On the U.S. Forest Service’s centennial celebration website, the agency asks citizens to join in “reflecting on the organization’s proud history and traditions and exploring ways to move into a new century of ‘caring for the land and serving people.’”

This issue of Forest Magazine applauds one of those traditions: the right to free speech in the workplace. It’s not always easy to voice dissent in a bureaucratic organization, but from its inception, the Forest Service has been composed of individuals willing to speak out to safeguard the agency’s mission “to sustain healthy, diverse and productive forests and grasslands for present and future generations.”

The problem is that in the past hundred years, not everyone has agreed on just what constitutes sustainable land management. In the early days, the term “whistleblower” may not have been common in the Forest Service, but foresters trained in the new discipline of forestry science knew they had to defend their views if they wanted to shape the agency in accordance with its lofty mission.

Consider Gifford Pinchot. The first chief of the Forest Service did not hesitate to speak up for what he believed to be best for the agency, from on-the-ground land management decisions to the dangers of corporate influence—even when it meant being fired for insubordination after he exposed corruption in the Taft administration over fraudulent Alaskan coal leases. Today, Pinchot is hailed as the father of modern forestry.

Other early foresters faced similar obstacles. Bob Marshall argued vehemently against the destructive forestry practices of the timber industry, despite the political furor that ensued. Raphael Zon lost a coveted promotion after he lobbied strenuously for the inclusion of scientific research in land management decisions. Aldo Leopold’s frustration with the Forest Service’s refusal to look at natural regeneration of forests led to his early resignation from his dream job (page 24).

For these foresters, dissent was part of the job, the bedrock of their conservation ethic. Conservation continued to be a concern as the agency matured, but in the heady post-war years, the need for timber effectively obscured conservation goals.

In the 1970s, public scrutiny and new environmental laws dragged the agency into a new era. Leopold’s land ethic was back in vogue and scientists who had been hired to comply with the new laws found themselves confronting more traditional foresters over conservation issues.

In 1989, the Association of Forest Service Employees for Environmental Ethics—now FSEEE—was formed in response to the needs of agency employees who were penalized for exercising their right to free speech. Jeff DeBonis, AFSEEE’s founder, envisioned a day when there would be no need for an organization like FSEEE, predicting that it would outlive its usefulness in ten years. Rich Fairbanks, a forester on the Siskiyou National Forest, knows it hasn’t and offers the perspective that there will be a continuing need for whistleblowers unless radical change occurs in the agency. Dave Iverson, a founding FSEEE board member, agrees and reflects on the need for whistleblowing into the future.

History has treated the early whistleblowers kindly. Pinchot and Marshall have forests named after them. The Arthur Carhart National Wilderness Training Center in Colorado is named after the first landscape architect, who left the Forest Service in frustration after only three years (see “Ahead of His Time,” Summer 2004).

These early foresters who were not afraid to stand up and speak their minds about the agency that was so dear to them are legends. But speak to some modern-day whistleblowers and they might tell you that the prospect of being a hero years after your death does little to feed a family. Some of their stories are here, too, offering a look at employees who are brave enough to stand up for their beliefs and follow in the footsteps of the pioneers of responsible forestry.