264Crisis Text Line: Within the US, text HOME to 741741Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance: 1-800-826-3632Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's an early morning on May 16th, 1924, and you're driving up a newly paved road to the entrance of Yellowstone National Park. You're a school teacher and the wife of a successful lumberyard owner. It's true you supported the two of you when your husband was first starting out, but now, ten years later, the construction business is booming and the lumberyard is going strong. Last year, the two of you splurged on a brand new Dodge Brothers touring sedan. You were the first in town to have one,

and all the other teachers at school were complimenting you on it. You were excited about the purchase, but more so about where you planned to take it. Yellowstone National Park. Your husband is a nature lover, but you were raised reading Teddy Roosevelt's books on the outdoors and have always wanted to visit the national parks. As your husband pulls up to the entrance, Park Ranger in a crisp uniform greets you with a smile. Morning, folks. First time to the park?

First time. Well, welcome. We love new visitors to Yellowstone. Do you know how we get to the river basin? Yes, ma'am. Follow the signpost, but be careful around West Thumb. If you're going near the geysers, you're bound to get held up by Jesse James. Your husband looks confused. Who now? Jesse James, the bank robber? You and the ranger chuckle at each other, knowing what's coming up. Oh, you'll see him. Just don't feed him too much. He waves you in, and your husband drives on, befuddled. What was all that about? Just a joke between animal lovers.

He shrugs and pulls a piece of chocolate peanut butter fudge from a wax paper bag in your lap. He drives on, and you get lost in the passing scenery. But suddenly, he slams on the brakes and you look up. It's even funnier than the brochure suggested. In the middle of the road, a bear stands upright with its massive paws in the air. You lean out your car window and shout out to the bear, hands in the air, this is a holdup. Your husband looks at you begrudgingly, hardy har, turn off the car. He does, and Jesse James, the bear, slumps back on his front paws and saddles up next to your car door. Your window is down,

and he leans his massive paws against the top of the door. Ah, what does he want? Maybe some fudge? Your husband laughs, and you pull a piece of fudge out and drop it into the bear's mouth. He gobbles it up more aggressively than you would have liked, but you both chuckle. Then the bear looks down at the rest of it in your lap. You give him a bit more, and he gobbles it up. He stares again, and you let him lick the rest of the wax paper. That was all of it. The bear starts to sniff towards the lunch basket, packed with sandwiches and snacks. Nope, you've had enough. You try to push the bear back a bit, but he doesn't budge. He's going to scratch the paint. Jesse James starts to lean harder.

Suddenly, it doesn't seem funny anymore. Tim starts the car. He tries, but he's so agitated, the car keeps stalling. Jesse James starts to shake the car now. Give him the rest of the damn candy, Vanessa. There's nothing left but the sandwiches. Give them to him. Fine, here, take them.

You reach into the basket and toss the sandwiches out the window onto the ground. The bear hops down and makes for your lost meal as your husband zooms off. That was a little more intense than I was expecting. The bears are supposed to be friendly. That's what the ad said. Yeah? And what else did they say? You came here to experience the wildlife of Yellowstone, but seeing how comfortable the bears have gotten with humans leaves you a bit uneasy.

You remind yourself this is Yellowstone, a national park, one of the playgrounds of the people. And there are people who run this place, so certainly they know what they're doing, right? From the team behind American History Tellers comes a new book, The Hidden History of the White House.

Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, intimate moments, and shocking scandals that shaped our nation. From the War of 1812 to Watergate. Available now wherever you get your books. Have you ever wondered who created that bottle of sriracha that's living in your fridge? Or why nearly every house in America has at least one game of Monopoly. Introducing The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast about the surprising origin stories

of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. After the damming of Hetch Hetchy, environmentalists became concerned that if American enthusiasm toward national parks continued to wane, not a single natural wonder would be safe. In this episode, we'll learn how a promotional genius and a lover of Yosemite understood that the only way to reaffirm public interest was by transforming how the country thought about national parks.

Americans needed to see them less as sanctuaries for wilderness preservation and more as leisure and recreation destinations. Soon, the parks would be filled with educational programs and guided tours, but the shift would also lead to risky choices that threatened to endanger tourists, animals, and the parks themselves. Legend goes that in the summer of 1914, a 47-year-old Chicago mining millionaire named Stephen Mather visited Yosemite National Park. What he saw reportedly disgusted him. Hiking trails falling into disrepair, cans and paper littering the paths, even cattle grazing within the park bounds. Worst of all, there was no bureau to oversee the parks and fix any of it. So Mather wrote to his old college schoolmate, Franklin K. Lane,

now the Secretary of the Interior. When Lane received Mather's letter, the tale goes, he replied, Dear Steve, if you don't like the way the national parks are being run, come on down to Washington and run them yourself. In reality, the two men did not even know each other. Mather and Lane had both attended Berkeley, but Lane didn't graduate and they never met. Mather's interest in the parks stretched back to 1904 when the Sierra Club began going public with its opposition to the damning of Hetch Hetchy. Mather became a member of the club

and in 1912, on an outing to the Sierra, he met John Muir. At the time, Muir was consumed with fighting the dam, and the encounter left a deep impression on Mather. Later that year, he traveled to Washington to attend congressional hearings on the Hetch Hetchy issue. Eventually, Mather did write to Lane, and when Lane next passed through Chicago, the two met for the first time at the Blackstone Hotel. Lane was impressed with Mather's energy and knowledge and aware of his wealth and connections. If a National Parks Bureau ever were created, he thought, Mather might just be the man to oversee it. A while later, Lane invited Mather to Washington to talk through the

position. Mather was intrigued but reluctant. Lane worked to reassure him. The role would mostly involve public relations and lobbying Congress to form a National Parks Bureau. He'd be a free agent. Besides, he'd give Mather an assistant, someone who could help him navigate the bureaucratic red tape. His name was Horace Albright. Mather finally agreed, but he'd take the job on one condition. He would only stay a year. His assistant, Albright, took to Mather immediately. But he had his own conditions, too. He was engaged to a girl in California.

Before Mather arrived, he had been planning to return home and make some money practicing law so they could marry. Mather wanted to make it worth Albright's while to stick around, so he offered a raise to his young assistant's salary, paying the difference out of his own pocket, an additional $200 per month, almost $5,000 in today's money. Albright agreed to stay, and the two set to work together. Mather was the idea man, while Albright was the facilitator. Mather hit the ground running, schmoozing with D.C. power players. Organizing lunches with newspaper publishers, he pushed a pro-national park agenda to raise public awareness. He had dinner with senators and congressmen to alter

laws so private individuals could gift land and money to the parks. His influence and connections grew, and before long, the man in charge of national parks was becoming one of the city's heavyweights. But Mather recognized that before he could get Congress to approve a National Park Bureau, he first had to raise awareness among the public. Congress would never approve money to manage parks no one was using, but tourists needed roads to get there and trails and facilities to use once they arrived. In 1915, Mather and Albright toured the country, inspecting and scrutinizing everything from park entrances to garbage cleanup. Mather discovered the scenic Tioga Road had fallen into disrepair. It was a major toll road run by a mining company that served as the only entrance to Yosemite National Park from the Sierra Nevada.

Mather negotiated to buy the rights for $15,000. He put up his own money, hustling the rest from friends and donors in California. Afterward, he turned over the rights to the government to refurbish the road just in time for tourist season. Next came a publicity blitz. Upon learning that Americans were spending $400 million a year traveling to Europe, Mather launched a See America First campaign. The slogan, plastered on billboards and travel brochures, helped advertise national parks as the playgrounds of the people. Why take a ship across the ocean when you had some of the world's finest natural wonders right in your own backyard?

Mather appealed to American patriotism. By staying home, tourists were not only getting a bigger bang for their buck, they were spending their hard-earned cash on American soil. The campaign worked. Upper-middle-class Americans began hopping on trains and droves traveling to Yellowstone, Yosemite, and Mount Rainier. That August, nearly a thousand tourists drove their cars through the Yellowstone Loop for the first time. With Mather's publicity campaign well underway, it was time to revisit his original mission, convincing Congress to create a National Park Bureau. When he returned to Washington, he organized a two-week trip to Sequoia National Park in the Sierra Nevada, inviting several of America's most prominent politicians, businessmen, publishers, and railroad magnets, powerful people who could sway Congress by

showing their support for a national park service. The outing was dubbed the Mather Mountain Party. Mather paid for the entire trip out of his own pocket. On the final night, as the party sat around a bonfire smoking Havana cigars, he made his pitch. Albright recorded Mather's words in his memoir, creating the National Park Service. Well, men, we've had a glorious ten days together, and we'll have a few more before we part in Yosemite. I think the time has come, though, that I should confess why I wanted you to come along with me on this adventure. Not only for your interest in company,

but to hope you'd see the significance of these mountains in the whole picture of what we are trying to do. Hopefully, you will take this message and spread it throughout the land in your own avenue and style. These valleys and heights of the Sierra Nevada are just one small part of the majesty of America. But unless we can protect the areas currently held with a separate government agency, we may lose them to selfish interests. And we need this Bureau to enhance and enlarge our public lands, to preserve infinitely more for the benefit and enjoyment of the people, as the Yellowstone Act stated. To each of you, to all of you, remember that God has given us these beautiful lands. Try to save them for, and share them with, future generations.

Go out and spread the gospel. Mather's plea worked. On August 25, 1916, President Woodrow Wilson signed the National Park Service Organic Act. The new organization's mission would be to conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and the wildlife therein, and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as we will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations. Mather was named the organization's first director. Albright would be his number two. Mather's tremendous vitality had brought his vision into reality. His energy often left younger men, even his assistant, struggling to keep up. But Mather was fighting an unseen battle, an unknown to many of his

colleagues. He was about to experience a serious setback. Imagine it's January 17th, 1917, in Washington, D.C. You're about 30 yards from the office of the Secretary of the Interior, Franklin Lane. You try to muffle your footsteps as you rush, quietly, down the long, echoing hallway. Now, just 20 yards and you'll be there. You're carrying a stack of papers, trying to attract as little attention as possible, hoping no one will be suspicious. Ten yards. Nine.

Eight. Good morning, Horace! Damn, you were so close. But Robert Sterling Yard, head of the National Parks Education Committee, has just popped around the corner. Morning, Robert. I'd love to talk, but I have a meeting with Secretary Lane. Oh, this won't take a second. I need you to send Mr. Math in my way when you have a chance. We'll be releasing a new series of billboards, and he wanted to review the art. Oh, I'm sure he'll be fine with whatever you've chosen. He trusts you. You and I both know when it comes to promotions, our charming director wants to approve everything down to the type of ink used. He peers around you. Is he in the office? I haven't seen him

since the conference. He's actually up in Pennsylvania with his family at the moment. He said I could oversee things for a few weeks till he gets back. Really? Well, all right. I'll stop by in a few hours and we can go through the ad campaign. Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Robert. That sounds great. I'll see you then. That was a close one. As Robert walks away, you slink into Lane's office. The secretary of the interior sits at his desk writing. He looks up when you enter. Porus! How is he? Did you get him to the hospital? He's not good. The doctor said he'll need some time. How much? He couldn't say, but his wife says he had a similar episode in 03. Rest in Yosemite was the only thing that got him through

the darkness that time. You haven't let anyone know about this, right? No, never. Good. We don't know how long this is going to last, so I say we wait and see. We can't do this without him, sir. I can keep the train on the tracks, but he's the only person who knows the destination. Yes, agreed. Lane paused for a moment and looks out his window. You've worked with the secretary for three years now,

and you've never seen him look so distraught. We can't allow it to get out that Mr. Mather has checked into a sanitarium. They'll try to remove him as director. Can you do as you say, keep the train on the tracks? I can certainly try. You used to say you planned to leave after the National Park Service was created. Is that still your plan? That's just not in the cards. Not until the future of the service can be lined up. I'll stay. Thank you, Horace. There isn't a single thing Steve needs more than knowing this job is waiting for him. I'll do everything in my power to help you in the meantime, but until he's back to health, you're acting director.

Five months after the National Park Service came into being, Stephen Mather hosted a five-day conference to celebrate the conservation movement. Mather, though, became more and more scarce as the event went on. On the third day, he stopped participating altogether. From an early age, Mather had suffered from severe bouts of depression and suicidal thoughts. In 1903, he spent four months in a sanitarium in Wisconsin. As treatment, his doctor encouraged him to spend more time in the outdoors. Traveling to national parks, Mather found the wilderness calmed his nerves, and he managed to avoid more serious episodes for a time.

But Mather continued to struggle with alternating periods of mania and depression throughout his life. During the 1917 conference, he had a breakdown that alarmed his friends. Albright contacted Mather's wife, Jane, who asked Albright to bring her husband to a doctor in Pennsylvania. Fearing that Mather's career would be ruined if the news got out, Jane Mather, Albright, and Secretary Lane worked together to hide Mather's condition. Albright served as the agency's acting director while his friend and mentor recuperated for 18 months. But one day in 1918, Albright received a telegram.

Horace, get out the flags, dust off my desk, I'm coming back. Mather's return would lead to some of the greatest strides of his career. It would usher in a period of growth for the National Park Service. It would mean a giant leap toward growing the ranks of rangers who protected the parks. But Mather's troubles were not at an end. His health and well-being still hung in the balance. And there were other dangers.

As the National Park Service increasingly turned its attention to managing people, the nation's wildlife would pay the price. Dracula, the ancient vampire who terrorizes Victorian London. Blood and garlic, bats and crucifixes, even if you haven't read the book, you think you know the story. One of the incredible things about Dracula is that not only is it this wonderful snapshot of the 19th century, but it also has so much resonance today. The vampire doesn't cast a reflection in a mirror. So when we look in the mirror, the only thing we see is our own monstrous abilities. From the host and producer of American History Tellers and History Daily comes the new podcast, The Real History of Dracula.

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Follow The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to The Best Idea Yet early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. When Matthew returned, he thrust himself back into his old job. For a while, it seems like he never left. He spoke to private businesses to build hotels and restaurants with scenic views. He worked to distribute maps at park entrances and build signposts to assist guests in finding scenic spots. And most significantly, he embraced the automobile. The car was changing America.

Proper roads now allowed Americans to drive right into the parks. By 1918, guests arriving in cars outnumbered those coming by train seven to one. In 1920, park attendance surpassed one million, causing Mather to declare that the automobile has been the open sesame for the park service. Eventually, he would use his personal connections to lobby Congress for funds for a national park highway, which ultimately encompassed a total of 12 parks. But the surge of tourists needed managing. Mather and Albright began working to establish a trained, dedicated team of park rangers. Applicants had to be between the ages of 21 and 40, of good character, sound physique, and tactful in handling people. Other requirements included the ability to ride horses, fight fires,

shoot a gun, and survive in extreme weather conditions. An early application warned, if you cannot work hard 10 or 12 hours a day, and always with patience and a smile on your face, don't fill out the attached blank. But Mather's work on the parks didn't please everyone. Preservationists weren't happy. The Save the Redwoods League complained that the park service under Mather was a glorified playground commission and criticized the director's cheap showmanship. For Mather's part, the parks

did serve as entertainment for a hungry public. When tourists complained they weren't seeing enough bears during their visits, the park Service began constructing small amphitheaters and sometimes charging admission to bear-feeding shows. In Yellowstone, Sequoia, and Yosemite, wagons would dump piles of garbage in these arenas at appointed times. And, as if on cue, bears would emerge from the woods to feast on the trash, all to the delight of park guests. There were other ecological warning signs. When guests

complained about bugs, the park service began spraying insecticides. When guests complained there wasn't enough recreational fishing, they released non-native trout into the waters. In 1921, the Ecological Society of America passed a resolution condemning the practice. A similar resolution was passed by the American Association for the Advancement of Science. Over time, Mather's management approach evolved. In 1921, he wrote, The first idea of national parks seemed to have been that they were stupendous natural spectacles. Then came the great out-of-doors movement, and people turned to the national parks as places to live during their vacations. Lastly, comes the realization that our parks are not only show places and vacation lands, but also vast school rooms of Americanism, where people

are studying, enjoying, and learning to love more deeply this land in which they live. In his remaining years as director for the National Park Service, Mather traveled from park to park, keeping up a relentless pace inspecting and overseeing projects. But his troubles never left him completely. Albright quietly filled in as director on at least two more occasions. And in November of 1928, Mather suffered a paralyzing stroke. Just a few months later, in January 1929, Albright took over formally as director. Mather died a year later at the age of 67. His friends blamed his early death on his demanding schedule and physical exertion.

Mountains, peaks, valleys, views, and highways would all eventually be named in Mather's honor. Staying on 14 years longer than the one he had promised, Mather oversaw several new additions to the National Park Service, including the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, Zion, Acadia, Lassen, Hawaii Volcanoes, and Mount McKinley, now known as Denali. He also laid the groundwork for the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains, Shenandoah, and Mammoth Cave National Parks. But while Mather's push for park development had many effects on the land and American views of them, the conflict between wilderness preservation and development for public enjoyment would have grave implications for national park wildlife.

Imagine it's the fall of 1929. You're a forest ranger in Yellowstone, and you couldn't love it more. One of your jobs is to eliminate predators within the park. Yesterday, a member of the biological survey informed you that a wolf had been spotted in a nearby ravine. Your boss sent you to hunt it down. When you started this job a couple years ago, it seemed like you were getting these calls once or twice a week. But you haven't been out in a while, though, and you're a little rusty with your rifle. Just then you spot an elk drinking on the bank of a river.

Move closer. If you can get a clear line of sight, you'll have a clean shot in case a wolf makes a move. There's something breaking your concentration. Hey, have you noticed most of the aspen trees in this area have been stripped of their bark from about here down? Your superior asks you to let this young biologist follow you around for a few days. He's standing next to an aspen tree, holding his hand at chest height to make his point. But spooked by his voice, the elk takes off. Next time, keep your voice down.

Come stand over here. Now what? Are elk the only thing that eats aspen bark in this area? Well, deer too. Why? Well, the other parks I've been studying have noticed a severe decrease in predator sightings over the last year. Well, good. They're a menace. No, actually, I believe they may be quite necessary. So what I'm wondering is, are you

finding fewer wolves in the park? But before you can answer, you see one, a wolf prowling for deer. Get down. But you quickly realize there's nowhere to get down to. Last time you were in this area, this valley was studded with sagebrush. But now, all the shrubs and trees in this area have been stripped clean. There's no cover. So instead, the two of you crawl across the cold dirt toward an outcropping of rock. Once you're hidden, the biologist leans over and speaks in a low voice. I said, what I'm finding is...

Shut up. I've got a shot. You take careful aim. Got him. All right, let's go grab him. There's a guy back in town that pays me to bring him pelts for tourists. You both head down the valley wall towards the dead wolf. I was saying that we've been noticing that without the predators,

the prey have been increasing in number. Well, perfect. All the better for hunting. No, not exactly. The elk are multiplying too quickly and they're eating all the greenery. We think that possibly by killing too many wolves, we may have altered not only the prey, but the landscape. Not for the better. As you approach the wolf, you see that it's still breathing. Barely. She's a hundred-pound gray wolf, muscular. You hit her in the hindquarters, and it looks as if she crawled a bit before giving up. She looks up at you. You've killed dozens of these things, but they've always been dead when you've reached them. As her eyes glaze over, you realize something.

This may be the first wolf you've seen in six months. The man tagging along with the ranger was George Melendez Wright, an assistant park naturalist at Yosemite. Wright was the son of a wealthy ship captain. His mother was from a prominent dynasty in El Salvador. Wright earned a degree in zoology and forestry from Berkeley before heading to Yosemite. There, his fluency in Spanish helped him communicate with the last survivors of the Awanichi tribe, including the granddaughter of Chief Tenaya. But at Yosemite, Wright noticed things that troubled him. Poisonous sprays were being used to kill pests, wolves were being hunted

into extinction, and bears were being fed like pets. In 1929, Wright approached the newly appointed director of the National Park, Horace Albright. He wanted to undertake a comprehensive survey of the plants and wildlife across the National Park system. He would fund the program himself until he could prove its value. Albright agreed. Leaving in a Buick Roadster, Wright set out to figure out if the National Park Service's management was harming the very land and wildlife it had been appointed to protect. His study would be a turning point for the parks. Before Europeans first set foot in North America, there was an estimated two million wolves on the continent. By 1908, their numbers had dropped to 200,000. Wolves were hated creatures. They

preyed on ranchers' livestock and had attacked early Western settlers. They were storybook villains. The head of the Animal Control Division with the Biological Survey, the agency responsible for tracking wolves, once referred to them as 100% criminal, more often killing to satisfy his lust than to satisfy a natural and reasonable hunger. In Montana, radical methods were used to eradicate wolves, even within Yellowstone, including steel traps, rifles, strychnine, dynamite, fire, and a technique known as denning, which involved snatching wolf pups from a den and using their cries as bait to lure their parents into the open where they'd be shot. Often, the pups were killed too. According to state records, between 1883 and

1918, over 80,000 wolves were destroyed. Teddy Roosevelt's administration was partly responsible. In 1905, the U.S. Forest Service, under the leadership of John Muir's old nemesis, Gifford Pinchot, began an initiative to eliminate predators from national forests, and first on their list was the wolf. When the National Park Service took over Yellowstone, the agency made hunting wolves a top priority. During the three decades that U.S. Cavalry managed the park, just 12 wolves had been killed. But in the park's first 10 years under the National Park Service control, close to 150 wolves were put down. What park officials did not understand was the important place the wolves held at the top of the food chain.

By removing these apex predators, they were fundamentally altering the entire ecosystem. Ecologists call this phenomenon trophic cascade. At the same time, Yellowstone's leaders worked to encourage the good species. The U.S. Army had fed hay to elk, deer, and bison during the winter months. When the Park Service took over, it continued the practice. Without wolves to kill the deer, their population exploded, leading to overgrazing, loss of vegetation, and soil erosion. By 1912, the elk population was also out of control. Yellowstone began exporting them to state fish and game agencies to replenish their overhunted herds. In 1932, Wright published the

first report of his findings, Fauna of the National Parks of the United States. He concluded that the overpopulation of elk and deer was indeed due to the absence of predators. He urged the National Parks of the United States. He concluded that the overpopulation of elk and deer was indeed due to the absence of predators. He urged the National Park Service to stop killing wolves and cougars, to stop feeding bears for entertainment, and let nature take its course. Wright was killed in a car accident in 1936

at the age of 31. But a handful of scientists who had worked with Wright took his message to park leaders. In 1939, Yellowstone officials issued a memo ordering that animals within the park shouldn't be fed. They should be left to fend for themselves. And in 1940, the park service finally put an end to all bear feeding shows. Unfortunately, weaning bears off human food turned out to be more dangerous than introducing them to it. When the bear feeding area at Yellowstone's Old Faithful Geyser closed in 1940, bears throughout the park became more aggressive. Rangers were forced to shoot the animals to keep them in check, and in 1941, a grizzly killed a woman in the park.

Meanwhile, the elk population continued to skyrocket. In 1955, Yellowstone rangers shot thousands of elk to protect plant life, but the damage to vegetation continued. In 1961, rangers held the largest kill ever. 4,309 elk were shot in a couple of weeks. It was terrible, said one ranger. You herded them into a pile, and then you shot into the pile until they were all dead. When a television crew happened to catch some of the elk kill operation,

there was a public outcry, and senatorial hearings were convened. In the aftermath, the public service eventually adopted a policy of natural regulation of elk. Instead of artificially controlling the animal population, elk numbers would be controlled by winter food availability, periodic severe winter weather, and native predators. Public opinion was beginning to shift toward wilderness preservation, as scientists, rangers, and policymakers began to recognize the benefit of non-interference in nature. But it would take decades for park leaders to fully recognize and put into practice the lessons they were learning.

And beyond wildlife, there were other features of the parks they were focused on protecting. Unfortunately, unintended consequences would have them playing with fire. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now, the show where aspiring entrepreneurs get the opportunity of a lifetime. I wouldn't be chasing it if I didn't believe that the world needs this product.

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Start your free trial of Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify to start listening today and uncover the real story behind America's most notorious scandals. Imagine it's a dry day in 1945. You stand in a line of nine men. Three men in front of you and five behind. Your friend Glenn pats you on the shoulder encouragingly. You stand in a line of nine men. Three men in front of you and five behind. Your friend Glenn pats you on the shoulder encouragingly. You ready? You nod. You're quiet, but you're always quiet before a jump. You were quiet before you jumped at Normandy. You've been quiet before every jump ever since. Glenn has always confused this for nervousness, but in actuality, you feel tranquil. Suddenly, the green light flashes with a loud buzz.

Go! Go! Everyone shuffles forward, and the three men in front of you jump out in succession. You get to the doorway, look down, and see the smoke. That's where you're aiming. You're a California smokejumper, and you do what no one else can. As you leap and your parachute catches, you can see the flames are heading straight for one of the oldest groups of sequoias in California, one of the state's most beloved symbols. You pull a cord and glide toward the fire. When you were making jumps

during the war, they didn't have the technology for steerable parachutes. Now you can aim where you're going. Right below you, you can see where the last plane dropped your paracargo box, filled with crosscut saws and Pulaski axes. You hit the ground and sprint for your equipment. The air is heavy with smoke, and you cough uncontrollably. Pulling down the mask of your Scott air pack, you breathe easier, but now it's time to get to work. You meet up with Glenn. Fire's being pushed by the wind east, down those two trees and a cross link to block it from heading further. A hundred yards further down, you can see another smokejumper, a new guy. You think his name is Fred, doing a similar job. The goal is to hold the fire off till the slurry bombers can make it. Those angels from the sky are decommissioned military bombers, now used to dump water on wildfires. You and your team continue the tree downing. Thank God the fire seems

to be slowing. These fires are getting hotter and hotter, and that's when you hear it. The slurry bombers. They fly, dumping thousands of gallons of water. Huge splash douses the flames. You know this area is safe for a little while longer. All right, let's move on down the line. You continue downing trees along the fire line for hours. The flames are still heading towards the sequoias, but they're slowing. A mile out from the grove, you finally get the fire contained. You feel pride, knowing that these grand old trees will live another day. You can't imagine how they survived this long without human help. When the U.S. Army first took control of Yellowstone in 1886,

its official policy was that the fires needed to be extinguished as soon as they started. What the U.S. government did not understand was that fires were actually a natural occurrence and served an important function in the forest ecosystem. For thousands of years, fires had been responsible for maintaining vegetation patterns. They also helped ensure a diverse selection of vegetation because they cleared out the undergrowth, helping new plants grow and thrive. Above all, the ashes helped nutrients return to the soil for future plants. Despite the Army's policy, it didn't actually have much success containing the fires. The parks lacked a good system of roads to reach them, and the technology needed for firefighting

on a grand scale didn't exist. That all changed after World War II. Technological advances emerged like the Scott Air Pack, which allowed firefighters to replace their filter masks with tanks that provided fresh air. When the National Park Service took over the parks, they built proper roads that allowed easier access to even the deepest parts of the park. With evolving technology and improved access, fires could be more easily contained. That was especially significant in places like Sequoia National Park, where protecting the trees was a high priority. Under normal circumstances, natural fire cycles were taking place there every 5 to 15 years. These burns helped thin out weak or old vegetation, limiting the number of trees to about 50 an acre. They also

opened holes in the thick forest canopy, allowing sunlight to reach young Sequoia seedlings that would otherwise be blocked out. Without the fires, sequoias had to compete for water and nutrients with other shade-tolerant trees like white firs and incense cedars. Sequoia saplings couldn't reach sunlight. Tree density ballooned to 3,000 trees per acre, transforming the forest into a giant tinderbox, making fires not only more likely, but also a lot hotter. In 1956, Dr. Richard Hadesveld began to study the effects of fire suppression on the giant sequoias in Yosemite, and later Sequoia National Park. Park officials were concerned that sequoia saplings didn't seem to be germinating. Hadesveld had a hunch that the Park Service's fire policy might be the culprit.

In the early 60s, Hadesveld began experimenting with small-scale prescribed burns. After almost a century of fire suppression in national forests and parks, his experiments represented a radical shift in thinking. But his research ended up showing something strange. Fire wasn't the evil park officials thought it was. Sequoias could actually withstand fire, and they depended on it to survive. Fire caused sequoias to open their cones, releasing their seeds and allowing them to reproduce. Just as fire destroyed, it seemed it could also give life.

The national parks were meant to be an antidote to modern civilization. The pristine wilderness was meant to be a place where Americans could step away from their busy lives and take time to better understand both themselves and the world outside the bustling cities. As the national parks celebrated their semi-centennial in 1966, the American public increasingly came to see the national parks as part of the country's national heritage, a treasure that should be protected for the good of all. Mather had succeeded in his dream of helping Americans appreciate the treasures within their own borders. But the lack of understanding from the environmental consequences of human intervention had major long-term effects. As the country entered the second half of the 20th century, the National Park Service worked

to apply the lessons it had learned on a new frontier. But with the addition of new national parks in Alaska, things were going to get a lot more difficult. On the next episode of American History Tellers, a swift purchase of a huge but frozen tract of land from the Russian Empire leaves people scratching their heads, and the passage of the Antiquities Act has some crying tyrant and burning the president in effigy. on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. From Wondery,

this is American History Tellers. American History Tellers is hosted, sound designed, and edited by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Additional production assistance by Derek Behrens. This episode is written

by Jarrett Palmer, edited and produced by Jenny Lauer, produced by George Lavender. Our executive producer is Marshall Louie, created by Hernan Lopez for Wondery. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store. Or maybe you're with your secret lover. Or maybe you're robbing a bank. Based on the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018,

Incoming, a brand-new fiction podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus, follows the journey of a variety of characters as they confront the unimaginable. The missiles are coming. What am I supposed to do? Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Henner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Edelstein, and many, many more, Incoming is a hilariously thrilling podcast that will leave you wondering, how would you spend your last few minutes on Earth? You can binge incoming exclusively and ad-free on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.