The National Park Service and Department of the Interior are urging a plan that would upgrade existing entrances to St. Elizabeths and spare the trees.
"Can't they just use the front gate?" Koppie asked.
The National Park Service and Department of the Interior are urging a plan that would upgrade existing entrances to St. Elizabeths and spare the trees.
"Can't they just use the front gate?" Koppie asked.
The Federal Highway Administration, which has already signaled it wants to build the road, is to decide the matter this month. If approved, the trees would come down next year.
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The air is sticky in the woods this morning; it's quiet, except for the occasional call of the wood thrush, like a little flute. The leaves are too dense to see the nest, even if the ranger and the biologist would allow anyone close enough.
It's almost summer, so Koppie figures the eaglets are almost 2 feet tall and ready to fly. They'll head off on their own, maybe venture as far as Canada. Only the parents, mates for life, will return to the nest in January. But the chicks they raised will forever be city kids, biologists predict, more tolerant of people than their ancestors were. It's a trait that will come in handy if they are to survive decades of unstoppable growth.
As Koppie sees it, the developer's saw continues to swallow up America's wilds bit by bit, each individual project justifiable, the collective damage immeasurable.
"There is always an epilogue," he said, standing in the still ravine. "The way we live as humans will dictate how many eagles we have or how much of any species we have that require natural habitat for survival. Without trees, water bodies, they can't thrive, and we are shooting ourselves in the foot."
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faye.fiore@latimes.com