the antiquities act: the first hundred years of a …ties act: a century of american archaeology,...

Volume 23 • Number 1 (2006) 5

The Antiquities Act:The First Hundred Years of a Landmark Law

David Harmon, Francis P. McManamon, and Dwight T. Pitcaithley

Adapted from The Antiquities Act: A Century of American Archaeology, Historic Preserva-tion, and Nature Conservation, David Harmon, Francis P. McManamon, and Dwight T.Pitcaithley, editors. © 2006 The Arizona Board of Regents. Reprinted by permission of theUniversity of Arizona Press.

THE HISTORY OF AMERICAN ARCHAEOLOGY, CONSERVATION, AND HISTORIC PRESERVATION

often is told in terms of legal milestones, and rightly so. An environmental activist working toexpand a nearby park, a historic preservationist trying to save a cherished old building, a vol-unteer working on a national wilderness campaign, an archaeologist investigating an ancientvillage site in advance of reservoir construction—all are working from a solid foundation ofstatutory authorities that, law by law, have expanded protections for archaeologicalresources, historic structures, and natural areas. There are many laws that mark critical junc-tures in our national conservation policy, yet what is arguably one of the most important ofthem all remains little known outside of specialist circles. That law is the Antiquities Act of1906.

No other law has had such a wide-ranging influence on the preservation of our nation’scultural and natural heritage. Why is the Antiquities Act so important?

Creation of national monuments.The Act gives the president the power toestablish specially protected national mon-uments from tracts of existing federal publicland. These monuments range from prehis-toric ruins and other objects of antiquity(hence the Act’s name) all the way up toentire landscapes of ecological and scientif-ic importance, covering thousands or evenmillions of acres. With President Bush’sproclamation of African Burial Ground Na-tional Monument in February 2006, the Acthas now been used by 15 presidents to pro-claim new national monuments or expandexisting ones.1 These monuments, whichcover over 79,700,000 acres, includeworld-class protected natural areas, many of

which have gone on to receive national parkstatus, and cultural sites of internationalrenown. Of America’s twenty World Heri-tage sites, seven originated as national mon-uments under the Antiquities Act: CarlsbadCaverns National Park, Chaco Culture Na-tional Historical Park, Grand Canyon Na-tional Park, Olympic National Park, Statueof Liberty National Monument, Glacier BayNational Park and Preserve, and Wrangell–St. Elias National Park and Preserve.2 Of thenational park system’s 390 units, almostone-fourth (88; 22.5%) had their origins asnational monuments proclaimed under theAntiquities Act, and the law was used togreatly extend several other park units. Inaddition, there are now 18 national monu-

ments managed solely by agencies otherthan the National Park Service, such as theBureau of Land Management, U.S. ForestService, and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

Establishing the primacy of com-memorative, educational, and scientificvalues for archaeological resources. Sec-tion 3 of the Act establishes the regulationof archaeological investigations on publiclands and states that such investigations are“for increasing the knowledge of [archaeo-

logical sites and] … objects, and … for per-manent preservation in public museums.”In one long sentence, the second half of thissection makes clear that archaeological sitesand the items removed from them are mostimportant for what we can learn from themwith proper study. The objective of archae-ological investigations is to study the pastthrough historical and scientific methods,not to retrieve objects for display, exhibit, orsale.3

A foundation for heritage profession-alism. The Act provides a legal and publicpolicy foundation for public archaeology inthe United States, and for public agenciesbeing involved in the preservation of his-toric places and structures. Its provisions

have done much to foster the developmentof the professions of archaeology, history,and historic preservation in the public sec-tor in this country, and has had an impor-tant influence on anthropology and paleon-tology as well.4

A scientific basis for nature preserva-tion. The Act was the first law to systemat-ically enable the creation of large-scalenature reserves for scientific (rather thanscenic or economic) reasons.5 Not only didit therefore prefigure today’s emphasis onlandscape-scale ecosystem conservation bynearly a century, it remains a vital tool forsuch efforts. In fact, over the past 30 yearspractically the only big nature reserves cre-ated by the federal government have comeas the result of monument declarationsunder the Antiquities Act.

An important presidential preroga-tive. The Act established the power of thepresident to proactively preserve importantcultural sites and natural areas (up to andincluding large landscapes of ecologicalvalue) that are threatened with degradationor outright destruction. This “one-way”power—the president can unilaterally estab-lish national monuments, but only an act ofCongress can abolish them—is an impor-tant legal doctrine that established, and hasenhanced, the leadership of the executivebranch in archaeology, historic preserva-tion, and nature conservation.

Simply put: In shaping public policy toprotect a broad array of cultural and naturalresources, the impact of the Antiquities Actis unsurpassed, extending far beyond whatis suggested by its quaint title. In truth, thename of the Act is downright misleading—or at least seriously deficient, because thenational monument-making provision ofthe law has been used to protect vast naturalareas in addition to the kind of well-defined

The George Wright Forum6

Vermillion Cliffs National Monument, Arizona. Photo courtesyof the Bureau of Land Management.

archaeological sites that the word “antiqui-ties” connotes. This is the controversy thathas swirled around the Act throughout itshistory: whether the scope of discretionarymonument proclamations as exercised byvarious presidents has far exceeded whatwas intended by Congress.

The heart of the controversy is aninnocuous clause at the beginning of Sec-tion 2 of the Act (see text box). Here, thepresident is authorized to “declare by pub-lic proclamation historic landmarks, his-toric and prehistoric structures, and otherobjects of historic or scientific interest thatare situated upon the lands owned or con-trolled by the Government of the UnitedStates to be national monuments, and mayreserve as a part thereof parcels of land, thelimits of which in all cases shall be confinedto the smallest area compatible with propercare and management of the objects to beprotected....” The key phrases, with empha-sis added, are “objects of historic and scien-tific interest” and “confined to the smallestarea compatible with proper care and man-

agement.” One reasonable interpretation ofthese phrases would be that the Act appliesonly to very specific natural features—arock formation, say—and that the bound-aries of the monument being created shouldextend very little beyond the feature itself.Another interpretation, which critics of theAct have found highly unreasonable, is thatan object of scientific interest can be some-thing as vast as the Grand Canyon, and thesmallest area compatible with protectionand management can be millions of acres inextent. Yet it is this second, expansionistinterpretation that has been adopted by anumber of presidents, Republican andDemocrat alike, over the past century.

The precedent began with the manwho signed “An Act for the Preservation ofAmerican Antiquities” into law on June 8,1906: the larger-than-life Theodore Rex, asone of his recent biographers has calledhim. Congress was well aware of the charac-ter of the president into whose hands it wasdelivering the law, of his sovereign vision ofpower and his willingness to wield it. And,


The original of the Antiquities Act, as signed by Theodore Roosevelt on June 8, 1906, and filed the next day. Images courtesy ofthe NPS Historic Photo Archive.


characteristically, Theodore Rooseveltwasted very little time before making use ofthe Act. On September 24, 1906, he pro-claimed the first national monument: theimposing monolith of Devils Tower inWyoming. Before he left office in 1909,Roosevelt declared seventeen more, andtherein lies the beginning of our story. Many

of them, like Devils Tower, encompassedrelatively small areas. But several, such asGrand Canyon and Mount Olympus, wereRooseveltian in scope. TR’s dynamic use ofthe Act set off reverberations that are stillbeing felt today. It was as if he emboldenedhis successors to dare to match the spirit, ifnot the sheer volume, of his example.

An Act for the Preservation of American Antiquities

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America inCongress assembled, That any person who shall appropriate, excavate, injure, or destroyany historic or prehistoric ruin or monument, or any object of antiquity, situated on landsowned or controlled by the Government of the United States, without the permission ofthe Secretary of the Department of the Government having jurisdiction over the lands onwhich said antiquities are situated, shall, upon conviction, be fined in a sum of not morethan five hundred dollars or be imprisoned for a period of not more than ninety days, orshall suffer both fine and imprisonment, in the discretion of the court.

Sec. 2. That the President of the United States is hereby authorized, in his discretion, todeclare by public proclamation historic landmarks, historic and prehistoric structures,and other objects of historic or scientific interest that are situated upon the lands ownedor controlled by the Government of the United States to be national monuments, and mayreserve as a part thereof parcels of land, the limits of which in all cases shall be confinedto the smallest area compatible with proper care and management of the objects to beprotected: Provided, That when such objects are situated upon a tract covered by a bonafide unperfected claim or held in private ownership, the tract, or so much thereof as maybe necessary for the proper care and management of the object, may be relinquished tothe Government, and the Secretary of the Interior is hereby authorized to accept the relin-quishment of such tracts in behalf of the Government of the United States.

Sec. 3. That permits for the examination of ruins, the excavation of archaeological sites,and the gathering of objects of antiquity upon the lands under their respective jurisdic-tions may be granted by the Secretaries of the Interior, Agriculture, and War to institu-tions which they may deem properly qualified to conduct such examination, excavation,or gathering, subject to such rules and regulation as they may prescribe: Provided, Thatthe examinations, excavations, and gatherings are undertaken for the benefit of reputablemuseums, universities, colleges, or other recognized scientific or educational institutions,with a view to increasing the knowledge of such objects, and that the gatherings shall bemade for permanent preservation in public museums.

Sec. 4. That the Secretaries of the Departments aforesaid shall make and publish fromtime to time uniform rules and regulations for the purpose of carrying out the provisionsof this Act.

Approved, June 8, 1906

This year marks the hundredth anni-versary of the Act. The centennial affordsan unparalleled opportunity for present-daystewards to reflect on its historic achieve-ments, revisit its controversies, critique itsshortcomings, remind fellow professionalsand the general public of its continuingimportance, and look ahead to its future inthe 21st century. We have tried to do that inour forthcoming book, titled The Antiqui-ties Act: A Century of American Archaeology,Historic Preservation, and Nature Conser-vation. The rest of this paper, which is anadaptation of our summary chapter, out-lines what we and our contributing authorshave found out about this remarkable pieceof legislation.

IN MANY WAYS, THE CENTRAL STORY OF THE

Antiquities Act revolves around intentions.What did the architects of the Act intend? Aseries of tiny sites protecting well-definedarcheological and natural curiosities, cover-ing the smallest possible area? Or did theytruly mean to give the president more lee-way? If they did mean to do that, have sub-sequent presidents stretched the originalintent beyond all reasonable recognition?And how does one explain the fact thatpresidents as different as the imperialTheodore Roosevelt and the reticent CalvinCoolidge have nevertheless used the Act toremarkably similar ends? In the years sinceits passage, the federal courts have found inthe language of the Act sufficient justifica-tion for the broader, Rooseveltian interpre-tation. Moreover, the range of opinionsexpressed by proponents of one or anotherversion of the legislation put forwardbetween 1900 and 1906 included broad aswell as narrow perspectives. These ques-tions are what make the history of the Anti-quities Act so fascinating.

To answer those questions, one mustfirst understand where the law came fromand why it took the form that it did. TheAntiquities Act is very much a product of itstime, the direct result of two streams ofangst whose headwaters are to be found inthe specific conditions that prevailed at thatparticular moment in history. As the nine-teenth century wound down, civic-mindedelites woke up to the disturbing fact thatAmerica was finite. The image of the end-lessly expanding, always beckoning frontier,so important to the doctrine of Euro-american expansionism, had been abruptlyerased by the historian Frederick JacksonTurner in his famous 1893 paper “TheSignificance of the Frontier in AmericanHistory.” Turner’s decisive pronouncementthat the American frontier was now closedunderscored what had become apparent tomany during the previous decade—that thegreat open landscapes of the West were fill-ing up with settlers or increasingly comingunder the control of land speculators. Thecritical mythic spaces occupying the veryheart of the national unification story wererapidly being piecemealed into a motleyassortment of private uses.

Congress already had preserved sever-al outstanding examples of the Americanlandscape and cultural heritage by creatingnational parks or reservations at Yellow-stone, Mackinac Island (later transferred tothe control of the state of Michigan), CasaGrande Ruin (between Tucson and Phoe-nix in Arizona), Sequoia, General Grant,and Yosemite (the last three all inCalifornia’s Sierra Nevada.6 In this context,handing the president broad power toreserve parts of those landscapes for contin-uing public benefit and edification was anact of nation-building.

At the same time, mounting reports of


settlers, curiosity-seekers, newfangled tour-ists, and profiteers ransacking southwesternarchaeological sites for building materials,curios, or treasures did not comport wellwith the received notion of an Americabased on justice and probity. As Ronald F.Lee noted in his pioneering history of theAct (originally published in 1970 and pre-sented in abridged form in our book),7 theelite opinion leaders were no doubt dis-mayed that the destruction was truly a dem-ocratic activity, carried on by everyone fromilliterate cowboys to some of their rival east-ern establishment institutions and IvyLeague colleagues bending to demands forartifacts to display and exhibit in universi-ties and museums. It made sense for theseinfluential people to support a law wherebythe president could, with a stroke of hispen, put a halt to the unseemly business incertain select places.

Yet all was not straightforward andsimple in finding support for the Antiqui-ties Act. Rising local and regional elites inthe Southwest and West sometimes resent-ed eastern scholars poaching on their arch-aeological sites. Even within the nationalgovernment, the General Land Office of theDepartment of the Interior and the Smith-sonian Institution jousted over whichshould be responsible for archaeologicalsites on public lands.8 The overall objectiveof protecting archaeological sites from loot-ing, and preserving them until they couldbe investigated using the newly emergingscientific methods and techniques of arch-aeology, was agreed to by the Act’s propo-nents. By contrast, who would oversee theprotection, and perhaps more to the point,who would regulate the subsequent investi-gations, was vigorously disputed. Theseconcerns and disputes, of course, fit into thebroad context of American nationalism, the

rise of the Progressive political movement,the emergence of government programs toforce the assimilation of American Indiansinto mainstream society, and parallel effortsto record Native American traditions beforethey disappeared.9

For some, preserving archaeologicalruins10 was a subtle but tangible reminder ofwho the conquerors were, of whose civiliza-tion had “won” the West. Newly anointed,these national monuments spoke to the sup-posed demise of Native American civiliza-tion while at the same time proclaiming thepermanence and benevolence of the poweremanating from Washington.

Many factors contributed to the impe-tus behind the Antiquities Act. The storiedelements of the American nation were bothnatural, in the form of supposedly un-touched wilderness landscapes,11 and cul-tural, in the vestiges of the country’s ancientpast. Char Miller makes the insightful ob-servation that creating national monumentsis a type of civic consecration: “Through asecular legislative act, the nation-state, atDevils Tower and elsewhere, created a newkind of sacred space—national in name,sweep, and scope....”12 It is by these meansthat the Antiquities Act, in subtle butdeeply permeating ways, shored up keyparts of the dominant unifying narrative thefederal government wished to tell.

Understanding this helps to explainthe motivations of the two men mostresponsible for maneuvering the law into itsfinal form: Edgar Lee Hewett and JohnFletcher Lacey. Today, their names are allbut forgotten except by archaeologists andhistorians of conservation, but their relativeobscurity is undeserved. Hewett was anadministrator, author, and educator as wellas a field archaeologist, whose mix of expe-rience and talent enabled him to forge the


compromise that became the final text ofthe Act. Hewett was one of those invaluablebehind-the-scenes brokers without whommost laws would never get through the pro-verbial sausage factory. As told by RaymondHarris Thompson, the story of how Hewettmanaged to get squabbling factions to cometogether behind the language of the Act isone of perseverance mixed with politicaland professional acumen and flexibility.13

At the beginning of the twentieth cen-tury, Hewett was a man determined to makea mark, both scholarly and politically, on thefledgling profession of American archaeolo-gy. He also was a booster of the AmericanSouthwest and West who sought to counterthe cultural and educational dominance ofthe eastern elite with a regional perspective.But what Thompson also brings out in hisprofile is a less obvious point: Hewett’s wasa politics of place, grounded in his love forthe Pajarito Plateau and northern NewMexico, a landscape that combined both ofthe mythic elements described above. AsThompson pinpoints, Hewett was operat-ing on the principle that “the federal gov-ernment has a statutory responsibility forthe archaeological resources on the land itowns or controls.”14 This notion of steward-

ship became the foundation for the profes-sion, the bedrock to which all archaeologyon public lands is anchored.

Although Hewett was personally inter-ested primarily in archaeology, because hehad imbibed the New Mexican landscapehe readily saw the political—and symbol-ic—advantages of including the protectionof “objects of scientific interest” alongsidethat of archaeological sites. The language ofthe Antiquities Act is a hybrid of naturaland cultural concerns not because of inepti-tude, but because of Hewett’s perceptionthat the competing interests among govern-ment agencies and the scientific communitycould be reconciled, along with his politicalskills in executing a compromise. AsThompson describes, Hewett grasped thebasic problem: the rivalry between theDepartment of the Interior, which wanted ameans to create national parks and controlthe protection of archaeological sites onpublic lands, and the Smithsonian Institu-tion, which wanted to control the investiga-tion of archaeological sites. It was he whorecognized that their “dueling bills” strate-gy was going nowhere. Most important ofall, it was he who understood that the twoapproaches could best be reconciled in onepiece of legislation, and that the way to get itpassed was by coming up with carefullyphrased, low-key wording palatable to aCongress that was no doubt weary of thetopic and wished to dispose of it as non-controversially as possible.

Any antiquities bill, no matter howcarefully written, faced a major hurdle in theHouse of Representatives in the form of theCommittee on Public Lands, throughwhom all such legislation had to pass.Because the committee was dominated bymembers from the West who were largelywary of federal power, success for the


Aztec Ruins National Monument, New Mexico. Photo courtesyof the National Park Service.

Antiquities Act depended on the politicalskill of the committee’s chairman, John F.Lacey. Rebecca Conard introduces us tothis Iowa congressman. Lacey was a majorfigure in conservation at the turn of the 20thcentury, but his personal background, asshe tells us, provides few clues as to whatfueled his interest in nature protection.15

Unlike Hewett, Lacey was incapable offalling in love with a landscape. Hisapproach to life was cerebral: when con-fronted with something new, rather thanassimilating it emotionally he focused all hisconcentration on it, framing it as a problemor an issue, studying it until he satisfiedhimself that he owned it. His mind wasessentially acquisitive. And intense: Laceywas a man who, as a soldier, prided himselfon being able to read a dry-as-dust legaltreatise while siege guns roared aroundhim. The picture Conard paints is of a manwho placed a premium on self-mastery. Shewas challenged to be able to paint anythingat all, given the reticence of Lacey’s person-al papers. This reluctance to speak from theheart, even in private letters, only serves toreinforce the image of Lacey as iron-willedand rather ascetic. Then too, he was politi-cally ambitious in ways that Hewett wasnot.

Lacey’s Civil War experience forged inhim a deep sense of duty to country, and itis here that we find the roots of his interestin conservation. Whether it was his supportof the Yellowstone Protection Act and ofPresident Cleveland’s use of the gamereserve act, his own work on the migratorywildlife law that carries his name, or hisushering of the Antiquities Act throughCongress, Lacey was driven by a belief thatgood government—meaning impartial, fac-tually informed government—was neededto keep the appalling extremes of human

behavior in check. The government, inessence, had to step in and impose order onpeople who, unlike himself, were unable tomaster their own worst tendencies.

Once the antiquities bill was passed, ithad to be enacted, and the mantle of leader-ship passed from Hewett and Lacey toTheodore Roosevelt. Like Lacey, TRplaced a high value on self-control anddetermination. Indeed, some of his mostfamous exploits were, in their way, exercisesin will: one thinks of him sojourning in theNorth Dakota badlands in the 1880s, lead-ing the charge up San Juan Hill in 1898, fin-ishing a speech after an assassinationattempt in 1912. Furthermore, as CharMiller highlights, Roosevelt was aProgressive who “believed deeply in thecapacity of government to mold the com-monweal, present and future.”16 He sharedthis Progressive philosophy with bothLacey and Hewett, and it is the commonthread that binds their disparate personali-ties together. Roosevelt, of course, was amuch larger performer performing on amuch larger stage, but the Progressive kin-ship among the three central figures of theAct’s passage—which was endorsed andshared by a majority of Congress and by key


Glacier Bay National Park & Preserve originated as a nation-al monument. Photo courtesy of the National Park Service.

administrators at the Department of theInterior, such as W. A. Richards, commis-sioner of the General Land Office—informed the very nature of the law. Simplyput, at the time of the Act’s passage in June1906 the key people in Washingtonbelieved in the Progressive vision of a tech-nocratically competent, beneficent govern-ment whose expertise would be placed atthe service of (what were assumed to be)common ideals. Under those assumptions,it makes perfect sense to give the presidentbroad power to proclaim national monu-ments. After all, he will be acting on expertrecommendations that, precisely becausethey are expert, must by definition producethe best possible result. That logic carriedthe day. Outside of politicians and commu-nities in the West whose commercial inter-ests were the most likely to be affected bymonument proclamations, few had philo-sophical qualms about it.

This review leads us to the conclusionthat the language of the Antiquities Act wascarefully chosen by ideologically informedmen who were deeply concerned that anold order was passing away and wanted todo something about it. Hewett, Lacey, andothers who contributed to the drafts of billsthat became the final text of the Act had aclear vision about what kind of powershould be vested in the president, and theythought that bestowing such power was agood thing. They shared an understandingof the cultural, educational, and historic val-ues of archaeological, natural, and scientificresources and an agreement that theseshould be publicly protected and their useregulated. Western congressional interestswere in dissent, and that dissent is reflectedin the Act’s language referring to the “small-est area compatible with proper care andmanagement of the objects to be protected.”

But the majority of Congress acceded to theProgressive vision. Had Congress wantedto, it could have endorsed earlier antiquitiesbills that specifically limited monuments toa few hundred acres; it did not. Eventhough Lacey himself promised westernrepresentatives that the Act would not beused to “lock up” large areas, the Houseand Senate knew exactly what sort of a manthey were about to hand over these powersto. Unless they were incredibly naïve theyalso must have known what use he wouldlikely make of them. Roosevelt’s bully-pul-pit track record was there for all to see, aswas his keen interest in conservation. It can-not have come as a shock to any member ofCongress when, in December 1906, TRdeclared the first large natural nationalmonument, Petrified Forest, nor even whenhe outdid that by more than tenfold with an800,000-acre Grand Canyon proclamationsome thirteen months later. Progressivismwas a supremely self-confident ideology,daring to do great things, one that meshedperfectly with TR’s natural bent. It goes along way toward explaining why he had nocompunction in stretching the language ofthe Act to its very limits—and perhapsbeyond.

In summary, the main cultural compo-nents of the Antiquities Act were a broad-based anxiety over the loss of key mythicelements of the putative national narrative,fused with a Progressive conviction in theability of government to identify and main-tain a commonweal. The result was a lawuneasily embedded in a mixture of paradoxand irony. Paradox, because the AntiquitiesAct was seen by its framers as an instrumentto promote a unified citizenry, a cohesivenation-state, even though its methods weresure to alienate people (mostly in the West)whose economic aspirations were curtailed


by new monument proclamations. Irony,because while both the eastern supportersof the Act and the western opponents of itwere conscious of the passing away of adesirable old order, they seemed to beunaware that their visions of this order werenot only very different, but in large partmutually exclusive.

THE WEST’S ALIENATION FROM THE ACT

disposed itself in legal flare-ups over theMount Olympus and Grand Canyon proc-lamations, but the issue really came to ahead in the 1940s when the showdownbetween Franklin D. Roosevelt (actingthrough the Park Service) and Wyomingpoliticians over the creation of JacksonHole National Monument nearly blew apartthe Antiquities Act. Progressivism hadpassed from the scene, driven from the fieldby the disillusionments of World War I andthe Great Depression, but paternalism of adifferent sort was still very much in evi-dence. Looming metaphorically above theTetons was the figure of an actual flesh-and-blood paterfamilias, an ultra-rich eastern-er—and hence an outsider both socioeco-nomically and geographically—who washoarding most of the land down in the val-ley because he was certain its highest andbest use was as part of the national park sys-tem. There can be little doubt that resent-ment of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., played animportant role in Wyoming’s decision tochallenge FDR’s Jackson Hole monumentproclamation: the lawsuit may have beenfiled against the Park Service, but in theminds of many locals the great magnate wasan unindicted co-conspirator. The socialand economic disparities of the two sidesare a virtual subtext to Hal Rothman’saccount of the controversy. In his summing-up, Rothman gets right to the heart of the

matter: this was an early battle between theOld West of resource extraction and theNew West of services and tourism.17

In seeking the Rockefeller lands for thenew monument, the Park Service was look-ing to garner a complete range of life zonesfrom the high peaks of the Grand Tetonsdown to and across the valley floor—a val-ley which included much valuable ranch-land. That was the crux of the issue.Although Wyoming argued that its sover-eignty had been traduced and the ParkService had not properly identified scientif-ic or historic objects that would justify themonument, the real reason for the outcrywas that tax revenues, grazing fees, andpotentially developable land would be lost.However, these objections would not (and

probably could not) be adjudicated. ThePark Service mounted a typical legaldefense, first trying to get the suit summari-ly dismissed on procedural grounds andthen, after that failed, enlisting expert wit-nesses to testify at trial to the monument’secological and historic importance. Thetrial judge, as so often happens, ended updismissing the lawsuit for technical reasonsand did not even rule on the merits of the


Jackson Hole as it appeared in 1933, with the valley landsthat would be at the heart of the 1940s controversy in theforeground. George Alexander Grant photograph, courtesy ofNational Park Service Historic Photo Collection.

proclamation. In terms of clarifying the lim-its of presidential authority under the Act,the lawsuit accomplished nothing, thoughsome years later it did induce the govern-ment to negotiate away the president’sauthority to use the Act in Wyoming as away to get the delegation’s support forincorporating most of Jackson Hole Na-tional Monument into Grand Teton Nation-al Park.

Had the presidential powers under theAct been emasculated at that time, as manylocals in and around Jackson Hole ferventlywished, the most serious repercussionswould have been felt two generations laterin, of all places, Alaska. That is because in1978 President Jimmy Carter used theAntiquities Act to preserve tens of millionsof acres of the state as national monuments,forestalling the transfer of what was thenunassigned national-interest public domain(the so-called (d)(2) lands) to non-conser-vation status. The story is told by one of theprotagonists, Carter’s secretary of the interi-or, Cecil D. Andrus, along with his col-league at the Andrus Center for Public Pol-icy, John C. Freemuth. They give us aninsider’s view of what has been called thegreatest single act of land preservation inAmerican history.18

The unique circumstances surround-ing the disposition of Alaska’s publicdomain, which had been slowly buildingsince statehood in 1958, reached a crisisstage by the late 1970s, and the problem ofwhat to do landed on the desk of Andrus.He was absolutely convinced then thatusing the Antiquities Act to secure protec-tion of the so-called (d)(2) lands was rightand necessary, and he and Freemuth remainconvinced now. While Andrus and the restof the Carter administration faced a definiteprecipice in the form of a pending expira-

tion of the (d)(2) moratorium, their re-sponse was anything but precipitate. Car-ter’s proclamations of December 1, 1978—arguably the most decisive and far-reachingsingle act of conservation in American his-tory—were preceded by years of researchand analysis, as well as extensive negotia-tions through various congressional chan-nels. Alternatives to the use of the Antiqui-ties Act, such as withdrawals under theFederal Land Policy and Management Act(FLPMA), were considered. Finally, when itlooked as though the whole process wasabout to go over the cliff, Andrus advisedCarter to act.

Yet both men knew that the proclama-tions were not the end of the story. Theyrecognized that Antiquities Act designa-tions were too inflexible to allow for the“subtle shades of management regimes”that would be desirable in Alaska. Althoughthe Carter proclamations were vilified bycritics as cramming a one-size-fits-all feder-alism down the throats of Alaskans, in truththey were a conscious tactic to get dead-locked negotiations into an end game byremoving any further incentives to stall.They produced exactly this effect, and intwo years almost all the newly created


Lake Clark National Park originated as a national monument.Photo courtesy of the National Park Service.

national monuments were redeployed intoother designations. Many went into a newstatus of “national park and preserve” inwhich the national park portion is open totraditional subsistence activities, while thenational preserve portion is open to sporthunting and trapping, under federal regula-tion.19 It is also worth noting, in case one isinclined to frame this issue in a partisanway, that the Democrat Andrus was work-ing within a framework of withdrawalsestablished by his Republican predecessorin the Nixon administration, Rogers C. B.Morton. Furthermore, one of the mainopponents of the Carter proclamations wasAlaska Senator Mike Gravel, a Democrat.

Accusations of partisan politics resur-faced again—with a vengeance —in 1996.There is no question that proclaimingGrand Staircase–Escalante National Monu-ment was a calculated election-year move byPresident Bill Clinton, one sure to win himfavor nationally while costing him nothingin the electoral college, since Utah was irre-trievably Republican. But, as Mark Squil-lace goes on to explain in his chapter,Clinton’s second-term proclamations werenot only politically astute, but strategic in adifferent way: they were based on carefully

crafted and ecologically significant recom-mendations by Secretary of the InteriorBruce Babbitt. Not only did Babbitt offer tovisit potential new monuments and meetwith the local congressional delegationbefore making a recommendation to thepresident—discussions that often sparkedchanges in the monument proposal—healso encouraged delegations to preempt theprocess by developing their own alternativeplans for protecting areas that were underconsideration as potential monuments.“This last concession resulted in legislationprotecting several remarkable areas thatwould not likely have received congression-al attention without indications from thesecretary that these areas were being con-sidered for national monument status,”notes Squillace.20 By allowing local intereststhe leeway to develop their own protectionstrategies for these lands, presumably theresults would be more in tune with theirneeds and desires than a monument desig-nation.

Babbitt was painted as an uncompro-mising ideologue by his opponents, butSquillace details just how much he was con-cerned with accommodating local objec-tions and certain commercial requests (suchas for utility rights of way across SonoranDesert National Monument). Nor was Bab-bitt interested in exposing the AntiquitiesAct to possible amendment or repeal byrecklessly using it—which may be why hedid not push Clinton to proclaim the ArcticNational Wildlife Refuge as a national mon-ument. In light of continued attempts toopen portions of the refuge to oil drilling,environmentalists may well point to Bab-bitt’s decision (and that of Andrus beforehim) as a matter of deep regret, although theadditional protections monument statuswould have added may not be enough to


Grand Staircase–Escalante National Monument. Photo cour-tesy of the Bureau of Land Management.

prevent Congress from authorizing drillinganyway.

However much Babbitt and Clintonwere willing to voluntarily engage with localopponents of monuments, they were notready to support proposals to amend theAct to require public consultations beforeproclamations are made. This brings up afundamental issue of fairness, the analysis ofwhich is the crux of James R. Rasband’sessay.21 It is not enough, he argues, for themonuments to have achieved—as virtuallyall of them have—widespread ex post factoacceptance, even among former local oppo-nents. No matter how overwhelmingly pos-itive the Act’s accomplishments, Rasbandsays, the process by which they wereachieved is deeply, perhaps fatally, flawedbecause it is undemocratic and thereforeruns counter to the entire basis of Americangovernment, which is founded on the freeconsent of an informed citizenry. This is aserious criticism, and cannot be ignored.

Rasband is not denying that the Acthas been beneficial; for him, “the criticalquestion is whether the same or similarresults could be achieved by a process thatdoes not so thoroughly disregard the inputand interests of rural communities and stateand local governments.” He thinks it could,and wants to see an amendment to the Actrequiring local consultation and impactstudies prior to proclamation. He goes on torebut a number of arguments that are oftenmade against amending the Act, pointingout that the Federal Land Policy and Man-agement Act can now be used to achievemany of the same goals. For Rasband,FLPMA has rendered the Antiquities Actlargely (though not completely) superflu-ous. He closes his argument by askingwhether the paternalistic decision-makingstructure of the Act—what he calls “con-

quest by certitude,” borrowing a phrasefrom Charles Wilkinson—is really appro-priate today, particularly given the fact thatpublic participation and impact studies areso firmly enshrined in the rest of naturalresources law.

On purely ethical grounds it really isdifficult to disagree with Rasband, and hemay be right that FLPMA can substitute forthe Antiquities Act in many cases. Even so,several counterarguments can be made.One is based on the assumption that some-times, even in a democracy, it is good for thepresident to be able to make unilateral deci-sions on crucial issues. At the risk of draw-

ing disproportionate parallels, think of theleeway given to the president in setting for-eign policy, or in nominating members ofthe cabinet. While these are subject to somemeasure of congressional oversight andeven formal approval, by custom the presi-dent is usually allowed to exercise strongleadership in these realms. This is so pre-cisely because the potential for paralyzingfractiousness is so high under any other sce-nario. One could plausibly argue that con-servation policy, with respect to the man-agement of public lands, is a like category,


Olympic National Park originated as Mount Olympus NationalMonument. Photo courtesy of the National Park Service.

both in terms of its momentousness and thepotential for decision-making to becomemired in the quicksand of partisan politics.The story told by Andrus and Freemuthabout the Carter monuments is a case inpoint. Furthermore, the special nature ofland withdrawals tends to pit local interestsagainst national ones, and to the extent thatmembers of Congress are reluctant to over-ride objections to a proposed land with-drawal from the delegation of the stateinvolved, the process is hog-tied. If that isconsidered undesirable, then it is a goodthing for the president to be able to cut thisGordian Knot using the power bestowed bythe Antiquities Act.

Part of Rasband’s argument is that theends do not justify the means, and that theprocess of the Act does not live up to thewilderness ideals that its resulting monu-ments promote. Yet one can respond thatthe quality of the ends achieved is, in fact,important to consider. Moreover, wilder-ness values are not the only ones being pro-tected by large natural-area monuments.David Harmon brings out both these pointsin his chapter.22 Arguing from the conceptof ecological significance, he shows howthese monuments variously exemplify rari-ty, superlativeness, representivity, and eco-logical integrity. The full worth of thesequalities emerges only when placed in alarger systems context. For example, the fea-tures preserved in the geological and cavemonuments are interesting in themselves,but they disclose added value when consid-ered as contributors to worldwide geodiver-sity. Similarly, individual World Heritagesites are spectacular places to visit, yet theirimportance truly blossoms only whenunderstood as parts of a global system ofrecognition of places of outstanding univer-sal value. The same holds for monuments as

components of ecoregional representivityschemes and as units in a network monitor-ing the “Vital Signs” of ecological integrity.In all these areas the Act has made crucialcontributions to the evolving practice ofnature conservation.

Another argument against amendingthe Act is that its most recent uses are moreflexible and more cognizant of local inter-ests—that application of the law is evolvingto meet new needs and desires. As told byElena Daly and Geoffrey B. Middaugh, theBureau of Land Management’s new Nation-al Landscape Conservation System is posi-tioning itself to become a systematic exem-plar of the “new paradigm” of protectedareas. A major shift in conservation theory,the new paradigm holds that the futureexpansion of protected areas will come lessand less from new Yellowstone-modelexclusionary parks and more and morefrom protected landscapes and managedresource extraction areas.23 These areessentially multiple-use areas with astronger preservationist/protectionist man-agement overlay than that found on lands astraditionally managed by the BLM.Whether the bureau can make the new par-adigm work in an American political con-


Jewel Cave National Monument, South Dakota. Photo cour-tesy of the National Park Service.

text, and whether it can establish a true dis-tinction between its new monuments andother BLM lands, remains to be seen. Butclearly, armed now with an organic act(FLPMA, passed in 1976) and chargedwith a newfound mission of creating a dif-ferent kind of national monument, the BLMis poised to transcend its lineage as thebureau in charge of the leftover landsnobody wanted.24

The BLM has also been given the taskof co-managing two new national monu-ments along with the National Park Service.The field report from one of them, GrandCanyon–Parashant National Monument, islargely a story of the difficulties in gettingtwo very different agency cultures to mesh.25

The authors, Parashant co-superintendentsDarla Sidles (NPS) and Dennis Curtis(BLM), candidly admit that many field stafffrom both sides looked at co-managementas the bureaucratic equivalent of a shotgunwedding. Indeed, the first organizationalstructure for Parashant did not work andhad to be replaced. But persistence is begin-ning to pay off: Sidles and Curtis give us asupervisor’s-eye view of how the monu-ment is drawing from both BLM and NPSpolicies and practices to come up with

innovations in such basic park functions assignage, interpretive planning, vehicle usemanagement, and more. Parashant is anunfinished experiment, but that is preciselythe point: there is nothing in the AntiquitiesAct that prohibits flexibility in how protec-tion is achieved, or by whom. While mostmonuments are still under the exclusivejurisdiction of the National Park Service,thanks to the Carter and Clinton proclama-tions several are now managed or co-man-aged by the BLM, U.S. Forest Service, U.S.Fish and Wildlife Service, and, in oneinstance, the Armed Forces RetirementHome. We can expect that as these newmonuments mature, the respective manag-ing agencies will place their own stamp onthem.26 It is even conceivable that we willsee new national monuments that are co-managed by one or more federal partners inconcert with nonfederal entities, such astribal, state, or local governments, or withnonprofit organizations.

We might also witness the applicationof the Antiquities Act to an entirely newfrontier: the oceans. Conservation of the seais fundamentally different from that on land,for a variety of biophysical, ecological, polit-ical, social, and legal reasons. Brad Barr andKatrina Van Dine endorse the notion thattools such as the Act need to be available tovisionary leaders so that they may lookbeyond the concerns of the moment to theneeds of future generations, especially inthe ocean realm. Marine ecosystems can beirreparably damaged in a surprisingly shorttime. The conventional course toward des-ignating a new national marine sanctuarycan takes years because of public involve-ment requirements—during which lag timefisheries can collapse, seabeds be devastat-ed by bottom-trawling, and ecosystemstructure be seriously compromised. The


Grand Canyon–Parashant National Monument. Photo cour-tesy of the National Park Service.

authors observe that “the political will tomove forward with a controversial procla-mation of a national monument can buytime for building constituencies of support”while simultaneously safeguarding marineecosystems. Used strategically, Barr andVan Dine conclude, the Antiquities Act“has the potential to accomplish what maybe considerably more difficult to do withoutit, and offers more certainty that effectiveprotection will be achieved.”27

IN ASSESSING THE OVERALL VALUE OF THE

Act, we must emphasize again that it isabout more than just national monuments.We must recognize as well the indisputableimportance of the Act to the development ofarchaeology and historic preservation inAmerica. Francis P. McManamon makes thecritical point that there was nothing foreor-dained about the basic policies governingthe public interest in archaeological sites—“the need for well-qualified individualswith sufficient institutional support to con-duct archaeological investigations, and thefundamental commemorative, educational,and scientific values of archaeologicalresources.”28 We take these for grantedtoday, but in 1906 Congress could just as

well have “solved” the looting problem byadopting a less comprehensive, more com-mercially oriented approach that empha-sized recovery and display, or even the sale,of individual items rather than preservationof whole sites in context. Congress couldhave ignored the requirement for carefulrecording, analysis, and reporting as essen-tial elements of archaeological investiga-tions and overlooked the requirement ofpublic interpretation and stewardship ofcollected artifacts and data. In 1906 itwould have been a defensible position totake; after all, American archaeology was inits infancy and had no long-standing tradi-tion of professional standards. As we canclearly see now, that would have been a farless satisfactory solution. Beyond this,McManamon sees a vigorous legal lineageextending from the Antiquities Act throughlater federal historic preservation law. How-ever, as he goes on to point out, severalcourt cases in the 1970s deemed the Act toovague to be used to prosecute criminal loot-ing. To remedy this, Congress could haveamended the Act. Significantly, it chose toleave the venerable law intact, instead pass-ing a new, targeted statute, the Archaeologi-cal Resources Protection Act of 1979.


California Coastal National Monument. Photo courtesy of theBureau of Land Management.

Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument, New Mexico. Photocourtesy of the National Park Service.

Joe E. Watkins provides a Native Am-erican’s perspective on the Act. He associ-ates it with the federal government’s cam-paign to make American Indians disappear,both physically (through military action)and culturally (by “de-Indianizing” them).After all, during the Act’s formative yearseconomic, social, and political tensions alsoproduced the Wounded Knee massacre, theexpropriation of American Indian lands bythe Jerome and Dawes Commissions, andthe destruction of tribal sovereignty by theCurtis Act, although there are no directcontemporary links between the Act andthese tragic events. The Antiquities Act, inrecognizing the developing professionalismin American archaeology, privileged archae-ologists, historians, and scientists, puttingAmerican Indian objects and sites, as wellas their interpretation, in the public do-main, under the control of non-Indian ex-perts in museums and universities. Unfortu-nately, the experts too often reduced NativeAmerican cultures, and to some degreeIndian people themselves, to the status ofdata to be described, organized, and sal-vaged before they disappeared. Then too,some of the natural-area national monu-ments proclaimed under the Act also sub-verted Indian culture by disregarding theirstatus as sacred sites. Watkins concludesthat “in some ways the Antiquities Act of1906 can be seen to be a continuation ofgovernment policies that were aimed aterasing the image of the contemporaryAmerican Indian from the landscape infavor of the ‘dead and disappearing culture’destined to exist only in museums or to beengulfed in mainstream America.”29 Yet hetoo sees the Act as the direct ancestor oflaws that have given rise to, among otherthings, a growing number of autonomousTribal Historic Preservation Offices.

Jerry L. Rogers also traces the source ofsystematic historic preservation back to1906 and the Antiquities Act, which, alongwith the Historic Sites Act of 1935 and theNational Historic Preservation Act of 1966,“launched a national idea of historic preser-vation.” In addition, these laws “consolidat-ed federal leadership of the field in theNational Park Service, and spread theireffects throughout an amazingly extensiveand effective network in the United States.”Importantly, he also emphasizes how thefield of historic preservation, like that ofnature conservation, is not remaining static.Innovations in identifying intangible cultur-al heritage and protecting cultural land-scapes—which draw from the some of thesame ideas as does the “new paradigm” ofprotected areas—challenge the NationalPark Service and other monument-manag-

ing agencies in ways not seen before. Rogersspecifically calls on the Park Service toabandon its bunker mentality with respectto the Clinton-era monuments assigned toother agencies. Rather, NPS should try toconstructively influence the others’ manage-ment standards and philosophies. Doing socalls for a “bold leadership posture” that


Minidoka Internment National Monument, Idaho. Photo cour-tesy of the National Park Service.

risks “the security of past gains for the pos-sibility of greater future gains.”30 Here againwe see the effects of the Antiquities Actplaying out in fresh and unexpected ways.

WHAT, THEN, CAN WE CONCLUDE ABOUT THIS

remarkable, still-controversial law? Tosome, it has been a callous abuse of presi-dential power; to others, a triumph of pres-idential vision. To American Indians, it hashad a unique and often troubling meaning.The most basic question, however, is this: isthe Antiquities Act a bad law, or a good law?

One way to answer that question is topose some others: think of what the Ameri-can landscape would look like today had theAct never been passed. Would anything atall be left of Chaco, Wupatki, Bandelier, anda host of other pre-Columbian sites in theSouthwest? Would the irreplaceable earth-works of Effigy Mounds or Hopewell Cul-ture still be intact? Would the shorelines ofAcadia and Olympic have long since beensold off for vacation homes? Would thepublic be able to enjoy the fantastic land-scapes and rock formations of Arches, Zion,Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, or RainbowBridge? Would the Grand Canyon be bor-dered by rim-side trophy houses of the richand shot through with private trails, tollroads, and spurious mine claims? Would wehave preserved such ecologically important(but less obviously scenic) places as JoshuaTree, Saguaro, and Organ Pipe Cactus? Orthe paleontological treasures of Dinosaur?Would we have missed out on preservingEdison’s laboratory, the historic towpathsalong the Potomac at C&O Canal, and theJapanese-American internment camp atMinidoka? What would have become ofKatmai—the fabled Valley of Ten Thou-sand Smokes? Of Glacier Bay? Of Wran-

gell–St. Elias and tens of millions of otheracres of public land in Alaska?

The Antiquities Act, like other legallandmarks of American archaeology, his-toric preservation, and nature conservation,is the product of intentions and actions thatdon’t always measure up to, and sometimescontradict, our stated national ideals. Butthe conservation of the country’s naturaland cultural heritage always has been awork in progress. It must continue to be, forit is a job that by its very character can neverbe finished. Effective conservation requiresconstant self-evaluation and a willingness toaccept criticism. It is important, therefore,to honestly criticize the Antiquities Act forfailing to achieve a better record in fosteringdemocratic participation in decision-mak-ing, for not going about the protection of“objects of historic and scientific interest”in a more systematic manner, for contribut-ing to the “imperial presidency,” for failingto adequately acknowledge the interests oflocal communities, for helping to dispos-sess Native Americans of their past. Impor-tant to criticize, and seek to improve—butnot to condemn. For if we insist on holdingthe Act to an impossibly high standard, andare willing to seriously weaken or evenannul it on these grounds, we must be pre-pared to do the same for a great many otherlaws whose effects reach into every cornerof American life.

A more judicious approach is to assess,to the best of our ability, whether the bene-fits of the Act have outweighed the draw-backs. As just noted, this assessment mustforever be provisional, always remainingsubject to periodic re-evaluation in the lightof new facts and new sensibilities. All wecan do is pass interim judgment from a par-ticular point in time. From where we sit in2006, our judgment is that, on balance, the


Antiquities Act has served this country verywell. An America without the AntiquitiesAct would be one with a much shallowerperspective on the past. It would have farless capacity to correct this problem, for itwould lack the professional cultural her-itage expertise necessary to do so. It wouldbe much less beautiful, with much less eco-logical integrity. It would be far more com-mercial, and burdened with a meaner civicspirit.

When the Act was passed in 1906, theclock was running down on the first, expan-sionist phase of American history. Now, ahundred years later, a momentous centurylooms ahead. It may yet prove to be aCentury of Conservation, whose main chal-lenges will be effectively meeting thedemands of modern life while maintainingthe cultural, historical, and natural environ-ments that we have come to cherish andexpect. The world is becoming evermorecrowded with people, and pressures onarchaeological sites, historic resources, andthe few remaining natural areas are only

becoming more dire. With isolationismbecoming less and less viable, the need forcitizens to appreciate and value the fulldiversity of the American past, and of thepeople (both ancient and modern) whocontributed to it, has never been greater.The protections realized by the AntiquitiesAct have left us in a much better position todeal with these challenges. Over the pastcentury, more inclusive ideals and new waysof thinking have raised important chal-lenges to the foundations of Americanarchaeology, historic preservation, andnature conservation, challenges that mustbe considered and addressed. Yet the edi-fice that stands on the foundation, the legalframework that protects and helps usunderstand America’s natural and culturalheritage, is indispensable. The AntiquitiesAct, for all its own flaws, is a cornerstone ofthat structure. That is reason enough to cel-ebrate its first hundred years of achieve-ment, and to look forward to new and inno-vative uses being made of it in the century tocome.


Endnotes1. Confusingly, there are numerous other parks and protected areas, authorized through reg-ular congressional legislation rather than through the Antiquities Act, that are designated“National Monument” (or were at the time of their creation). Examples include Agate FossilBeds, Badlands (now National Park), Booker T. Washington, Canyon de Chelly, CongareeSwamp (now Congaree National Park), El Malpais, Mount Saint Helens Volcanic NationalMonument (managed by the U.S. Forest Service), and Pecos (now National Historical Park),among many others. Throughout this paper, the term “national monument” will be used asa shorthand for any park or protected area, no matter what its current designation, that orig-inated or was expanded through the use of the Antiquities Act—thereby excluding suchparks as those listed above. See also Squillace 2006.2. Wrangell–St. Elias and Glacier Bay actually are part of a single World Heritage site madeup of a complex of parks, including several in Canada.3. The primacy of a non-commercial value in United States public policy for other kinds ofcultural and historic resources continues from its foundation in section 3 of the AntiquitiesAct to the 1935 Historic Sites Act, the 1966 National Historic Preservation Act, and the1979 Archaeological Resources Protection Act, the four most important cultural resource

statutes of the twentieth century. See McManamon 2006, Rogers 2006.4. Regarding paleontology: “Despite the conflicting interpretations of whether Congressintended for the phrase “objects of antiquity” to include paleontological resources, theAntiquities Act served for nearly seventy-five years as the primary authority for the protec-tion and permitting of fossils on lands administered by the Departments of Agriculture andInterior” (Santucci 2005:1).5. Before the Antiquities Act was passed, biology played a role in creating Sequoia, Yosemite,and General Grant (now part of Kings Canyon) national parks, as it did in some early pro-posals for boundary changes. Still, “evidence that biologic and geologic considerations influ-enced selection of national monuments is more certain...” (Shafer 1999:190). Once the Actwas passed, a related question arose as to the difference between a national monument and anational park. To some, the monuments were national-parks-in-waiting: “Some confusionhas arisen as to the difference between parks and monuments.... The object of a monumentis the preservation from destruction or spoliation of some object of historic, scientific, orother interest. The object of a park is that and something more; namely, the development ofthe area reserved for its more complete and perfect enjoyment by the people. It might be saidthat a monument is park raw material, because many of the existing monuments, in all prob-ability, will receive park status when their development as parks is practicable” (Cameron1922:8). See also Harmon 2006.6. NPS 2005.7. Lee 2006. The unabridged version of Lee’s study is available for downloading from theNPS Archeology Program website: www.cr.nps.gov/archeology/pubs/Lee/index.htm.8. See Lee 1970; Snead 2001; and Preservation of Historic and Prehistoric Ruins, Etc., hear-ing before the Subcommittee of the Committee on Public Lands, April 20, 1904, SenateDocument no. 314, 58th Cong., 2nd Sess.9. Hays 1959; Limerick 1987; McManamon 2003.10. As Native Americans now point out, the use of the term “ruins” (along with other com-mon descriptors of ancestral sites, such as “abandoned”) implies that these ancient ancestralsites are no longer of any value, when in fact they are often still part of a tribe’s living tradi-tions. For a discussion, see Halfmoon-Salazar 2006.11. Several recent studies have made the point that landscapes had to be de-inhabited,stripped of their Native American cultural associations, before they could be reconstructedas being purely natural and then transformed into national parks; see Catton 1997; Kellerand Turek 1998; Spence 1999.12. Miller 2006:66.13. Thompson 2006.14. Thompson 2006:46.15. Conard 2006.16. Miller 2006:66–67.17. Rothman 2006.18. Andrus and Freemuth 2006.19. Norris 2004.20. Squillace 2006:112. See also Squillace 2003.


21. Rasband 2006.22. Harmon 2006.23. Daly and Middaugh 2006. Categories V and VI, respectively, in the IUCN internationalcategory system. The new paradigm has roots in, among other things, the British conceptionof national parks, international work in cultural landscapes, and interdisciplinary theories of“sense of place.” In international protected area work, the new paradigm is gaining in influ-ence. For an introduction, see Phillips 2003. For protected landscapes and category VI areasgenerally, see Brown et al. 2005.24. The role of the BLM’s predecessor, the General Land Office (GLO), is an interestingside story to all of this. As Daly and Middaugh note, the GLO can hardly claim a stellarrecord for good government, nor was it ever consistently a conservation leader among feder-al agencies. Nonetheless, a good deal of credit has to be given to the two GLO commission-ers active just before the passage of the Antiquities Act, Binger Hermann and W. A. Richards,for proactively withdrawing several key areas pending permanent preservation, among themMesa Verde (which was made a national park by congressional legislation three weeks afterthe Act was passed) and Chaco Canyon. Hermann and Richards’ repeated attempts toinduce national park proposals are an underappreciated chapter in the history of Americanland conservation.25. Sidles and Curtis 2006.26. In the early years of its existence the National Park Service grossly underfunded thenational monuments, paying their managers salaries on the order of $1 per month, and con-sequently the level of protection the monuments were afforded was vastly inferior to thatgiven to places designated as national parks. Today, while considerable discrepancies remainamong the budgets of individual parks, all of them—no matter how designated—are managedaccording to a basic set of policies (NPS 2000) that provide for much more consistencyacross the national park system. For example, the quality and philosophical approach ofresource management being done in Bryce Canyon (which is now a national park but beganas a national monument) should not in practice differ substantially from that being carriedout in comparably sized Bandelier (which began as and remains a national monument). Inthe new BLM monuments under the National Landscape Conservation System, there is alsoa basic consistency in that most visitor infrastructure is to be located outside the boundariesin adjacent towns. By contrast, the handful of national monuments under the Forest Servicediffer greatly in management. For example, the intensity of visitor services and preservation-ist orientation of Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument make it “much more like anational park than a national forest,” while at Admiralty Island and Misty Fiords NationalMonuments in Alaska, management is not much different from that of the adjacent TongassNational Forest. For the Forest Service’s management of its monuments, see Williams 2003.27. Barr and Van Dine 2006:257, 252.28. McManamon 2006:161.29. Watkins 2006:196.30. Rogers 2006:176, 185.


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