Or the rape and pillage of our wild earth?

So-called objectivity, fairness, is way overrated. Passion… outrage… boldness… subjectivity… this [...]]]>

‘Be fair’, say the temporizers. ‘Tell both sides of the story.’ But how can you be fair to both sides of a rape? A murder? A massacre? — Edward Abbey

Or the rape and pillage of our wild earth?

So-called objectivity, fairness, is way overrated. Passion… outrage… boldness… subjectivity… this is what stirs people, what gets them off their asses, what prompts action and involvement.

When it comes to writing about the destruction of our wilderness, our wild home, the timid need not apply.

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Let’s face it. As a society we are far too comfortable, far too insulated in our cocoons to really be in touch with the wild. Our lives, our living environments, our working environments, all of it, are largely artificial. [...]]]> This was originally posted on the old buzztail in July 2007.

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Trapper Peak -- Bitterroot Mountains, Montana

Let’s face it. As a society we are far too comfortable, far too insulated in our cocoons to really be in touch with the wild. Our lives, our living environments, our working environments, all of it, are largely artificial. Hence the gradual destruction of our natural home, our native habitat. We’re losing touch with what’s at stake.

It’s nothing new. It’s been going on for generations now. For many of us  our only contact with the wild anymore is through calendar photos and TV documentaries. That’s like looking at a picture of a meal on the menu instead of actually eating one. It’s not the real thing, and offers nothing in the way of nourishment.

We’ve come to passively accept the degradation of our wild nature with little more than an occasional whimper and maybe an occasional contribution to our favorite environmental group thinking we’ve done our part. That’s not said to belittle environmental  groups or downplay the generous contributions many make. Not at all. But it’s going to take more than that. Much more.

What will it really take to protect wildness? Well, passion and anger and outrage for starters. We humans need to rear up on our hind legs, look around, and realize that we need to protect our natural home from the greedheads  and all those who will take advantage of our silence to profit greatly. To stand by quietly and let it happen is to condone it. We’ve done that for long enough. For too long. We need to defend our wilds as ferociously and passionately as we would protect our homes against intruders who would break in and do harm to us and our families. Whether we have it in us to do that remains to be seen.

How can you put a dollar figure on the experience of waking up to early morning [...]]]> Some things are too valuable to measure. Priceless is the term — they’re too sacred and profound to demean with a simple dollar figure no matter how high that figure may be. Dollars are a poor measure of life.

How can you put a dollar figure on the experience of waking up to early morning on a northern lake, the mists galloping across the waters, and the wild laughter of a loon echoing from shore to shore?

How can you measure the worth of hiking around a bend in the trail and encountering a bull moose literally nose to nose?

How valuable is the experience of spending days with a band of mountain goats, and having them accept you as a being who belongs there, albeit a strange one?

Calculate the dollar value of a camp by a small mountain lake at 7000 feet, the sun crashing behind the surrounding peaks, the sound of silence and solitude accompanying you, the Milky Way filling the sky as your thoughts settle down to wilderness time. Calculate that for me — I sure can’t.

These experiences exist far beyond the measure of mere money. So far beyond that our incessant translation of the hours of our lives into dollars is so abstract as to seem ridiculous, and that’s as it should be. That’s why they’re so vital and blood stirring. And priceless.

Literature on wilderness is always a treasure. Much of it ranks among the best of writing, regardless of subject or genre. That it’s about wild country makes it very special.

I grew up on the lakes of northern Minnesota, not far from the Boundary Waters. One of the greatest voices in wilderness [...]]]> by pj finn

Literature on wilderness is always a treasure. Much of it ranks among the best of writing, regardless of subject or genre. That it’s about wild country makes it very special.

I grew up on the lakes of northern Minnesota, not far from the Boundary Waters. One of the greatest voices in wilderness writing during the last century lived in the area and left a legacy of wilderness writings that few will ever match. His name was Sigurd F. Olson.

Olson was well known as a guide in the Boundary Waters, and was even more well known for the numerous canoe trips he made into the far north of Canada, and for the books he wrote about those trips. He was a gentle soft-spoken man with a deep love and respect for wilderness, and a deep connection to it. Legend has it that at the end of his life he knew it was time to go,  left a note to his wife in his typewriter saying he was off on his last adventure, and put on his snowshoes and walked off into the woods to die. True or not, the legend fits the man.

Of all his books the one that had the most profound impact on me was ‘Reflections From the North Country’, a collection of essays about his experiences in the wilds, and his philosophy about wilderness.  He writes about harmony, solitude, search for meaning and contemplation among other things. It’s truly a great book, and I consider it a must-read for any wilderness lover.

Reflections from the North Country (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

This essay was originally posted on my blog, Alpenglow Images, October 26, 2011

As we board the homeward bound flight, the sun is setting over the Rocky Mountains, reminding me of my early childhood years living in Denver.  The sunset becomes more intense as the plane is pushed onto the [...]]]> by Greg Russell

This essay was originally posted on my blog, Alpenglow Images, October 26, 2011

As we board the homeward bound flight, the sun is setting over the Rocky Mountains, reminding me of my early childhood years living in Denver.  The sunset becomes more intense as the plane is pushed onto the runway, and takes off, leaving Denver International Airport behind.  The beauty of flying westward into the sunset is that it lasts longer–the earth’s shadow and Belt of Venus seem to be eternal, keeping me company as I daydream looking out the window over my sleeping son’s head.

Below us, lights from the small towns of the West are starting to come on.  I wonder what’s happening in those towns on this Friday night; people are relaxing at the bar after a long week of work, teenagers are cruising Main Street looking for something to do.  Despite that, its the empty spots, the growing blackness, that capture my imagination.  I’ve been a passenger on this route enough times to know what’s below me: the foothills of the western slope of the Rockies, the Green and Colorado Rivers, the white rim of Canyonlands, the Grand Canyon, the Mojave Desert.

Its quite possible there’s not a whole lot of unexplored areas left in the West, but part of me wants to hang on to the notion that there is still some “out there” left out there.  David Roberts recently had a thought-provoking op-ed piece in the New York Times arguing that with 21st Century technology, there’s not a whole lot of wilderness left.  That hopeful naïveté I cling to wants to disagree with him–that possibly there is still an unexplored canyon, or at least a hill which offers a great view of this everlasting sunset–that has yet to be enjoyed.

Aldo Leopold wrote,

“To those devoid of imagination a blank place on the map is a useless waste; to others, the most valuable part.”

Tonight, sitting on this jet with a bird’s eye view of the West, I have to wonder where my imagination would wander if there were no blank spots on the map.   As a photographer, I have been thinking a lot lately about documenting these wild lands–what is my responsibility as an artist, my obligation to protect these lands?  If those peaks and mesas are leveled, if lights begin to dot the landscape, these places will change forever.

Where does your imagination wander?  None of us would argue over the value of those blank spots on the map, but what do you think–is there a fine line between artist and activist, or are they one and the same?

End of the Day, July 2010