From World in Their Hands

Steve

Here’s Your World, Don’t Screw it Up

Perhaps the term “thinkers” conjures images of someone ensconced in a mahogany-paneled library, sitting in an old, musty highback chair with pipe and journal in hand. That may indeed be the case in some walks of life but mulling things over also extends beyond walls. Climb to the summit of a storied peak, wander quiet woods in a neighborhood park, stretch out in a flowery meadow—it is here and places like it all o’er the land where everyday folks can reflect on life around them. I’m as “everyday” as they come; not a scholar, scientist, or extraordinarily cerebral but not a day goes by where the outdoors around me, my Out There, doesn’t infuse my soul with some kind of moment.

Deep thinkers Henry David Thoreau and Aldo Leopold penned their ideas in Walden and A Sand County Almanac and those titles are ubiquitous in educational settings across the country. Their musings reach to the heart of any wanderlust soul or backpacker today worth their weight in sporks and moleskin. 

Echoing Leopold’s opinion that we aren’t in charge of nature nor should we aspire to be, Edward Abbey spouted off (rightly so) with a take-no-bullshit attitude about conservation in the desert Southwest and indeed all over the world and told us straight up in his writing that our environment is in trouble. He was a doer to the core and his work belongs on the same literal and figurative shelf as Thoreau, Leopold and John Muir. Recent years have seen a resurgence of respect for his Carson-esque views that just because we have the power to “manage” the world doesn’t give us the right to do so. From Down the River:

It is not enough to understand the natural world; the point is to preserve it. Let Being be.

The beauty and existence of the natural world should be sufficient justification in itself for saving it all.

Well said, Ed. Abbey (who pushed and occasionally crossed legal boundaries, but who’s counting) was part of a group who geared up and went out there to study, learn, record, report, and otherwise inspire the rest of the world. Muir is widely hailed as the most legendary of doers, roaming all over championing for conservation and preservation. Leopold, Sigurd Olson, Marshall and friends joined forces and inspired the Wilderness Act, paperwork which we all hold dear every time we walk into our favorite wilderness area. Will Steger vigorously explored the farthest reaches of poles driving teams of dogsleds to show us riveting, extraordinarily beautiful, fragile, and disappearing places. 

…And how about Martin Litton? The legendary Grand Canyon river runner’s name is largely unknown to the general public, but Litton’s uncompromising efforts were pivotal in protecting the Grand from a pair of enormous dams that would have wreaked all manner of travesty on one of Earth’s most treasured natural wonders. 

“I never felt it did any good to be reasonable about anything in conservation, because what you give away will never come back—ever.”

The rest of the cast of characters left their own unique mark on the natural world around us and it is through their work we continue, as best we can, to maintain some semblance of cohesion and partnership with the place in which we live. It’s a mess out there but it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. Procrastinating, ignorance, and dominance are no longer options if we hope to stem the tide. 

We are at a tipping point, well past it in many areas, and it is long past time to cease taking so much. Nothing else matters if we don’t have a home. But a few ticks of time remain, perhaps, for a renascence, for the world to breathe a little, if we just lend a hand. 

Thinkers

One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.

—Aldo Leopold

…When all was said and done, did those endless hours of thinking have an impact in the grand scheme? In a word, yes, and the results came to us in stages. In their time, the names in this book at the very least gave the rest of America pause, to take a moment and think about the significance of the natural world. Today we appreciate their work in the form of revered quotes, legendary tomes on various states of our natural world, and efforts that forever changed the physical and visceral landscape. Indeed, the very fact we are reading about them here and in dozens of other books is testament enough but it goes far beyond ink on pages.

Their influence holds a collective concern and attachment to this place that gives us life, from terra firma to skies above. He doesn’t appear in this book but consider this rumination from Shakespeare:

And this, our life exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.

One touch of Nature. The power in that one touch is beyond any manner of superlatives but it is there in all of us. I was fortunate to grow up on the veranda of forests and lakes and a who’s who of wild critters, but even a child of the city at some point feels the shade of a leafy tree or sees a bird land among its branches. From there it’s all what we make of it but regardless of frequency or whereabouts of interactions, Nature is with us all the while.

Their words hold wisdom and promise—we just need to listen.

Edward Abbey

The love of wilderness is more than a hunger for what is always beyond reach; it is also an expression of loyalty to the earth, the earth which bore us and sustains us, the only paradise we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need, if only we had the eyes to see.

An empty Budweiser can (or Schlitz—probably both) sailed out the car window, fermenting the turbulent air for an instant, performed a couple terribly executed pirouettes and tinked on the cracked pavement like an out of tune xylophone, finally rolling to a stop next to a stubby mesquite bush. A blight on the highway? Not according to Ed. “Littering the public highway? Of course I litter the public highway. Every chance I get. After all, it’s not the beer cans that are ugly; it’s the highway that is ugly.”

Edward Abbey didn’t like highways (but contradicted that sentiment by driving on them, as little as possible if he could help it) and was quick to point out that paved roads are essentially blackened tongues of destruction.

He knew lots of vehicles contained lots of people, a death knell to wilderness and solitude, both with which he was hopelessly enamored and protective against ill treatment. 

The new road opened the floodgates; visitors poured into Arches (visitor numbers at Arches today top 1.5 million) and scores of other previously peaceful lands in the West, obliterating what Abbey held closest to heart. His outpost and its solitude are long gone, with similar stories evolving all over the country. Abbey freely shared his opinion on this disturbing trend: “We have agreed not to drive our automobiles into cathedrals, concert halls, art museums, legislative assemblies, private bedrooms and the other sanctums of our culture; we should treat our national parks with the same deference, for they, too, are holy places.    …we are learning finally that the forests and mountains and desert canyons are holier than our churches. Therefore, let us behave accordingly.”

-Excerpts from the intro of my Nat Geo camping guide:

Even as a kid beguiled (and perfectly content) to climb into the wizened disorder of oak trees and explore nooks and crannies of the great big world, I knew there was more to it. I reveled in the visceral benefits of being outside.

((later section))

Examine the environment/climate footprint of all your outdoors stuff and travel and in the end, you are leaving a trace. Of course, it’s rosy vision to believe we can recreate without doing some form of damage to the flora and fauna around us— our very presence out there negates the “wild” from wilderness.  And “wild” doesn’t have to mean the middle of the Yukon. Your home state’s public lands, local parks or neighborhood open spaces are all part of this great big outdoors world in which we live and while astonishingly resilient, can only handle so much without some care and breathing room once in a while.

One nurturing path to give nature some love is recognizing the importance of culture and community. Indigenous peoples, for example, have lived (and still do) in harmony with the natural world for millennia, borrowing from it, learning, nurturing, and weaving its characteristics into everyday life. Cultural practices and beliefs evolve from there and circle back to impact, in good ways and bad, a vibrant and giving environment. In short, visible and visceral nature we know and love is a reflection of our behaviors, which haven’t exactly been upstanding of late. But we can still live in a circular, pay it forward way with a generous helping of knowledge that fuels, if not determined action, a conduit of behavioral and lifestyle changes to shape a thriving world.

The Camping Life

Sitting in one of those little plastic chairs in sixth-grade math class deciphering hieroglyphics multiplication tables, I was sure there couldn’t be a worse fate. I sweated it out like an interrogated suspect under a hot light in a grimy basement. Just as I was about to confess (I swear I meant to carry the 1!), the teacher untied my numbers-tangled shackles with the announcement of an all-school camping day.

The hallelujah chorus rang through my head and I immediately shifted gears to expedition leader. With already-packed annals of backyard adventures, valiant exploring, and family camping trips, I fancied myself quite the outdoor expert. In a matter of days I’d be released from educational confinement to lead my classmates into the wilderness like Davy Crockett. No matter that our “wilderness” was the open field across the street from school—I would soon ditch vexing math problems and become King of the Wild Frontier.

And I had the gear to make it happen, especially one critical piece: lodging. My family still owned, and used, an enormous Coleman tent; a relic from the 60s with nose-wrinkling mildew aroma and original green color long faded. Folded for stowage, the thing was two feet thick if it was an inch and no lightweight. We used to plunk its girth into the trunk of the Olds for extra traction in winter. And it was huge, with drop-down interior “walls” separating the main hall from adjoining antechambers. Lavish digs to be sure—hey mom, can we sleep in the east wing tonight?

School camping day was a huge success. Most of my classmates slumbered in the big Coleman and thanks to my Swiss Army knife, we executed a critical field repair to the Bunsen burner in time to whip up some kind of noodly delight. We certainly weren’t worried about surviving the night but it was a real-time lesson that even at is most casual, the outdoors goes better with the right gear and savvy to use it.