Today was an important day in the history of Maine.
LURC approved TransCanada’s request to expand their Kibby Project to include eleven more Turbines on Sisk Mountain, towering over the Chain of Ponds and the Arnold Trail in Western Maine.
They also set a dangerous precedent by granting the request by First Wind to expand the Expedited Wind Permitting Area to include the area in Kosuth Township where First Wind would like to erect Turbines.
They did this in spite of overwhelming public opposition, and overwhelming scientific, environmental, and economic evidence showing these to be bad decisions. And as far as I’m concerned, they delivered these decisions in spite of plain old common sense. But unfortunately, I have come to learn that where Industrial Wind Development is concerned, public opinion, science, and common sense generally take a back seat to big money and politics.
Our State leadership has proven once again that they care more for money, and for ‘looking green’ [even when they aren’t] then they do about the people, economy, and environment of Maine
In light of today’s decisions, the destruction currently underway in Lincoln, the Wind Projects already tormenting our citizens and draining our wallets, and the upcoming battles to save places such as Spruce Mountain, Highland, Saddleback, Bingham/Mayfield/Blanchard, Lexington and Concord, and perhaps two dozen others that are in the works, I offer up this little poem.
It is not the work of a poet. It is merely the thoughts of a simple woodsman who took pen in hand one September day while sitting on the high banks of the Mighty Kennebec, overlooking the historic Appalachian Trail Ferry Crossing.
The Red Man tells that the pine clad hills had withstood the winter chills, for a hundred-hundred years, before the first white eyes were cast upon them.
And from that day,
or so they say,
all who’ve come have wished to own them.
The fishermen first,
who were not the worst,
as they only gazed and wondered.
Then the settlers came
and were not to blame
for the small bit of land that they plundered.
Their goal was nigh,
but to live and to die,
among the natural splendor.
So they turned their hand
to working the land;
a land both cruel and tender.
It killed off the weak
and harried the meek,
but bade the strong to stay.
And stay they did
to raise up their kids,
who became the woodsmen of story.
Men who knew the hills,
the rivers and rills,
and the pines in all their glory.
Chop and tote,
and drive and float,
the glory days were upon them.
But little they knew
that in years too few,
such days would all be behind them.
Then others came
and they too laid claim
to hills that had been ‘owned’ before.
They made their long tramps
and built their log camps,
all earning a living, of sorts.
The trapping was good,
and they cut some wood,
and catered to big city ‘sports.’
But those days too,
were far to few,
and now lay behind us all.
It seems these days
that the modern ways
leave nothing ahead, but sprawl.
First came the ‘camps,’ those second homes,
that pave the Northwoods under.
Then the growing maze of winding roads
that make a woodsman wonder.
And now I am told,
that in their lust after gold,
men have found a new way to plunder.
Strip the trees, blast the ledge,
Bull-Doze it all to Hell—
This is the way, our leaders do say,
to ensure that our State does well.
Towers and turbines and spinning arms—
Perhaps it takes a woodsman to see the harms.
For the others all say
that this is the way
to ensure that our State does well.
But scientists true,
and economists too,
will tell us it’s all a mistake.
And while I agree,
it’s not up to me,
but to politicians who are all on the take.
And so our grand hills,
that have brought us such thrills,
are falling, one by one.
And in coming years,
I know I’ll shed tears,
for the damage that has yet to be done.
In our rush to be ‘green,’
the destruction we’ve seen,
should shame us, every one.
But things will continue to change,
as it has been always and ever.
One day we will see,
the people agree,
that it is time for Maine to do better.
We’ll run out the crooks,
strike corrupt laws from the books,
and try, oh try, to do better.
A hundred-hundred years from now,
the pine clad hills will stand—-
For it is in the Grand Plan,
that do what we dare,
the Earth doesn’t care,
for the puny works of Man………..