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Popularized by scientists in the 1970s, adaptive management is an integrative, multi-disciplinary approach to managing landscapes and natural resources. Despite its broad appeal many critics complain that adaptive management rarely works in practice as prescribed in theory. This chapter traces the history and evolution of the concept and assess its implementation challenges. One reason adaptive management has not always delivered on its promise to make natural resource management more “rational” is that in the real world of policymaking scientists and natural resource managers must contend with advocates that have conflicting values and goals. Scientists and managers also operate in the context of institutions that create particular constraints and opportunities, and are generally inflexible and resistant to change. In recognition of these sociopolitical realities, the focus of much adaptive management practice and scholarship has shifted to governance, particularly collaboration with stakeholders, transformation of the institutions responsible for management, and the process of social learning.

In early July 1941, Aldo Leopold flew to the Delta Waterfowl Station in Manitoba, Canada, where he conferred with his former student and station director, Albert Hochbaum. Leopold and Hochbaum had for some time spoken informally about working together on a book of essays. Leopold was to provide the text, Hochbaum the drawings. By August 1941, plans for the book had become more definite, though the two men set no firm schedule. That fall, Leopold began crafting the first essays, drawing from his Shack experiences. In February 1947, Hochbaum withdrew from the project because of his responsibilities at the Delta Waterfowl Station. Philip Vaudrin, a trade editor at Oxford University Press, wrote to Leopold expressing interest in publishing his book. But just after Leopold and Vaudrin reached their publication agreement, Leopold died on April 21, 1948. From its original title Great Possessions, Leopold's book was finally published in the fall of 1949 as A Sand County Almanac.

Ducks, shorebirds, rails, gulls and other waterbirds act as vectors of seeds, spores and other plant diaspores carried internally in their guts, externally on their feathers, feet or bills, or used as nesting material. Darwin was the first to understand the significance of dispersal by migratory waterbirds in plant evolution, biogeography and ecology. Countless aquatic and terrestrial plants are dependent on dispersal by waterbirds for long-distance dispersal, and this has probably been the case since the Cretaceous. However, plant ecologists and waterfowl biologists alike have been slow to recognize the importance of this dispersal mode as an ecosystem service. Seed dispersal by waterbirds plays a vital role in plant population dynamics, population genetics and changes in species distributions in response to habitat change and climate warming. On the other hand, waterbirds also spread alien species, and their role as vectors should be taken into account when considering how to prevent and manage biological invasions.

Since the nineteenth century, much of Suisun Marsh has been managed for waterfowl hunting. The marsh supports among the highest densities of breeding ducks in the world. Ducks banded in the marsh are recovered throughout the Pacific Flyway and North America. The marsh annually hosts over 60,000 wintering waterfowl, but current waterfowl abundance is below the population objective of 300,000 wintering ducks and well below the nearly 370,000 waterfowl that wintered there historically. Long-term population trends for dabbling ducks and geese are declining, diving ducks and swans are stable, and sea ducks are slightly increasing. Maintaining the present diversity and abundance of waterfowl in the face of increasing salinities likely will depend on wetland management for high-yielding seed plants.

This book began with an anecdote, my encounter with an eight-year-old with hundreds of living sand dollars. While I knew what I wanted the little girl to do—I wanted her to put most of the living sand dollars back in the lagoon—I felt in a quandary when I tried to explain why she should do so. I had no objection if the little girl took a couple home, to watch them in her aquarium or even to dissect them to learn their structure. But the family’s actions showed no respect for life or living systems. I wanted to make a moral point not expressible in the language of economics. I hesitated to introduce, however, without serious qualifications, the moral language of rights. Rights have an individualistic ring about them; if sand dollars have rights, then surely the family should put them all back. One language said too little, the other said too much. This original intuition, that the environmentalists’ dilemma is mainly a dilemma of values and explanations, more than preferred actions, has been borne out by the considerations of the second part of this book. An examination of major areas of environmental policy has reinforced the hypothesis that a consensus on the broad outlines of an intelligent policy is emerging among environmentalists, even though there remain significant value differences that affect the explanations and justifications they offer for basically equivalent policies. Environmentalists of different stripes, as far back as the days of Pinchot and Muir, have often set aside their differences to work for common goals. But those traditional cooperations were, it seemed, almost accidental collaborations originating in temporary political expediency. My hypothesis about the current environmental scene asserts a more than accidental growth in cooperation: In spite of occasional rancorous disputes, the original factions of environmentalism are being forced together, regardless of their value commitments. For example, a growing sense of urgency led soil conservationists and preservationist groups to work together to pass the 1985 Farm Bill, even though they suffered some ill feelings along the way. Similarly, the National Wildlife Federation, a collection of sportsmen’s organizations, and Defenders of Wildlife advocate similar wetlands protection policies.

English is a subtle language with many words that offer fine shades of meaning, but it also can be blunt and unequivocal. Dictionaries were not made for words such as hairdo, ballpark, or pigpen. The law, however, as practiced by Americans, can mutate the meaning of even the humblest word. If the law concerns itself with pigpens, then we must know whether a pigpen still exists when the pigs are removed and, if so, for how long. We must know if a pen originally built for cattle can become a pigpen if occupied by pigs and if pigpens are the same in all parts of the nation. In short, we must have federal guidance, regional interpretations, legal specialists, and technical authorities on pigpens. So it is with wetlands. The chapters of this book will show how troublesome the definition of wetlands has become since the federal government began regulating them. In the meantime, it will suffice to define wetlands informally as those portions of a landscape that are not permanently inundated under deep water, but are still too wet most years to be used for the cultivation of upland crops such as corn or soybeans. Wetlands, in other words, coincide pretty well with the common conception of swamps, marshes, and bogs. Government has had its hand in wetlands for about 150 years. Between the 1850s and 1970s, the federal government was intent on eliminating wetlands. Since then, it has been equally intent on preserving them. An individual who behaved in this manner would seem at least irresponsible. Many critics of federal wetland policy have in fact given the government a sound thrashing for its inconsistency, but the shift from elimination to protection of wetlands has continued nevertheless. Blaming government is the duty of a free people, and also good sport. Even so, the obvious truth about wetland regulation is that government has merely reflected a change in public attitude toward wetlands. Most Americans now believe that wetlands should be saved throughout the nation, except possibly on their own property. Americans did not always feel this way. Most European colonists of North America came from homelands that were essentially tame.