Kroll, Andrew J.

The Trumpeter - Journal of Ecosophy (Athabasca University)

Trumpeter (1996)ISSN: 0832-6193Walking, Solitude, and the Henry MountainsAndrew J. KrollTrumpeterWalking, Solitude, and the Henry Mountains 2ANDREW KROLL has done contract work for the U.S. ForestService. His main occupation and source of inspiration, is doingfield work in the San Juans of Colorado. The non-profit researchhas focused on completing vegetative analyses, as well as gatheringevidence to prove that grizzlies still inhabit the San Juans. So far,no conclusive proof has been found.Abbey’s world appears mighty big from up here. The storm that shrouds themountains terminates where the foothills reach the desert, like a hungering sealapping at a stolid shoreline. In the exposed perspective created by patchworkclouds and spotlights of sunshine, I can see every articulation of the canyonlandsand plateau: every mesa, notch, and ridge. Every drybed, hueco, basin, andslot. Every furrow, wrinkle, and pucker whirled by wind or wash of water. I cansee every secret the desert ever withheld, the creator’s imagination laid bare andnaked of all intent and artifice and refulgent under the haunting black of thestorm. From where I sit - beneath a stocky limber pine - the hail clatters like ababy’s rattle and the rain whistles thinly. Out in the desert the rain refuses tofall.I have no patience for the desert. I am the antithesis of Abbey in that way. Hewould sojourn in the high mountains, perhaps to loosen the skin that the sunwas curing like jerky, perhaps to live in that frivolous fashion that only a wealthof water can afford, but I can only stay briefly in the desert. I am a tourist, inawe - just as Abbey was - of the intensity of desert forms, but never inclinedto remain. The gnats, the blackflies and deerflies, the seep mosquitoes, allplague me. The sandy arroyos, where each step absorbs ten yards of effort, thewaterholes few and sparsely located across the sere landscape, wear me slowlyand surely down. Only when I have hiked through miles of tattered windfall,spent one night too many listening to the weather lay siege to my tent, or missedthe sun for five days running, do I descend to the desert. Even then I cheat, forI often choose the high desert, the Santa Fe country, and the landscape thereowes as much to the plains as it does any desert. I am no desert rat but Iearnestly listen to those who truly are, and enjoy their travails and tales. No, Iam a mountain man down to blood and bone.In an odd way, though, the mountains symbolize for me ideas and expressionswhich are distinct from what others who frequent the high country experience.First, and to my mind most importantly, I am afraid of heights. Let it be knownthat this is no mere wobbly-knee hesitation from lack of practice or ability: Ican hump a big load as well as the next person and I have done my service inthe high and lonesome. No, this phobia is a real cement-in-your-shoes, riveted-to-the-floor lockdown. I freeze up like a teenager in the backseat of a Chevroleton a Friday night. Which would not be so bad in and of itself, except that Inever know when the fear will spring and pounce. I might be overlooking a traillip into a ten foot gully, I might be traversing a snowfield above treeline, withCopyright 1999 TrumpeterWalking, Solitude, and the Henry Mountains 3four hundred yards, and no stops, until the bottom.Take today for instance. I wanted to climb Mt. Ellen, the highest peak in theHenrys. No problem reaching the traverse, then about fifty yards of steep trailbefore the second and last ridge. From where I examined the last stages of theclimb, it all looked like gravy. (How can I deny the reality of the situation? Itwas a creampuff walkup.) But about sixty yards onto the first ridgeline (reallya nice, broad avenue), I was ambushed. Here I was, twenty-five minutes froma view of the entire southwest, Arizona, Colorado, the canyonlands in all theirpastel distinction, accursed Lake Powell, and I shanked the climb. Yes, frozenstiff as a board and let me assure the reader that had the last grizzly in Utahbeen intent on my ass I would have chosen the bruin over the climb faster thanyou can say Jack Robinson. All I could do was sit down and wonder whatmight have been. (Least the stale pall of defeat linger for the rest of the essay,I will confess that I did enjoy a stunning view on an earlier climb that day. So,admittedly, the episode was anticlimactic. Perhaps that is what did me in.)But as countless others before me have pointed out - and described wonderfully- the top is really not the goal. Now I am all for the hiker who sets out in theearly morning to ascend countless feet and attain a cloud-hung summit. Goodluck! I always say. But in my mountainous wanderings, I find that the prettierthe walk the slower I go, and any goals that I may have established for the nextfew hours recede quietly away, like a landscape when seen through a rearviewmirror. Especially if I find a remarkable vantage along the way and undoubtedlyso when I have worked up a keen sweat in attaining that vantage. In this respectI will agree with the mountaineer: a view struggled for is ineffably lovelier thanthat from a car window, or, god damn them all, a scenic byway. So I have somequirks and hangups (at least they seem to be such to me) and for this reason Ioften prefer to walk alone.I know, Thoreau, Abbey, and others have sung solitude’s praises but here Isimply want to explicate a few of my own humble beliefs. I love a good walk inthe woods by my lonesome and I believe that everyone could benefit from two orthree days by themselves in the backcountry. But at the same time, were I forcedto choose between solitude and a companion, I would be hard pressed to decide.On one hand, I might think of my favorite campsite: a shaded draw blessed withclean water and plentiful firewood, a location to which I retreat every autumnin order to watch the aspens, that ”perishable currency” as McCarthy deemedthem, while they drop their leaves and rustle dryly in the moonlight and thestreams run with gold. But I would also have to consider the fine companionshipthat I have enjoyed on my walks, in particular an older Irish gentleman for whomwalking is a stimulant to discussion (and he is conversant upon many topics).And so my decision, like many we are forced to make, depends on the situation.Right now, here in the Henry Mountains, I prefer solitude. The view to whichI am witness is panoramic, and I will not attempt to illustrate what I see anyfurther. I gaze out over the desert and then turn one hundred and eightyCopyright 1999 TrumpeterWalking, Solitude, and the Henry Mountains 4degrees in order to enjoy the mountains and my thoughts begin to drift. A fewideas begin to interrupt my contemplation. While I am having a spectaculartime, I cannot help but wonder what a few minor management changes might dotowards restoring wildness in the Henrys. Yes, wildness. A shrinking commodityin the lower forty-eight and that is regrettable, because with a little concertedeffort - and some agency cooperation - we might have a lot more land capableof sustaining ”multiple uses.”Take the Henrys as a convenient example. Not many people live near them, andas far as I can gather from the map, there are few trails in the mountains. Butthere are roads and their presence creates many problems. So let us close them.People will argue that closing roads denies them access to the mountains (ordeserts, whatever) and unless they are missing legs, stop listening to them. Oneof the few undeniable truths that exist in this country is that a man with a strongpair of walkers is not denied anything, especially on public land. However, Iwill address their feeble objection here. For this segment of the population (theminority), access often involves firearms, alcohol, beer and soda cans, and othertrash that belongs in a landfill and not the backcountry. If they picked up theshell casings and swisscheesed gas containers, the fragmented bottles, I wouldnot object. But they leave them, along with enormous fire rings, sawed treelimbs, and denuded campsites. They have not shown the ability to act properlyand so the privilege, not the right, to camp within the confines of our publiclands will be denied them. The wild country of the United States can be manythings, but it will not be a shooting range, haphazard woodlot, or dump.Supposing we were able to close the roads or at least close them beyond certainpoints, say the campground at which I am staying. Well, two birds will havebeen slain and only one stone spent. These roads are infrequently more thanone vehicle wide and they would serve admirably as foot trails (as well as bi-cycling or babystroller paths) and ski and snow shoeing routes (a use currentlyavailable). Imagine: an already existing network of easily navigable trails intothe backcountry, with no worry about carborne delinquents or ORV hotroddersruining the fun. We could construct a few ski huts to encourage people to seehow the December sun shines while rising over the Colorado Plateau (as if weneed to encourage such an activity). Why, we might even allow soapbox derbiesto race on the closed roads, as long as they pushed the cars to the top undertheir own steam (and watched for the baby carriages on the way down).But the roadhogs will squeal and cry that removing roads into the mountainswill prohibit mining or cattle drives. Do not worry, the whining will not lastlong; these people have limited lung capacities (that’s why they are so depen-dent on vehicles). But if you feel obligated to offer a response, begin with thosetrouble-making miners and their ridiculous earth-moving machinery. They arenot welcome. There can be no vacillating on this issue. Our country has sufferedenough at the hands of hack hobby miners meddling around with their amateur-ish, profligate techniques. The Henrys are chock full of mines and before minersCopyright 1999 Trumpeterstart objecting that we are infringing upon their right to chase after illusorymineral strikes, let me say that they are infringing upon our right to have waterfree from heavy metals and silt, unmarred vistas, and mountainsides protectedfrom landslides. The miners want to destroy land? Let them buy private landat fair market value and have at it.As for cowboys, I can never understand why they get so anxious when wemention road closures - what happened to their horses? At any rate, we canallow the cowboys to run responsibly-sized herds of cattle in the mountains,as long as the cowboys promise to behave themselves and not spend their idlehours exterminating predators or ruining riparian areas.And I do not want to hear any more of this nonsense about privatization ofour public lands so that resources can be ”utilized.” The only resource that weare concerned with is wildness, and that will not benefit from selling off federalholdings. While the cold truth is that the federals have not practised a kinder,gentler form of land management, there is hope for reform. If people begin tocare and act in good faith, the managers of this land in the Henrys, the Bureauof Land Management (the Bureau of Livestock and Mining in practice), canbecome the Bureau of Lovely Mountains. And we can all enjoy the change.But enough of that - better to save such digressions for human company. Soli-tude beckons, and solitude is why I have come here. The mountains have slippedtheir caul of storm and the sky is reborn, a clean blue slate spreading into thedistance. I have walked the ridgelines of the Henrys, seen the range glowing likea great green jewel in the vast desert. The clouds have parted and blessed mewith a view as expansive and promising as life itself; the drainages are drippingwet in the wake of the storm, and the thin black line of a creekbed below meis as tempting as an appealing thought. Enough of the sky, I think. Time todescend into the thick timber and enter the dark heart of solitude and the secretthings therein.Citation FormatKroll, Andrew J. (1996) Walking, Solitude, and the Henry Mountains Trumpeter: 13, 2.http://www.icaap.org/iuicode?6.13.2.5Document generated from IXML by ICAAP conversion macros.See the ICAAP web site or software repository for details

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The Trumpeter - Journal of Ecosophy (Athabasca University)