// essays //
Fall 2006
Man vs. Beast
Jen Spyra
Role reversals are often cathartic and fun. Troubled teens sometimes benefit from this form of therapy, as well as sexually apathetic couples and actors who enjoy discovering a fresh perspective. Some role reversals are bad—like when your parents act too much like your friends or when animals overpower humans.
The sporadic revision of the human-over-animal hierarchy is perhaps the most jarring of role reversals, and a consistent shocker. When a bear mauls a man, or a stingray pierces the heart of an Australian, it's big news. We linger over the horror of these events, yet not so much with most car accidents, kidnappings, and murders. What's exceptional about a wild animal being a wild animal?
Put as tackily as possible, humans have clawed their way to the elite table in the cafeteria of evolution, and, since their installment, it's standing room only for everybody else. When a cougar takes a seat, it's a threat. Maybe in the deaths of people who have been mauled by animals we recognize the degree to which we're unequipped to defend ourselves when survival is placed on the animal's terms, and the extent to which we rely on technology and societal structures to protect us from them. Maulings recall the very real fact that, underneath the trappings of power, technology, keen cognition, and opposable thumbs, when it comes to pitting sheer brawn against that of upper-echelon predators, we're losers.
Maulings arrest our attention for other reasons as well. We in our culture, the idle rich buy their dogs jewel-encrusted sweaters and lunch-hour slots at day spas. While normal folks don't tote bedazzled minipoodles in thousand-dollar handbags, we humanize certain beasts all the same by letting them into our homes and family photos and giving them names we might use for children. Advertising agencies and the dinosaurs of film and television rely on the intellectual domestication of animals to sell their goods—recall real-life throat-gobblers Simba of The Lion Kingand Ballou of The Jungle Book. Their work has succeeded in changing public opinion of animals from that of mysterious foes to cuddly purveyors of slapstick comedy and affection.
The patronizing of animals is usually played out for the entertainment of humans, but according to the work of self-styled grizzly bear conservationist Timothy Treadwell and Australia's uber-popular crocophile Steve Irwin, it's done for the animals' own good. Irwin and Treadwell were famous—Irwin much more so—for breaking the rules of conservationism by waving off the prescribed distance between themselves and the animals with which they worked. Irwin routinely straddled alligators' backs and pulled deadly snakes out of holes, while Treadwell stood within feet of enormous grizzlies, upsetting the ancient, mutually-beneficial tradition of separating the bear and human worlds.
Steve Irwin, the late star of Animal Planet's internationally successful show "Crocodile Hunter," was fatally wounded by a stingray early in September while filming a project called "Ocean's Deadliest." Considering Irwin's legacy of crocodile wrestling and snake-handling, death by stingray seems no little irony. Despite jabs from critics who lambasted Irwin's hands-on approach to conservation, Irwin defended his position with gusto. "I put my life on the line to save animals," said Irwin. "If I have to save a koala, crocodile, kangaroo, or a snake, I will save it." Of his and his wife Terri's relationship to the wild, crocodile hunter Irwin stressed that defense was primary. "We eat, sleep and live for conservation. That's all we're about, that's what we're up to, that's our game. And we will die defending wildlife and wilderness areas." When asked by Sports Illustrated columnist Richard Deitsch if he ever met a crocodile that liked him, Irwin replied, "Never. They all hate me. I rescue them and they hate me for it. But I guess that's nature's way." Irwin is known throughout the world as the "Crocodile Hunter," and yet when asked what crocodile hunting was, Irwin answered "Crocodile hunting is poaching, highly illegal...crocodile poachers are the archenemy of Steve Irwin." It's an odd association for a conservationist to marshal. Sort of like an agent from Child Protective Services calling himself "Kid Hunter."
Timothy Treadwell did not achieve international fame until he was anthologized in Warner Herzog's documentary Grizzly Man although, he was infamous with Alaskan locals and conservationists in general who disagreed with his unorthodox approach to bear conservation and study. Treadwell's mission to the grizzlies was threefold. He professed to protect their habitat, to end illegal poaching, and to stop the practice of legal grizzly bear hunting. He maintained that the safest bear is the habituated bear, the one on comfortable terms with humans, and aspired to the more general goal of debunking the theory that bears were fearful creatures. As Treadwell said of his summers in Alaska, "I came, I saved, I protected, and I studied."
While Treadwell's brand of conservation is dubious at best, his bubbly enthusiasm is incontrovertible, particularly in Herzog's film. Upon finding a pile of excrement in Grizzly Man, Treadwell blurted, "Oh my gosh! The bear, Miss Chocolate, has left me her poop! It's her crap! It was just in her butt and it's still warm! This is a gift from Miss Chocolate!" One summer, during a dry spell, Treadwell shook an ineffectual fist at the sky, pleading, "Let's have some water! Jesus boy! Let's have some water! Christ man or Allah or Hindu floaty thing! Let's have some fucking water for these animals!" Perhaps Treadwell explained his position most aptly when he exclaimed, "I'm in love with my animal friends. I'm in love with my animal friends! In love with my animal friends. I'm very, very troubled."
Treadwell lived in the Alaskan panhandle for thirteen summers before being eaten by a grizzly. According to Treadwell's biographer, Nick Jans, "Most Alaskans thought it was a simple and short story that starts and ends like this: The doofus dies." Given the known danger of fraternization with grizzlies (namely, mauling), Treadwell's thirteen-summer record is impressive. An official explains Treadwell's success on the theory that "the bears probably thought he was mentally retarded." Treadwell's unique mode of self-preservation, recounted by Leslie Shwartz of the Los Angeles Times, supports the official's theory: "singing is the only weapon Treadwell uses to placate a bear that exhibits any of the 21 basic warning signs of danger-signs Treadwell has carefully memorized. In one close call, a young male approached him with his fur raised up in angry points on his back, snarling. But Treadwell managed to pacify the animal by singing a rhyme he made up on the spot." Because Treadwell stopped short of wrestling the bears, he might be construed as a less harmful version of Irwin. But, despite Treadwell's gushing affection for the animals (who he dubbed, among other nicknames, Booble and Cupcake), at times he echoes Irwin in assigning himself dominion over the bears, saying, "I will die for them but I will not die at their paws and claws, I will be master." Treadwell defied his own purported mission of treating animals with loving-kindness when he lost his cool chasing after a fox friend who took his hat: "If that hat's in the den, I'm gonna fuckin' explode."
James Croot, a reviewer of Grizzly Man, reports that "locals believed he was crossing a line, while wildlife experts expressed concerns that he was taking away the bears' natural fear of humans." Leslie Shwartz echoed Croot's criticism of Treadwell, adding that "aversion may help humans and large carnivores coexist. For though the number of attacks might be relatively small, wildlife experts say there are bound to be more of them as carnivore populations expand due to conservation efforts, human communities grow and displace animal habitats, and ecotourism increases in popularity." Treadwell was, in effect, offering bears a seat at the cool table in the cafeteria of evolution.
It's a conservationist rule of thumb that conservationists cannot just walk into the bush and start grabbing animals. "There are guidelines to follow, certificates to earn showing expertise in handling live creatures, referees to satisfy and, out in the field, a whole series of ethical questions to face. Did you handle more animals than you needed to? Did you even need to handle animals at all to get the information?" says Michael Clugston of Canadian Geographic. According to Clugston, sloppy conservationism not only risks harm to animals but to the data as well: "There's no point in studying behavior rendered unnatural by a too heavy radio collar, a lingering sedative, a muscle pull from rough handling, or death from the paralyzing terror of too slow or clumsy handling. Not only is there no point, but it's unethical: an animal has suffered or died for nothing." Norma Kassi, public voice for indigenous peoples' advocacy group First Nations and former member of the Yukon Legislature, agrees with Clugston, adding, "Once they're touched by humans, they act different. They change their psychology; their behavior changes. They don't have that wildness about them." Treadwell's tendency to poo-poo the guideline of a healthy distance also put humans in danger; in habituating the bears to humans, he softened the wall of fear that ordinarily discourages both species from up-close interaction. Set against the backdrop of conservationist guidelines, Irwin and Treadwell's work fades into the murky waters of amateurism or, worse, showmanship.
Animal rights organizations, conservationists, and intellectuals have questioned the ethics of Irwin and Treadwell's approach to conservation. The T.V. show "The Crocodile Hunter" showcased Irwin invading the crocodiles' habitat and jumping on their backs. Other programs found Irwin ferreting poisonous snakes out of holes and brandishing them while talking about their diets and character (hence, the educational component). But is relating facts about snakes or alligators enough of a pedagogic boon to justify the rough treatment of the animals in question? Irwin defended his position by emphasizing the merits of flashy conservationism: "I'm a firm believer that in this day and age, to touch millions of people with a conservation message, you can't sit around and dictate...put on the lecturer's shirt and lecture people. You gotta entertain. That's where we're at." Still, if audiences are learning about snakes and crocs from a guy that calls himself a hunter and visibly frightens animals by invading their habitat and wrestling with them, the message they're getting is that it's cool and lucrative to harangue animals. What's valuable about that?
Well, as long as you don't think too much about the crocodile or snake's mishandling, watching Irwin look into the eye of death and yell "Crikey!" is pure, morbid entertainment. But US-based People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) and Aussie expat intellectual Germaine Greer don't approve of Irwin's tactics and have taken him to task for it, both in his life and in his death. PETA offers judgment on its website that "Any positive message is lost when the presenter exploits and harasses the very animals who are meant to be protected" and criticizes the potentially harmful ramifications. "Hauling animals to television studios or ambushing an alligator with ropes, duct tapes, and a camera crew compels people to approach wild animals themselves or, even worse, purchase one to keep as a pet, thereby fuelling the cruel exotic animal trade." PETA caps its argument by slicing through the colorful diversion of Irwin's shows and questioning whether the core values of conservationism are upheld, asking, "Does the public really need to see someone dragging a frightened snake out of a hole and flailing the animal around on a stick in order to realize how important and morally imperative it is to respect and protect that animal?"
Germain Greer, feminist intellectual, agrees with PETA and metes out harsh criticism for Irwin, explaining, "What Irwin never seemed to understand was that animals need space. The one lesson any conservationist must labor to drive home is that habitat loss is the principal cause of species loss. There was no habitat, no matter how fragile or finely balanced, that Irwin hesitated to barge into, trumpeting his wonder and amazement to the skies." In addition to encroaching on the habitat of the animal, Greer counts Irwin's mistreatment of animals as another of his transgressions, stressing that "There was not an animal he was not prepared to manhandle. Every creature he brandished at the camera was in distress. Every snake badgered by Irwin was at a huge disadvantage, with only a single possible reaction to its terrifying situation, which was to strike."
Irwin and and Treadwell's supposed role was to protect and champion; instead, they were killed. Death by animal is gruesome enough when normal people are involved, but when die-hard conservationists are taken out, insult is added to injury. The thunderous irony of Irwin and Treadwell's manner of dying nearly eclipses the twofold tragedy of the event. First, of course, is that they died. The second is that these self-appointed legends endangered the species they were consecrated to protect, obliterating not only the their own guidelines but the guidelines of conservationism along the way.
The sporadic revision of the human-over-animal hierarchy is perhaps the most jarring of role reversals, and a consistent shocker. When a bear mauls a man, or a stingray pierces the heart of an Australian, it's big news. We linger over the horror of these events, yet not so much with most car accidents, kidnappings, and murders. What's exceptional about a wild animal being a wild animal?
Put as tackily as possible, humans have clawed their way to the elite table in the cafeteria of evolution, and, since their installment, it's standing room only for everybody else. When a cougar takes a seat, it's a threat. Maybe in the deaths of people who have been mauled by animals we recognize the degree to which we're unequipped to defend ourselves when survival is placed on the animal's terms, and the extent to which we rely on technology and societal structures to protect us from them. Maulings recall the very real fact that, underneath the trappings of power, technology, keen cognition, and opposable thumbs, when it comes to pitting sheer brawn against that of upper-echelon predators, we're losers.
Maulings arrest our attention for other reasons as well. We in our culture, the idle rich buy their dogs jewel-encrusted sweaters and lunch-hour slots at day spas. While normal folks don't tote bedazzled minipoodles in thousand-dollar handbags, we humanize certain beasts all the same by letting them into our homes and family photos and giving them names we might use for children. Advertising agencies and the dinosaurs of film and television rely on the intellectual domestication of animals to sell their goods—recall real-life throat-gobblers Simba of The Lion Kingand Ballou of The Jungle Book. Their work has succeeded in changing public opinion of animals from that of mysterious foes to cuddly purveyors of slapstick comedy and affection.
The patronizing of animals is usually played out for the entertainment of humans, but according to the work of self-styled grizzly bear conservationist Timothy Treadwell and Australia's uber-popular crocophile Steve Irwin, it's done for the animals' own good. Irwin and Treadwell were famous—Irwin much more so—for breaking the rules of conservationism by waving off the prescribed distance between themselves and the animals with which they worked. Irwin routinely straddled alligators' backs and pulled deadly snakes out of holes, while Treadwell stood within feet of enormous grizzlies, upsetting the ancient, mutually-beneficial tradition of separating the bear and human worlds.
Steve Irwin, the late star of Animal Planet's internationally successful show "Crocodile Hunter," was fatally wounded by a stingray early in September while filming a project called "Ocean's Deadliest." Considering Irwin's legacy of crocodile wrestling and snake-handling, death by stingray seems no little irony. Despite jabs from critics who lambasted Irwin's hands-on approach to conservation, Irwin defended his position with gusto. "I put my life on the line to save animals," said Irwin. "If I have to save a koala, crocodile, kangaroo, or a snake, I will save it." Of his and his wife Terri's relationship to the wild, crocodile hunter Irwin stressed that defense was primary. "We eat, sleep and live for conservation. That's all we're about, that's what we're up to, that's our game. And we will die defending wildlife and wilderness areas." When asked by Sports Illustrated columnist Richard Deitsch if he ever met a crocodile that liked him, Irwin replied, "Never. They all hate me. I rescue them and they hate me for it. But I guess that's nature's way." Irwin is known throughout the world as the "Crocodile Hunter," and yet when asked what crocodile hunting was, Irwin answered "Crocodile hunting is poaching, highly illegal...crocodile poachers are the archenemy of Steve Irwin." It's an odd association for a conservationist to marshal. Sort of like an agent from Child Protective Services calling himself "Kid Hunter."
Timothy Treadwell did not achieve international fame until he was anthologized in Warner Herzog's documentary Grizzly Man although, he was infamous with Alaskan locals and conservationists in general who disagreed with his unorthodox approach to bear conservation and study. Treadwell's mission to the grizzlies was threefold. He professed to protect their habitat, to end illegal poaching, and to stop the practice of legal grizzly bear hunting. He maintained that the safest bear is the habituated bear, the one on comfortable terms with humans, and aspired to the more general goal of debunking the theory that bears were fearful creatures. As Treadwell said of his summers in Alaska, "I came, I saved, I protected, and I studied."
While Treadwell's brand of conservation is dubious at best, his bubbly enthusiasm is incontrovertible, particularly in Herzog's film. Upon finding a pile of excrement in Grizzly Man, Treadwell blurted, "Oh my gosh! The bear, Miss Chocolate, has left me her poop! It's her crap! It was just in her butt and it's still warm! This is a gift from Miss Chocolate!" One summer, during a dry spell, Treadwell shook an ineffectual fist at the sky, pleading, "Let's have some water! Jesus boy! Let's have some water! Christ man or Allah or Hindu floaty thing! Let's have some fucking water for these animals!" Perhaps Treadwell explained his position most aptly when he exclaimed, "I'm in love with my animal friends. I'm in love with my animal friends! In love with my animal friends. I'm very, very troubled."
Treadwell lived in the Alaskan panhandle for thirteen summers before being eaten by a grizzly. According to Treadwell's biographer, Nick Jans, "Most Alaskans thought it was a simple and short story that starts and ends like this: The doofus dies." Given the known danger of fraternization with grizzlies (namely, mauling), Treadwell's thirteen-summer record is impressive. An official explains Treadwell's success on the theory that "the bears probably thought he was mentally retarded." Treadwell's unique mode of self-preservation, recounted by Leslie Shwartz of the Los Angeles Times, supports the official's theory: "singing is the only weapon Treadwell uses to placate a bear that exhibits any of the 21 basic warning signs of danger-signs Treadwell has carefully memorized. In one close call, a young male approached him with his fur raised up in angry points on his back, snarling. But Treadwell managed to pacify the animal by singing a rhyme he made up on the spot." Because Treadwell stopped short of wrestling the bears, he might be construed as a less harmful version of Irwin. But, despite Treadwell's gushing affection for the animals (who he dubbed, among other nicknames, Booble and Cupcake), at times he echoes Irwin in assigning himself dominion over the bears, saying, "I will die for them but I will not die at their paws and claws, I will be master." Treadwell defied his own purported mission of treating animals with loving-kindness when he lost his cool chasing after a fox friend who took his hat: "If that hat's in the den, I'm gonna fuckin' explode."
James Croot, a reviewer of Grizzly Man, reports that "locals believed he was crossing a line, while wildlife experts expressed concerns that he was taking away the bears' natural fear of humans." Leslie Shwartz echoed Croot's criticism of Treadwell, adding that "aversion may help humans and large carnivores coexist. For though the number of attacks might be relatively small, wildlife experts say there are bound to be more of them as carnivore populations expand due to conservation efforts, human communities grow and displace animal habitats, and ecotourism increases in popularity." Treadwell was, in effect, offering bears a seat at the cool table in the cafeteria of evolution.
It's a conservationist rule of thumb that conservationists cannot just walk into the bush and start grabbing animals. "There are guidelines to follow, certificates to earn showing expertise in handling live creatures, referees to satisfy and, out in the field, a whole series of ethical questions to face. Did you handle more animals than you needed to? Did you even need to handle animals at all to get the information?" says Michael Clugston of Canadian Geographic. According to Clugston, sloppy conservationism not only risks harm to animals but to the data as well: "There's no point in studying behavior rendered unnatural by a too heavy radio collar, a lingering sedative, a muscle pull from rough handling, or death from the paralyzing terror of too slow or clumsy handling. Not only is there no point, but it's unethical: an animal has suffered or died for nothing." Norma Kassi, public voice for indigenous peoples' advocacy group First Nations and former member of the Yukon Legislature, agrees with Clugston, adding, "Once they're touched by humans, they act different. They change their psychology; their behavior changes. They don't have that wildness about them." Treadwell's tendency to poo-poo the guideline of a healthy distance also put humans in danger; in habituating the bears to humans, he softened the wall of fear that ordinarily discourages both species from up-close interaction. Set against the backdrop of conservationist guidelines, Irwin and Treadwell's work fades into the murky waters of amateurism or, worse, showmanship.
Animal rights organizations, conservationists, and intellectuals have questioned the ethics of Irwin and Treadwell's approach to conservation. The T.V. show "The Crocodile Hunter" showcased Irwin invading the crocodiles' habitat and jumping on their backs. Other programs found Irwin ferreting poisonous snakes out of holes and brandishing them while talking about their diets and character (hence, the educational component). But is relating facts about snakes or alligators enough of a pedagogic boon to justify the rough treatment of the animals in question? Irwin defended his position by emphasizing the merits of flashy conservationism: "I'm a firm believer that in this day and age, to touch millions of people with a conservation message, you can't sit around and dictate...put on the lecturer's shirt and lecture people. You gotta entertain. That's where we're at." Still, if audiences are learning about snakes and crocs from a guy that calls himself a hunter and visibly frightens animals by invading their habitat and wrestling with them, the message they're getting is that it's cool and lucrative to harangue animals. What's valuable about that?
Well, as long as you don't think too much about the crocodile or snake's mishandling, watching Irwin look into the eye of death and yell "Crikey!" is pure, morbid entertainment. But US-based People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) and Aussie expat intellectual Germaine Greer don't approve of Irwin's tactics and have taken him to task for it, both in his life and in his death. PETA offers judgment on its website that "Any positive message is lost when the presenter exploits and harasses the very animals who are meant to be protected" and criticizes the potentially harmful ramifications. "Hauling animals to television studios or ambushing an alligator with ropes, duct tapes, and a camera crew compels people to approach wild animals themselves or, even worse, purchase one to keep as a pet, thereby fuelling the cruel exotic animal trade." PETA caps its argument by slicing through the colorful diversion of Irwin's shows and questioning whether the core values of conservationism are upheld, asking, "Does the public really need to see someone dragging a frightened snake out of a hole and flailing the animal around on a stick in order to realize how important and morally imperative it is to respect and protect that animal?"
Germain Greer, feminist intellectual, agrees with PETA and metes out harsh criticism for Irwin, explaining, "What Irwin never seemed to understand was that animals need space. The one lesson any conservationist must labor to drive home is that habitat loss is the principal cause of species loss. There was no habitat, no matter how fragile or finely balanced, that Irwin hesitated to barge into, trumpeting his wonder and amazement to the skies." In addition to encroaching on the habitat of the animal, Greer counts Irwin's mistreatment of animals as another of his transgressions, stressing that "There was not an animal he was not prepared to manhandle. Every creature he brandished at the camera was in distress. Every snake badgered by Irwin was at a huge disadvantage, with only a single possible reaction to its terrifying situation, which was to strike."
Irwin and and Treadwell's supposed role was to protect and champion; instead, they were killed. Death by animal is gruesome enough when normal people are involved, but when die-hard conservationists are taken out, insult is added to injury. The thunderous irony of Irwin and Treadwell's manner of dying nearly eclipses the twofold tragedy of the event. First, of course, is that they died. The second is that these self-appointed legends endangered the species they were consecrated to protect, obliterating not only the their own guidelines but the guidelines of conservationism along the way.
// JEN SPYRA is a senior English major at the College. Barnard College, that is.