Rebranding the Wild

The thing that really struck me from this weekend's reading can be summed up in the first line of Paul Schneider's account of the Adirondacks: "In a sense this book is a romance, a story of first love between Americans and a thing they call wilderness" (Schneider, xi).

I think something can be said for the unfailing romanticization of the Adirondack Park, or wilderness in general--because that kind of "wilderness as the ultimate good" rhetoric seems to be a staple of environmental writing (well, the hopeful kinds anyway) (McKibben, 77). At its core, deified language like this acts essentially as a means of branding. In much the same way that Panera brands itself as a healthy fast-food-esque option, national and state parks like the Adirondacks are marketed as the best that nature has to offer, a place not just where people can go to birdwatch or soak in the sunrise, but where they can hear "the pulsating hum of insect warble r[ise] and f[all] in murmuring waves" (McKibben, 65). From these words, McKibben has already transplanted his audience into that "wilderness," painting an idealized (though by no means inaccurate) picture of those woods so as to give the reader a connection to that place, a reason to care about it, and then, hopefully, the drive to protect it. That's the romanticism of environmental writing at work.

I think it's important to note here that I'm all for what McKibben, and to some extent Schneider, is trying to do: by portraying the wild as this picturesque entity worthy of being preserved, he (hopefully) rallies up support for a more sustainable co-habitation of this planet. What's sad about this  tactic, however, is the idea that we have to sell the "saving the planet" mindset to people--we have to market the "3 R's of Sustainability" (reduce, reuse, recycle!) and advertise nature's glory; we have to define "the wilderness" as this remote, immaculate, natural archetype in order to get people to pay attention to its disappearance. The problem with this, I think, is that, as McKibben puts it himself: "when you walk through wilderness, you walk through an idea" (McKibben, 96). The "wilderness," as advertised, becomes this idealized, abstract concept constrained to far removed portions of Alaska where the general public isn't apt to venture.

I think a more fruitful endeavor might be a re-branding of "wilderness" as the ground under our feet. Humans are just as much a part of "the wilderness" as the trees or the bugs or the acid rain that our overzealous use of nitrate-containing laundry detergent has caused. While the land we live on may no longer be truly "wild" by McKibben's standards, human inhabited land represents a different kind of wilderness. It represents a biological wilderness because it is a life-supporting network of more living things than we can imagine; it is an economical wilderness because we humans are indebted to this land for shelter and food and life; it is an untamed wilderness because we do not yet know the full extent of human impact on its soil; but most of all, it is a wilderness with an attached, and very tangible, feeling of place. This kind of wilderness brings to the conversation a sense of responsibility and ecological servitude because the wilderness in our backyards is not idealized or exalted, but real and close and present--and that reality, I think, hits a little closer to home.

Ultimately, becoming a part of this new wilderness continues Schneider's book of romance--and finding a sustainable balance in this new landscape truly will be a labor of love.

High Peaks, For You and Me?

The Adirondacks, as is 'wilderness' in general, is frequently being shown in a constant state of peril from industries, global climate change, and other factors.  The way to generate interest in the preservation of the area comes primarily, from my understanding, of writers and passionate people within the Adirondacks who write about their experiences in the park.  However, there is a particular downside to this attention, specifically when the point of the park is being a relatively untainted and wild place runs in conflict with the mass of tourists.  Thus, a tension rises out of publicity/interest vs. preservation, two things the park cannot survive without.

The part where this tension became emphasized to me was the part of Wandering Home involving the High Peaks.  Bill explains, when commenting on how popular the High Peaks challenge is, "In fact, as is often the case, describing something turns it into a magnet." (106) And thus, from Bob Marshall's initial experiences climbing the post 4000 ft. peaks and the publications about that event, Americans had a prerogative to visit the Adirondacks and embark on the challenge.

Bill follows this up, however, with commentary concerning the impact that this increased traffic has had, and how there are attempts at necessitating permits to limit the amount of people attempting to hike the peaks to preserve the area.  He then follows it up with a story about a bunch of tourist types who were using walkie-talkies loudly within a 40 ft. distance.  Throughout the book he maintains a pretty condescending tone about many people who he feels do not belong in the Adirondacks.  (He then proceeds to fall several feet down the cliff, but he has an appreciation for the Adirondacks, so he is spared his own judgement.)  This sort of elitist sentiment is echoed all over. (See http://alloveralbany.com/archive/2012/08/06/how-to-hike-the-high-peaks----and-not-be-that-guy for the quintessential target of those-who-do-not-belong, "that guy".)

This asks the question, who does belong in the Adirondacks?  What reason do urban-centric people (who far outnumber Adirondacks residents in number, economic, and political power) have to care about this unique region if they are not allowed access to it, to recreate the adventure and experiences they have only read about?  The High Peaks are the most accessible points of entry for Hamilton students in particular, who wish to embark on the HOC challenge every year.  Sharing the Adirondacks is a vital part of keeping interest and maintaining allies for the area.

Home is where the heart is

Bill McKibben owns two houses, but only has one home. His home is vast and wild and largely the property of others. His home is a swath of land that stretches from the edge of Vermont and deep into the Adirondacks. It is scattered through the High Peeks and in the gilded waters of Lake Champlain... it meanders through Middlebury, bounces down rapids and lurks in Stony, Muddy, and Round ponds. If home is where the heart is, McKibben's heart is an eclectic one, a breathtaking scruff of land that is both mysterious and tenacious, with crevices that hide rich histories and an astounding capacity for love.

McKibben's vivid account of Wandering Home is an optimistic one, a tale of gentle woodsfolk and old communities. It seems that, to him, home is the wilderness, and the wilderness is (perhaps by definition) unowned. It is No Man's Land--uninhabited... by humans. McKibben loves the Adirondacks for what they are: America's largest "inhabited wilderness." And yet as much as he enjoys inhabiting these woods, the "inhabited" identifier gives him pause.

Bill McKibben has fallen so hard for these woods that he battles endlessly between an urge to share his passion, and a compulsion to protect his woods from others--not only from loggers and pollution, but also from wealthy city dwellers who couldn't possibly understand the true mystique of the Adirondacks. McKibben loathes the big houses sitting sentinel on lakes; the rumble of a jet ski from across the water and the sound of a plane touching down just a little too close to his cottage. He resents those large vacation settlements because they call dibs on the land, they keep it away from the public. They whittle the number of denizens down to a minority, not a majority. If only he could control those who access the land; if only he could brush away the swanky resorts and summer homes; erase those symbols of hyper individualism and leave nothing but pure, rustic wild, pocked only by communities brimming with hippies and environmental vigilantes.

McKibben wrote that "One of the reasons for wild places is so other people can fall in love with them--because surely there are others wired like me, for whom this landscape will be enough" (136). Most of us have felt that immense relief that overtakes us when we step into the wilderness. We become a part of something bigger, something more innate... "natural," maybe. And therefore, to delineate public and private property in such a place only mars its vast and welcoming appeal.

It is worth lamenting the takeover of wealthy vacationers, but maybe McKibben doesn't give his city neighbors enough credit. They feel it too, whatever "it" is. They feel the way McKibben's friend, Chris Shaw feels, when "'all of the features click, fall into place... when that happens all at once it's like seeing your own name by accident in print, or catching sight of your hand writing on a piece of paper where you didn't expect to see it. That's a very powerful feeling of identity'" (116).

Those city dwellers identify with the wilderness, too. They express their adoration in different ways--they build big mansions and stay in fancy hotels. They might only climb the High Peaks; ignorant to the beauty of those under 4,000 feet. And they might never see the sun sink below Lake Champlain, the world rimmed by rainbows in a perfect, fleeting moment. But they have their own memories and there is space for them in the Adirondacks, too.

The wilderness is wild because it does not discriminate for better, or for worse. The wilderness is home because we all identify with it, and it doesn't matter whether we own two houses, or five, or nothing at all.

We touched upon the hypocritical nature of McKibben on Wednesday, which has inevitably caused me to incessantly watch out for this trend throughout the book. One interesting idea that branches off of this hypocritical notion appears when Warren comments on the "Mocha" color of creek water. He asks if the "mocha color" is "right" (McKibben 68), because the color comes from carp, which are a foreign species introduced to that area. Warren's question draws attention to another question I've been trying to formulate. The question is "How much pure wilderness are we actually trying to protect, and is that protection actually different than cutting down trees or introducing new species into these areas?"

For example, McKibben makes claims about ways to fix the area and help stop interrupting nature, yet isn't the very intervening in the wild, even if it's well intended, intervening nevertheless? The field trip we are going on in a few weeks is to learn about the Adirondack Park and become more educated and appreciative members of society who will hopefully spread awareness about the Park and join McKibben in the struggle to save the Park. Yet, during that field trip, we will encroach upon nature, use indoor plumbing that contain pipes that cut through the Adirondack soil, and maybe even have a bonfire that will release carbon emissions into the air. Our activity there isn't that much different than cutting down a tree or releasing a new species into the region. 

It's a tough question because we want to help preserve the natural state of the wild, but at the end of the day it might not be any different than negatively encroaching upon the wild.

Adirondacks or Bust

I don’t have an ADK story to tell, nor have I ever been. So here I’d like to offer the perspective most opposite the wilderness lifestyle. One of the arguments that McKibben likes to make is the case for the wilderness of the Adirondacks over the safe, cookie-cutter lifestyle of New England towns. McKibben is almost disdainful of the towns with their white churches, self-governance, their cobblestone roads, and uniform-colored wood.

But McKibben has no base to denounce this lifestyle when all he knows and all he breathes is the wilderness. The way I see it, living in a stereotypical New England town is safe and happily void of surprises. Folks know to expect the same everyday. They can wake up and be assured that they’ll make it to work on time and make it home for dinner.

The wilderness, on the other hand, is quintessentially wild and unpredictable. McKibben says the Adirondacks are higher, colder, wilder – a challenge just to make it through to the end of the day. Yet the Adirondacks are full of surprises, both good and bad. McKibben’s opening anecdote is a great example, how he spent 10 hours walking in circles, trudging through the same thickets to look for his starting spot. But he knew that if he put his faith in the mountains, they would reward him. The day turned from one of his worst to the best of his life after he decided to go out for 20 more minutes. 

It’s not fair for McKibben to say the Adirondacks are better. They’re just not for everyone, and thankfully so.

The Sound of Silence

Bill McKibben vividly describes many beautiful aspects of the Adirondack park over the course of his trek back home. One moment in particular that really struck a chord with me was when he comments on the "noisy kind of silence" (65) he experiences. His grand description of this "pulsating hum" (65) sent me back to a moment of unspeakable beauty I experienced while leading an Adirondack Adventure trip in the Dix range last summer.  The group was above tree line taking an afternoon nap on a smooth and perfectly slanted rock face and I was building a small cairn. For some wonderful reason no black flies buzzed about my head and the trails had been nearly deserted all day. The only sound I could hear was the wind rushing through the trees as it whipped through the range. But, contrary to McKibben's assertion that this very biological and geological sound "never subside[s]" (65), the gusting wind stopped for what must have been fifteen seconds. The rustling of the leaves faded and eventually disappeared, leaving me in the most silent moment I have ever experienced. But even in this very isolated and natural setting this silence ended. This rare moment continues to represent one of my favorite aspects of being the "wilderness". It provides an escape from the constant bombardment and overstimulation that I, like so many others, experience on a day to day basis. I personally value the uninterrupted reflection silence can allow and I, like McKibben, believe that the interruption of this sensory immersion by ATVs and Jet Skis destroys such an integral part of the setting. McKibben connects this type of interruption back to the underlying hyper individualism in our culture and I too believe that it reflects a certain lack of awareness and consideration of how your actions affect others around you.  Most of my experiences in the Adirondacks have been relatively isolated hiking trips. I would be curious to discuss others' experiences with noise pollution of any kind on lakes or trails. I am also curious if anyone else can think of the most silent moment they have experienced.

Protect, but Adapt.

Throughout the book Wandering Home, McKibben presents us with many different ways that his friends and colleagues, specifically those he shares some of his walk with, are attempting to conserve the wilderness; whatever that may mean to them. He tells us about small scale, local farmers, as well as a friend of his, John Davis, who works at an organization called the Foundation for Deep Ecology, which essentially promotes "wildlands philanthropy,"(100)* in which wealthy people buy up big areas of land in order to preserve them. He also relates information about Howard Zahniser, a man who drafts the federal wilderness statute, which protects millions of acres but keeping them free from all human intrusion aside from "wandering around on your own two feet." (118) Many agree with this opinion that the Adirondack park, and other similar territories, should be kept, "forever wild," and though I don't disagree, I don't think it is entirely practical. Keeping humans out of some areas of wilderness is possible, but putting a large focus on this goal will not solve all of our worldly problems. Instead, we need to be more like John Davis and his colleague Tom Butler as we attempt to protect the environment, "and yet adapt a little to the world around [us]." (84-85) Inevitably, humans will inhabit the wilderness in some capacity, so finding away to coexist with the environment, instead of alienating ourselves from it, is the only way to sustain both our existence and the environment's. As of now, as William Cronon, an environmental historian says, we have no large-scale example of successful coexistence between humans and the environment and "little hope of discovering what an ethical, sustainable, honorably human place in nature might actually look like." (97) Now that many laws regarding the protection of the 'wilderness' have been put it place, focus should be shifted to the inhabited wilderness, and attempt to teach humans how to live sustainably and harmoniously with their environment.

*I'm reading an e-book version of Wandering Home, so the page numbers probably won't match up with the print copy.