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[pct-l] an essay on trail use and wilderness ethics
- Subject: [pct-l] an essay on trail use and wilderness ethics
- From: blisterfree at isp01.net (Brett)
- Date: Fri Dec 3 15:32:01 2004
Several years ago I submitted the following article for use
in the PCTA Communicator. Of course they didn't print it,
but that's okay since it gives me an excuse to throw it
around again and again like it's still fresh. In any case,
it isn't intended to flame the other trail users, legal or
otherwise. Mostly it's just an observation of "the things
that are" (or a slice of it) from the perspective of a long
distance hiker. One who used to mountain bike, (but never on
the PCT!) and who admittedly has never ridden pack stock...
or worked for the feds!
"With Liberty, or Justice, for All"
Brett Tucker
Emerging from the woods at a dirt road crossing cryptically
dubbed "The A Tree," I wandered around fruitlessly for a
moment, there at the southern boundary of Plumas National
Forest, California, USA. The northward resumption of PCT
tread was, per usual, cryptic in its own right.
Nevertheless, I had at last determined to veer eastbound
along the road, and was proceeding on blind faith, when
suddenly I was certain I heard a choir, away in the distance
singing to me, and off key at that. My guardian angels?
At first I ignored them, those voices of higher authority
and several men in pine or khaki colored suits back at The
Tree. But upon deciphering the shrill and pious mantra,
("Over here, boy! Trail's over here!") I at last swallowed
my pride and returned to the cloud of dust in which I had
left them moments earlier. One middle aged saint, a summer
volunteer with an honest, well-weathered face and impeccably
clean, forest green uniform, stood apart from his fellow
choristers. He now approached me with eager interest.
Spying the trail at last, I tried shuffling stealthily on by
within a concealing veil of ruddy forest service road dust.
But no such luck.
"Excuse me, sir, but I see you're walking the Pacific Crest
Trail. I'm here all this weekend asking our Forest Visitors
for their input regarding the experience we're providing
along this National Scenic Trail, and what changes they
might like to see us consider as we plan for the Trail's
future. As a long distance hiker, you are, in my opinion, a
professional. We value your feedback."
"Get rid of the horses," I snorted, inhaling the thick air.
An hour earlier I had been strolling sublimely down the
trail when suddenly there approached an equestrian outfit,
southbound. I had stepped off the tread to let them pass -
de rigeur - at which time the leader of this contingency
announced a most unusual decree. He had suggested I remain
on trail while he led his group instead around me. I
shrugged, with effort under the enormity of the situation,
and then watched powerlessly as perhaps a dozen head of
stock broke new ground alongside the beaten path.
Nonchalantly, with well-honed pretense, the lead cowboy
explained that his posse had been fixing to head
cross-country anyway, in this case down to one of the
pristine glacial tarns in the Lakes Basin area. And so they
did, high horses adroitly turning eastbound toward the
rising sun, emptying their bowels all at once, then
plodding, gouging, excavating their way slowly down and out
of sight. Never did they actually pass me. Instead, I had
served more or less as their imaginary walking roadblock - a
good excuse for an early morning equestrian trailblazing
ceremony.
The dust lingered as my interview with Ranger Rick heated
up.
"Sir, the Pacific Crest Trail is managed so as to afford a
multi-user experience, in this case to the benefit of hikers
and equestrians alike. Typically neither group much cares
for the other, we understand, but clearly it would be
unfair - in fact unlawful - to discourage one group and
allow the other free reign. The federal Wilderness Act
provides for the protection of such places as the PCT here
in Plumas, allowing for a non-mechanized user experience in
step with the needs of the sensitive ecosystems through
which the trail passes. More often than ever, we're hearing
from users that they prefer this primitive,
lightly-on-the-land type of experience, and so WE are
managing not just the PCT but much of your Plumas National
Forest accordingly. For instance, we're greatly reducing the
amount of logging that occurs up here."
"Get rid of the roads. There's too many of them."
I thought for a moment, squinting at the green figure
through our dusty pall, then continued with this new,
broader line of reasoning. This user wasn't satisfied.
"It seems to me that many of the problems facing our forest
lands we can trace back to a pre-existing set of troubling
circumstances: too many roads. With the roads comes easy
access, and especially in active or onetime logging country
this easy access comes in the form of countless haul roads
snaking into the hills from every imaginable direction. This
encourages, not just overuse of the forest, but blatant
mis-use. Environmentally unsound use, by equestrians who
haul their animals high into the hills with no appreciation
of the fragile surroundings. And of course by mechanized
transport such as mountain bikes, motorcycles and
all-terrain vehicles, which are nearly impossible to
regulate due to these innumerable points of access. I say
close the roads, and let them revert to nature."
My green words of pathos (however eloquent prior to editing)
now elicited a peculiar expression from the face of the
officer: the pained look of a semi-sympathetic soul decked
out in the restrictive garb of a middleman. But soon enough
he regained his composure.
"Well, you're certainly correct in thinking that bikes and
vehicles of all kinds have no place up on this trail," he
seemed to say. "They aren't legal, and we try our best to
keep those users aware of that with signs and so forth. But
if we deny them the trails, then we must give them the
roads. And so we do, except as expressly stated, at locked
gates for instance. Thank you for your feedback."
My ranger friend clearly was duty-bound, and doing a fairly
good job at his duties considering the hand he had been
dealt. An ambassador to the US Forest Service, one whose
assigned task it is to lend the public an attentive ear,
could easily become a scapegoat for the many ills of the
hills. But I couldn't bear to see that happen, not in my
company. And it was now apparent that he was too
government-grown for such badgering anyway. So I wished him
a pleasant weekend, thanked him for the directions. Turning
away, I made an offhand remark about the need for more trail
signage at these nutty road crossings, and then I relieved
myself of his company. He let me go.
Now with Plumas (feathers) I glided north along the trail a
ways, lost in thought (a flight of fancy). I thought about
what I had said, and what I should have said to that ranger.
I contemplated the possible meanings of The A Tree. no,
still befuddling. I noted the fine patina of red clay earth,
convected like clouds with each earthbound strike of my
heel, now clinging to my legs like a second skin. And then I
recalled a dusty old book, written by some ancient romantic
named Hawthorne, back in the day, and what the letter A had
symbolized in that grammar school tale. Slowly my head began
to clear.
Every road the trail intersects is, in fact, an Adulteration
of nature. Each bulldozed swath, however earthy in demeanor,
is a line describing the place where the natural world loses
its continuity and becomes an assemblage of "things" instead
of a seamless whole. These are good places to lose a
wilderness footpath, to poke about in vain for some sort of
sign, showing the way. Good places to meet our Ambassadors
from Washington (the one back east).
And what about the Pacific Crest Trail herself, for that
matter? Does she not wear her own letter A (perhaps attached
to the end of her acronymic name)? Is the PCT not likewise
an intrusion upon nature?
No, we must focus upon intent here. The Trail is for the
common good.
The common Human good, perhaps?
No, the trail's highest intent holds no such selfishness.
Like the noble forests through which it passes, the PCT
requires protection, true conservation. Indeed, the Trail
may represent our best means of learning to appreciate and
thus conserve her majestic native surroundings. Dust-choked
logging roads and wilderness freeways full of speeding
tourists cannot do this - cannot imbue a stewardship ethic
within the masses - nor can a trail abused, polluted,
diminished by vehicles of conveyance. And a vehicle, let's
remember, is always something bigger, heavier, and usually
faster than our own two feet, a creature we ride in or on.
How to convince the big, shady authority types that this
fragile path drifting underfoot must be designated only for
those who would chance to walk?
Interludes. Halcyon daydreams. All philosophical hooey, you
say. Perhaps, but can't be helped. You see, long distance
hiking breeds the stuff like warm, fuzzy rabbits. And most
of these grand notions - however living, breathing, full of
potential - never reach maturity, either. Biomass
conservation, world peace, sensible sympathetic leadership -
the list goes on. With nurturing and protection some might
flourish, but sadly most of our innate idealism is hunted
down by the dogs of so-called human progress.
The PCT took a turn and then tackled a long, steady rise,
heading for anticipated first views of distant Mount Lassen.
I climbed along, still in thought, and then suddenly
realized that I was hiking in a motor bike rut - had been
since leaving the last road crossing. As ruts go, this one
wasn't particularly capacious - yet. In truth it was more of
a wide knobby track through the dust just then. But it's the
thought that counts, and I couldn't help but think that I
was on the path of a big, howling, smelly beast, likely
non-native. El visitante non grata.
I was wrong. The creature was after me, and as I heard it
looming defiantly from behind, my brain swelled with the sea
of vindictive comments I might use in assailing it. These
damn kids need to be taught a lesson. Where's the "tree
fuzz" when we actually need them? I stepped off the trail
and awaited my date with destiny, again. The bike rumbled
steadily, deliberately forward, and then lurched to a stop
alongside of me, idling shrilly. The poor thing looked
ancient, like vintage junk. It was wide and stocky yet with
a clear aura of meagerness. And it was green. As its driver
cut the engine, I sputtered forth with a few choice words.
"Not sure whether you know, but right now you're on the
Pacific Crest Trail, which is closed to bikes." And then, on
reflex, came my verbal self-arrest, stopping me just shy of
a probable rocky outlook. "I want to make sure you know, so
you don't have a run-in with the forest service. They might
hand you a stiff fine, of course."
"We are, er well, I am the Forest Service!" trumpeted the
man behind the helmet, already in the process of
substantiating this astonishing claim.
By golly, the standard weathered saintly face, the mirrored
sunglasses, crisp button-down work shirt, all plainly spoke
the truth. The tools of the trade - an arsenal of equipment
for "managing" and "improving" - all bundled in tow and
eager for work. And of course (how could I have suspected
otherwise?): the Government-Issue forest green motor bike -
the singletrack workhorse - vehicle of choice for all
national scenic trials courses. Beep beep!
"I'm sorry," I said, still in shock, "but I didn't realize
that you folks get around the trails on those things. They
are illegal on the PCT, aren't they? I mean, we thru-hiker
folk couldn't make our way to Canada on one, for instance.
Could we?" (Admittedly the idea did sound appealing for a
moment, at least in order to put some quick miles between me
and the feds.)
"No, no," he chided happily. "These things are definitely
not legal for everyday riding. Had to apply for a special
permit. Took weeks. Luckily I got it, 'cause it would be
damn near impossible to do this work any other way."
"What sort of work?"
"Have you been seein' them flaggin' ribbons tied to branches
and whatnot?"
Indeed I had, often along the trail, and privately I had
always wondered about such things.
"Well each one of those ribbons is flaggin' a work site, and
there's many more up ahead that I haven't got to yet. Ever'
day this week I have to go back and forth along this section
of trail, flaggin' and diggin' and doin' brushin', and it's
almost five miles each way."
I did the math in my head: five miles in, plus five miles
out, totaled ten miles round trip.
"And then there's all these tools I need to bring."
I eyed his array of belongings: thirty pounds, max. Not
including the bike.
"I need the bike. It's essential equipment for this type of
work."
As gently as possible I tried conveying a rough sense of
irony about the matter. I had always presumed that motor
vehicles can, and do, cause a great deal of damage to our
nation's vulnerable backcountry trail network. The Tehachapi
Mountains, off to the south, were practically synonymous
with a long, wild weekend of ATV riding and roasting hikers
on giant spits over the evening bonfire. And both the
mountains and the hikers carried the scars to prove it.
Imagine the trouble one might bring upon oneself donning a
ranger's cap and straddling a green Yamaha, buzzing up into
those hills to survey the trail damage. No way to win new
friends: the hikers take you for the bad guy, the bad guys
take you for the good guy. And no way for a reconstructive
surgeon of sorts to mend an ailing trail - ripping it wide
open on your way into surgery. Not for nothing motor bikes
are banned from the PCT. Right?
"Actually," clarified Biker: forest ranger, "it's my feeling
that these machines cause very little damage to the trails.
It's all in how you ride 'em, see. But the hikers and the
horsemen don't like the bikes, period. Most of these kids
ride their bikes loud and fast. They're a nuisance and a
danger. So of course bikes aren't allowed. But we need to
get some work done up here, and I ride this thing real
careful... real careful."
And with that he replaced his concealing headgear, stabbed
his crank with a dusty boot heel, raised a work-gloved hand
to his throttle, through me an ambiguous halting nod, and
took off northbound up the trail. Real careful. And real
slow, too. I felt a passing urge to trot alongside his
two-wheeled tonnage, snidely demonstrating the possibilities
of lightweight backpacking. But probably best not to wear
him out, I figured. So I let the two of them win, watching
with amusement and anguish as they lumbered away, threw
their outsized mass awkwardly about, proceeded on government
time.
Geologic time is even slower, I reminded myself; Nature will
forgive us these sins one day, and transgressions far, far
worse. But will we - you and I, reader - be here to witness
that redemption?
Interludes.
On another trail, in another time and place, I had upon
occasion come eye to eye with the simplest solution to all
the world's troubles. Up there, high in a strangely
accommodating land, I found instructions - a simple
diagram - that purported to teach us how to share the trail
in equity, with tolerance - for the benefit of all. It
depicted a triangle, with a symbol at each of its three
vertices: a hiker, a horseman, and an offroad enthusiast.
Connecting these points and completing the triangle were
three arrows, and each arrow pointed from one symbol toward
another - from one user who ought yield the trail to
another, for the benefit of all. The rules were
straightforward: the hiker yields to the horseman; the biker
yields to the hiker and the horseman; the horseman of course
defers to no one. And everyone lives happily ever after. Yet
throughout that journey I encountered little enduring
contentment. The equestrians would become either suddenly
pious when in my company, or, like their horses, skittish.
The bikers screamed past just slowly enough for me to catch
their fixed gaze of arrogant ambivalence. And the hikers had
allotted themselves too much time for pondering the absence
of justice.
Absence of justice, or objective truth? We forest visitors
may read the signs and acknowledge their rules, yet deep
down we often still believe the trail is rightfully ours,
lawfully or no - an innate liberty. Truth, objectivity
reside in the center of the triangle, out of reach, and we
revolve around and around the outside, forever pointing
blame at the other fellow, while defending our so-called
liberties. Meanwhile the trail remains unobtrusively beneath
us, impartially observing the games we play, keeping score
though we fail to see. But day by day that trail grows wider
as our tolerance for one another slackens, and deeper as we
fail to seek higher ground. Then one day our trail at last
becomes as a road, a wound, a lasting scar, marking a place
where nature has lost her seamless continuity; she's become
a "thing" for our possession. And with that her beauty is
likewise lost, buried with the hope she held for us.
If truth really exists here, at least truth in action, then
it may lie in deference, not so much to the other users we
meet along the trail, nor to some well-meaning triangle of
hope. And not to the feds and their endless doubletalk.
Rather, deference to nature. Maybe in yielding the path to
humility and compassion, and with a new respect for the
ecology, with an urgency to defend what remains of
wilderness, our selfishness finally steps aside and allows
our higher selves to stride confidently past. And this now
begs of us the vexing, often polarizing question, does our
"higher self" stride, with two legs, or does it ride?
Perhaps, at the end of the day, when all is finally quiet,
this matter is for each of us alone to determine, a policy
to be fleshed out through a dialog with our well-cultivated
environmental conscience, irrespective of law, popular
opinion, or preconception. Including mine.
We play, we re-create, while the trail keeps score. It will
win or lose by our own actions, and ultimately so will we.
Play fairly and the truth will be revealed.
But still - I thought to myself, admiring snow-capped Lassen
Peak, away to the north and now radiant with the effect of a
setting sun - they really ought to close some of those
forest service roads. Keep out the unconscionable types, or
at least make life a little less easy for them. Yes, let us
barricade a good number of these roads, spread some grass
seed, strategically position a few wind-felled trees,
increase the population of native carnivores, cougar for
instance - any vital creature that enjoys chasing and
pouncing. Give Nature back the power to inflict a conscience
in us, when necessary, and to remind us of how we got here,
and to whom we owe our Allegiance. Give her the kick-start,
the giddy'ap, she needs.
- blisterfree
www.simblissity.net - home of the SILfold adventurer's
wallet