[pct-l] an essay on trail use and wilderness ethics

[blisterfree at isp01.net (Brett)]

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