Monday, July 15, 2019

A trip to the Alps



A few weeks ago, I found myself near the town of Berchtesgaden in the German Alps. The following is my account of a two-day solo hike. 

Day 1: Berchtesgaden to Stahlhaus

I struck out at 10:30 a.m. for Stahlhaus, one of several sleeping huts for hikers in Berchtesgaden National Park. Berchtesgaden is in southeast Germany on the Austrian border. Designated as a national park in 1978, it’s 81 square miles and home to Kehlsteinhaus, or the “Eagle’s Nest,” a Third Reich building once used as a getaway for Hitler and Nazi top brass, but which now solely functions as a top-of-a-hill beer garden for tourists.  

I began my hike in a European heatwave. The temperature was around 38°C (100°F), so I generously applied sunscreen and glugged water. At the Berchtesgaden tourist center, where I picked up a map, a whole bunch of Chinese people got off a bus and crowded around the bathroom entrances. 

I wouldn’t see any of the Chinese tourists on the hiker/cyclist trail. Apart from a few guys speaking a Slavic language, I seemed like the only foreigner, and my American nationality, to everyone I’d meet in the hills, would be a novelty. 

The first thing I noticed about the German hikers was just how steady they were. Normally I cruise past middle-age women on a trail, but out here if I took a moment to snap a photo or eat a protein bar, I’d soon be overtaken by those whom I’d just overtaken. There are lots of really good looking and in-shape Germans, but many of these hikers didn’t look like they were in amazing shape or anything. There are plenty of lumpy, soft-bellied Germans, yet here they were, gliding up the steep trail with little difficulty. I’ve also noticed plenty of German men with sizable pot bellies (probably from too much sausage and beer), but the rest of their bodies seem hale and hearty, and I’d see plenty of them in the mountains, too. If there is such a thing as a healthy obesity, this is it.  

I arrived at the Stahlhaus shelter at 3 p.m. I’d planned to climb a mountain peak, but that would mean I’d miss the three-course dinner meal in the beer garden, so I sat on a bench and did a sketch of the mountains. I tried to write some thoughts down in my journal but my mind, because of the heat, was mush and my memories were melting.  



I was, though, quite impressed with the shelter. These German huts aren’t like AT shelters, where you get three walls and lots of mice. The Stahlhaus was well-constructed, offering three-course dinners, a breakfast, showers, and electricity. Camping is prohibited in the park, so if you want to do an overnight hike, you have to rely on these shelters, which cost $27/night. Breakfast, dinner, and my rented cotton sleeping bag liner rental was another $40. That’s $65 for a night of camping! Some people spend five days hiking out here, where nature is definitely not free. 

When I arrived, I was surprised to see that the beds were sandwiched together shoulder to shoulder. Four Slavic men were whispering loudly on my bunk level. Two middle-aged German woman came in and took their clothes and bras off in front of us to change into their sleepwear.  

I nodded off to sleep quickly, but the Slavic men snored horribly, waking me after an hour. They were on the far side of the bunk, but I found the volume intolerable, and I wondered how they weren’t waking up one another. It was a symphony of snores. (An awful symphony!) There were grizzly growls and grunts. Sniffles and snorts. Whimpers and wheezes. I found it uncivilized, and I thought that if someone knows that they snore that bad, then they ought to stay at home and leave the rest of us unafflicted. But I too was committing remorseless sins in my corner of the bunk, softly farting into the fabric of my rented cotton sleeping bag liner. 

Thoughts and Reflections from the Day

  • Expecting fathers can expect a 34% decrease in testosterone levels when the baby comes. This has me concerned for all the obvious reasons. Will I lose my hair, my muscles, my, umm, drive? Will I eventually get my testosterone levels back? I suppose I don’t want to become what I fear becoming: another unambitious, overweight, and sedated man. I don’t want to lose what I most like about myself. Statistics and hormone levels seem so scientific and therefore inescapable. Would this happen in a tribal setting, where parenting duties are a bit more spread out? Is the testosterone drop typical to men in small, atomized nuclear families in industrialized countries, where the father takes on 50 percent of care-taking duties? Is this an example of how my culture may affect and alter me on a profound (hormonal) level? It should also be said that, as the article states, new fathers also see boosts in loving and bonding hormones, such as dopamine and oxytocin. I suppose I do like the idea of experiencing the world with a new perspective (and body to some degree). (Hell, I’d try out being a woman for a week if such a thing were possible.) There are many lives to live in one life, and there is indeed a part of me that welcomes a new one for a time. Plus, I suppose I was heartened to see so many fit older German men on this trip--something I don’t really see in America. [1] A few days later, on a train, I sat across from a man who must have been in his mid sixties and who was probably capable of kicking my ass. The men here, at least in this corner of Germany, age remarkably better than men in my home countries of the U.S. and U.K. Perhaps physical activity, and hikes like these, are part of the solution, and perhaps statistics and studies can, to a degree, be defied. [2]     
  • I developed an idea for a children’s book about a little tree growing up. 
  • Home sapiens, as a species, suffer from amnesia. A giraffe of today lives pretty much the same life as a giraffe of a million years ago, and therefore the giraffe would have little use for a generations-long memory. But we as Homo sapiens, in our 200,000 years, have lived such varied existences, from hunter-gatherers to retail store clothes-folders. Yet we have no real memory for our past lives as hunter-gatherer, farmer-herders, or warrior-craftsmen. No real memory beyond two generations of relatives. No real memory for living in the wild, living according to seasons, looking up at the stars. We've forgotten so much. You might consider our collective unconscious, or our "ghost psyches," as sufficient substitutes for ancient memories, but I think it would do us a world of good to remember well beyond our individual lives. 
  • German strangers look at you longer. It’s not quite a stare; it’s more a gaze. They hold their eyes on you for an extra second or two. A Brit might consider this rude, but I don’t mind. The German gaze contains a mix of curiosity, indifference, and sometimes a little bit of warmth. 
  • This paragraph is not going to help me if I’m ever a suspected of a homicide, but I’d say that several times a week I impulsively and mentally rehearse acts of violence. It often occurs when I’m walking down a vaguely unfriendly city street that gets my stress levels to increase. I’ll imagine a man or a group of teenage boys attacking me or my partner, and I’ll dispatch them with artful moves or just a burst of bloody head-butting animal rage. I should clarify that I never fantasize about striking someone without good reason. And I should say that I’ve never actually been in a fight, and I’m happy to go the rest of my life without getting into one. Yet, during these rehearsals, there’s a part of me that is relishing the sensations of mentally delivering a savage beat down to someone. I consider these “rehearsals of violence.” They mentally prepare me for unlikely events. It keeps me on my guard. It’s not very different than when I imagine ground balls hit my way, which are supposed to help me be a better short stop on my softball team. I’m pretty sure this is all perfectly normal, maybe more so for a man. These things just go unstated.  




Stahlhaus

Stahlhaus


Day 2: Stahlhaus to St. Bartholomew's haus

“German sounds, how do you say, harsh?” asked Michael (pronounced Mick-A-ell). 

I told Michael that I thought spoken German, to my ear, sounds beautiful, and that Americans only think it sounds harsh because our exposure to the German tongue comes mostly from WWII movies, where steely-jawed Germans speak their language with an authoritarian bark.  

When I told him I was from New York, Michael told me he’d went on a tour of the American West Coast, where he visited lots of parks, but that he saw very few people hiking the trails. 

“American are very….” said Michael, searching for a word. 

I made a wide parenthetical gesture with my hands around my belly to communicate “fat.” 

“Not very active,” he said. 

I only had a cartoon map of the mountains with me, so I’d asked Michael for navigational advice. He took a suspicious look at my pack and map and worn-out hiking shoes, and asked me where I was headed for the day. I told him I was going to hike the circumference of Lake Kรถnigsee and arrive back in town by tonight (which looked manageable on my cartoon map, but was perhaps a bit too ambitious). 

Michael let loose a horrified and disgusted, “Nooooooa!”

I thought quietly, “yes.”

It was a bit too ambitious, but I was feeling ambitious. I had glorious sunny weather with no chance of rain in the forecast. I had a super light pack (that was lacking warm clothes and basically everything except a half a day’s worth of snacks), but it was super light and therefore wouldn’t slow me down. And I had a full and expendable German pot belly that I wanted to burn off. And I felt invigorated and up for an overly ambitious challenge.

Michael asked me if I had a head torch. I said no. He involuntarily shook his head, swallowed his disgust, and proceeded to help me out with my route planning as well as he could. 

At these elevations, I’d have to walk through a number of ice fields. These were fields of hard-packed snow along mountainsides. If I slipped, I could slide all the way down into a cluster of coccyx-bashing boulders, so I took my time and grabbed two pointy rocks, which I thought I might use as ice picks should I slip and slide feet-first down the mountainside. I crossed paths with two German women wearing fashionable hiking garb and carrying trekking poles. They didn’t bother to slow their gait over the ice fields, and I felt, with a stone in each hand like some uncouth and barbaric caveman. Later, in the woods, I’d break off a pair of branches from a fallen tree, which I’d use as makeshift trekking poles. In just 24 hours, I felt like I was hurdling back into a different time, and it felt fantastic.   

As I walked downhill into alpine woods, it reminded me of everything that Scottish forests are missing. There were insects everywhere. Butterflies fluttered in front of my advancing feet. The forests, mixed with pine and broad-leaf trees, were alive with birdsong. Look closely and there are probably lines of ants marching perpendicularly across the trail. The alpine meadows were a healthy green with pink and blue and yellow flowers. A chamois (a tawny mountain goat-antelope hybrid) heard my footsteps, hid in a tangle of the forest understory, and, when I passed it, sprinted down the rocky slope at a speed that would have been life-ending if it had tripped. This was a forest alive and well and reasonably ecologically whole (though Germany still lacks the presence of brown bears). 

The path was well posted with signs advertising the next mountaintop and sleeping hut. I took note of how accurate the time indicators were. If the sign said it would take four hours to get to the next destination, it would take me four hours. If I took a fifteen minute break, it would take me four hours and fifteen minutes. Trails that had a blue dot meant they were easy. Red meant difficult. Black meant challenging. I thought this was all worth noting because in the U.S., if you were to pick up a trail brochure at your local state park, “challenging trails” are designated that way if they’re merely over an hour on a rocky uphill path. Here, a challenging trail might require ice picks, crampons, and a helmet. And it’s actually challenging. In Allegheny State Park, an uphill two-hour hike, might be accomplished in 45 minutes by someone fit.  

I thought about my nighttime sins, and I wondered if anyone has ever been killed due to a fart. I’m guessing it’s happened at some point. Maybe, in an earlier civilization, you’re marching with a prisoner or slave or someone you hate, and they let out a defiant boiled cabbage fart. When it comes to being angered by a fart, the smell, I think, is secondary to the impertinence of the emission. Sometimes a fart is emitted, not as a consequence of natural body rhythms (in which case it's mostly forgivable), but to purposefully annoy or rebel or defy, and that’s when I think someone has probably been clobbered over the head with a heavy club. If it’s hot and humid, and the smell is prolonged and amplified, that’s all the more reason for an execution. I’m sure it’s happened in Florida. 

The fart that most riled me was released on a winter’s day in Coldfoot, Alaska, in my dorm room, which was small and very warm. I was playing Scrabble with a male friend and a female coworker. My friend let out something silent and toxic and didn’t claim ownership of it, leaving the girl to possibly imagine that it was me. I was revolted by the smell, but more by the thoughtlessness (or purposeful mischievousness) of his emission, for I suspected that the expulsion was more voluntary than involuntary. In a formal setting, in a room with three people, it’s impolite to leave ownership unclaimed. I kept my mouth shut, thinking that I ought not embarrass him, while leaving, in the air, the humiliating possibility that she’d attribute the unclaimed smell to me. I asked him after she’d left the room, and his mischievous grin confirmed everything. I never found out to whom she’d attributed the sin. 

Back on the trail, I walked past a thin middle-age man named Christian, also a solo traveler, who enthusiastically initiated conversation and who helped provide more advice. “Are you telling me a joke?” he asked when I told him where I planned to hike by the end of the day. “Do you have a torch?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. 

The German language is not harsh, and Germans are not all preoccupied with  discipline and efficiency. That’s how most Americans think of them. Oftentimes Germans and their trains are late. And the people are warm, convivial, and cheery. They're sensual: they love to eat and drink and be out in nature. On my three trips to Germany, I’ve taken note of the fact that I get smiled at here by women far more than usual. It’s a twinkly smile that opens up from their initial curious gaze. I might call it flirtatious. Amorous, even. Is there something about me that is appealing to German women? I never get this look in the U.K. I never got this look in Central America. Almost never in the U.S. For a happily taken man, there’s nothing to be done with such a smile, but it nevertheless brightens my day.  

I’d hiked from 6:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m., arriving at St. Bartholomew's haus just before dark. On my map, I saw a squiggly black line (black denotes a challenging trail) that would lead me back to civilization, but it was too dark and clearly too dangerous, and this section alone was another 3.5 hours, and I knew from experience to trust the time estimates, and that 3.5 hours meant 3.5 hours. 

The church grounds were empty, and I planned on sleeping on a bench outside for the night and catching a cheap ferry back to town the next morning. I found a couple of hikers in their mid-twenties in the same predicament, and they warned me that, if I was caught camping in the park (with or without a tent), I’d be fined $1,000. A pair of unhelpful rangers showed up in a boat, with flashlights and binoculars, searching for would-be campers, and they said we had to either continue walking or call for an emergency rescue boat to pick us up.

This seemed crazy! It was perfectly legal to risk death on a steep mountain trail in the middle of the night, but it was a $1,000 fine if I slept in the woods or on a park bench. 

The young man called emergency services for a boat ride without determining how much it would cost (we heard $280 from the ranger), and I was left with the options of illegally (and probably successfully) sleeping in the woods, or shamefully taking the emergency boat ride and splitting the outrageous bill with the couple. 

“I should have never called them,” the young man said, reflecting on all the money he’d have to dish out for a five-minute boat ride. 

They were young and kind and I’d developed a bond with them when we discussed why we shouldn’t embark on a late-night death climb. I wanted to selfishly abandon them so I could keep my money and figure things out on my own in my own thrifty way, but I thought there was something wrong about leaving a younger and more cash-strapped couple, with whom I’d felt a sense of fraternity, with the whole bill. 

An hour later, the boat arrived, shining bright lights onto the shore that made me turn my face away. The whole situation was absurd. There was a rescue boat here where none of us truly needed rescuing. I felt weirdly compelled to pay for something I certainly didn’t want or have to pay for. The couple climbed the ramp and entered the boat, negotiating the rescue price down from $550 to $280. I could have turned away and had a memorable night out in the woods, but out of a sense of what was right, I hopped on, and, with great grief, paid a third of the ticket home.  

Thoughts and Reflections from the Day

  • I had an idea for a memoir, written unlike any other, that comprehensively collects all thoughts, flowing from one to the other, sort of like those of Leopold Bloom in James Joyce’s Ulysses. But actually comprehensible. I won’t do it. I like to keep good portions of my life private. And most of my thoughts are mundane and nonsensical. But I think someone ought to undertake the project because there’s a need for such a book. I don’t think any art form has really ever captured how meandering and mundane and amazing the flow of human thought is. In memoirs, or blog entries like these, we only get a carefully curated selection. We don’t get the sad memories, the rehearsals of physical violence, the humiliations, the grand dreams, the amazingly random stream of unconsciousness, the nonsense. I can’t think of one book or movie that’s close to capturing this. Montaigne? Joyce? Maybe, but even with them there’s plenty of careful curating and narrating.       
  • I’ve never seen a solo traveler from China. I’ve seen plenty in large groups in European cities and American national parks. But never an independent man or woman. Group travel (especially when you’re crammed in a bus with members of your own homogeneous country) seems like a pretty lousy way to travel. They’re not trying to talk in English. They’re not engaging in a personal way with Americans or Germans. I suppose they’re at least soaking in some views and making cultural observations, but it seems like an impoverished form of travel. (The Chinese, by the way, are now visiting more international countries than any other nation.)
  • ”You’re scaring me,” is a good way to successfully deter an overzealous suitor. 



Dangerous-seeming ice fields










[1] To my surprise, there are actually plenty of obese Germans. About 24 percent of the adult population.  



[2] It may not matter if there is a 1/3 drop in testosterone levels since there is a wide range of what’s considered normal (about 300 to 1,000 nanograms per deciliter of blood). Apparently there’s little benefit to having high testosterone within this range; all that matters is that you stay within it.  

Friday, July 12, 2019

The National Park Service in the Anthropocene

"The imperfect is our only paradise." - Wallace Stevens

A few years ago, I was hiking on a trail in Death Valley National Park, thinking about a book I’d just finished called After Nature by Jedediah Purdy. 

Purdy's book is mostly historical. It looks at four different phases of the "environmental imagination" in American history: 1) Providential, 2) Romantic, 3) Utilitarian, and 4) Ecological. From one phase to another, Americans' thoughts and feelings about nature evolved. During the romantic period, for example, we attached symbolic and aesthetic importance on unspoiled natural features, such as mountains and waterfalls. The romantic environmental imagination influenced the movement that created the National Park Service.  

The fifth phase (our phase) might be called "Anthropocentric," a term used to describe how everything has been affected by humankind, from the climate, to species extinction, to the very architecture of our omnipresent industry. 

Here in Death Valley, I was thinking about the world with Purdy’s thesis in mind: that we need to advance to this new stage of environmental thinking and adapt our imaginations, aesthetic preferences, and policies to it. If we're going to have an anthropocentric environmental imagination, we need to re-imagine what’s beautiful, what needs to be learned, and what we ought to be visiting.

How shall we imagine our national parks (our present and future national parks) in light of these questions? 

Our parks, since the beginning of the National Park Service, have been designated and designed for viewing based on romantic notions of nature that were prevalent through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. (Almost all of our parks celebrate and preserve and showcase mostly-undisturbed natural beauty.) As Purdy would argue, we ought not discard the values of our old environmental imaginations, as these values and cravings (such as a romantic idealization of wilderness) are still alive in us. But what sort of new parks should we be designating in the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries? Should we keep trying to buy up scenic land to celebrate more beauty? Or do we need to develop a new ecological imagination and visit new areas accordingly?

One idea I thought up is to designate parks in areas of awesome human destruction, like the chain of removed mountaintops in West Virginia and Kentucky. Although this area is scattered across the Appalachian Mountains, it roughly covers 1.5 million acres, which would make it among the biggest national parks in the Lower-48. 

At Mountaintop Removal National Park, visitors could visit a park that focuses not on pristine beauty, but on human-made destruction, which no doubt would be beautiful in its own wayMaybe it’s not beautiful, exactly, but it’s something that evokes awe. Waterfalls and mountains do not have a monopoly on awe, after all. The meticulously-planted Big Ag rows of hay can evoke awe. Same with a marvel of engineering, like a dam, refinery, city, or pipeline. Personally, I was awed by the vastness and complexity of the Alberta Tar Sand pits and the Port Arthur refineries in Texas. I don’t think feeling awe for these places is tacit approval of them; rather, I think it's just acknowledgment of rare amazingness and of the fact that these places are a part of our world that can't be wished away. In Mountaintop Removal National Park, we could learn about our destructive past, see the gradual rehabilitation of the land, and come to regard all aspects of nature (not just the pristine places) as nature.

I was surprised to see so many visitors at Death Valley. (In 2018, Death Valley was the fifteenth most-visited national park, with 1.6 million visitors, placing it in the top-fourth of national parks.) That’s amazing because Death Valley is a place that annually gets two inches of rain, that is deadly-hot for good portions of the year, and that has natural features that do not fit within our common perceptions of natural beauty. How many people would drive through Death Valley if it was just a road going through nameless BLM land? Not many. Give it a cool name and designate it as a national park and people will come. You could do the same with a lot of other areas in the country that we typically wouldn’t seek out.

I have no idea if a Mountaintop Removal National Park, or a Tar Sands National Park, or a Love Canal National Monument is even remotely economically feasible. (Who owns that land and how much would it cost?) But it’s not a ridiculous idea. Every year, thousands of people visit Chernobyl, the site of a nuclear meltdown in modern-day Ukraine. (Don't tell me people don't want to see ugliness. At Chernobyl, people are visiting a place where there are higher than normal levels of radiation.) Over a million tourists visit Auschwitz every year. Pompeii, Wounded Knee, and hundreds of battlefields are flooded by tourists every year, and especially in the cases of Wounded Knee, Little Big Horn, and other Native American historic sites, they’ve probably done great good in educating folks about the struggles of Native Americans and the injustices they’ve faced. 

Landschaftspark in Germany. Credit: Duisburg.de. 

In Germany, there’s Landschaftspark, a park that includes the ruins of a twentieth-century ironworks, where they’re interpreting the industrial past and watching nature take over. Could we turn some abandoned Ohio rustbelt town into a park? Or what about the old grain elevators and silos of Buffalo, New York, which I’ve seen, and which are visually arresting? These places are darkly beautiful and they could tell a rarely told story about our industrial past.  

Ideas for national parks for the Anthropocene

Silo City National Park - Buffalo, NY

I took a boat ride down the Buffalo River and saw these amazing silos, which tell the history of early industrialism in America. The place has been called Silo City, and while I believe there are ways to actually get in and see the silos, it's not a park and it's all relatively unknown. 

Tar Sands National Park - Alberta, Canada

The Tar Sands make up about 54,000 square miles of land. I took a flight over the devastation in 2012. 

National park of a slavery plantation - South Carolina

 I'm heading into sensitive territory here, but it seems reasonable to acquire old plantation land for the purpose of telling an important story. I lived in the South for many years, and I was always troubled by the fact that there is very little public acknowledgment of our slave-holding past. I googled for "biggest slave owner" and it seems it was Joshua John Ward, who owned the Brookgreen Plantation in South Carolina. Such a place would be suitable for a national park. Credit: Wikipedia.

Dust Bowl National Park - Great Plains

This could tell a story of what happens when we mistreat the land. It's also a story of collective action through government-supported relief and shelterbelt projects. 

Love Canal National Monument - Niagara Falls, NY

 I grew up near Love Canal. It is bizarre and disturbing and interesting to look at. There ought to at least be an interpretive center here, plus walking tours around the ghost town. Credit: The Buffalo News.

Mountaintop Removal National Park - Appalachian Mts.

Credit: Desmog Blog. 

Soil Erosion National Park - Iowa

This refreshingly honest and non-promotional display at an Iowa rest stop shows how much topsoil has disappeared in the last 170 years. Perhaps Soil Erosion National Park can be our first entirely underground park, where we can walk alongside depleted soil levels and aquifers, and beneath the roots of corn and soy. Credit: Wikipedia. 

Passenger Pigeon National Park - Eastern U.S.
This park will commemorate all the animals in North America that have gone extinct or become endangered since European settlement. If I let my mind wander, I might even suggest that we could have a park like the suggested Pleistocene Park in Siberia, where scientists intend to genetically reinvent (or de-extinct) the woolly mammoth and give it habitat. There are efforts to do as much with the passenger pigeon. Credit: Wikipedia. 

Refineryville National Park - Port Arthur, Texas (title borrowed from Andrew Blackwell’s Visit Sunny Chernobyl)

I took this photo in the refinery area of Port Arthur, Texas. Should we ever have access to abandoned industrialized spaces, they could serve as places for contemplation and rewilding. 

Stampede Bus National Historic Site - Healy, Alaska

I've written about formally designating and protecting the Stampede Bus site, from Into the Wild, in my tiny book, The McCandless Mecca. This monument can tell a story of not just McCandless, but the bus: which, for about 3/4ths of a century, has alternatingly served the mining industry, hunters, dreamers, and now pilgrims. It can tell the McCandless story, or something bigger. It might be wiser for this to be swallowed by nearby Denali National Park or to become an Alaska state park, but I feel it's very deserving of protecting and monumentalizing. Credit: Josh Spice. 

Take me seriously, but not too seriously. The above ideas come from the top of my head, and have been proposed with little research or serious thought about feasibility. But it doesn't hurt to think playfully about the idea and I encourage more ideas. I’m sure there are many, many more. (Just google for sites of U.S. environmental disasters.) Plus, I’m sure there are much snappier names that can be given to lure people, just as Death Valley does. (And obviously some of these are very impossible since they’re still in use.)

Our world will soon have over 10 billion people. There are fewer and fewer places of unsettled, majestic beauty we can set aside. Our most profound human creation -- climate change -- affects everything. For the twenty-first century and beyond, we need to continue to fight to reverse our past mistakes, but, for our own well-being, we also need to come to terms with what we have, and that may mean finding enjoyment, stimulation, and even beauty in places we never thought we would. 

Monday, June 24, 2019

This Land Is Our Land, updated research

Credit: Wikipedia
One of the unpleasant realities of traditional book-making is that authors don't get a chance to edit their finished work unless they're lucky enough to get a second edition. At present, none of my books have second editions. 

(I am, however, able to easily edit my two self-published e-books, at least the e-versions of them.) 

I've come across some juicy research lately that would've helped me make a stronger argument in my book, This Land Is Our Land, which critically examines modern-day private property and calls for an American right to roam. 

1. For starters, NYT published a lovely piece about land ownership in the West, where Texas billionaires are purchasing huge parcels of land and closing off historic public access points. I discuss this at length in my book, but the author of this piece did some admirable reporting that shows just who these landowners are. 

2. As I discussed in my last blog post, NYT also published an Op-Ed about how much land has been taken from black people (11 million acres). African Americans own and have access to very little private land. (Minorities own only 3 percent of agricultural land despite making up more than a third of the U.S. population.) These numbers add legitimacy to the claim that a lot of land in the U.S. has been acquired through fraud, deception, and theft. Therefore, landowners, I'd argue, shouldn't have as much power as they do, especially with regard to their right to exclude. I argue in my book that a "right to roam" is one small but significant way to correct historic wrongs, as it has in Scotland. 

3. Mike Huckabee and a bunch of rich people in Florida are trying to turn public beaches private. Stories like these can help illustrate the problem and appall readers. 

4. I was once told by a smart person that gated communities are now the most common type of housing development being built in the U.S. Through my research, I could not confirm that statement, but I did learn that gated communities are indeed being developed at a rate never seen before. This troubles me for all the reasons you might expect. From the linked article: 
Across the United States, more than 10 million housing units are in gated communities, where access is 'secured with walls or fences,' according to 2009 Census Bureau data. Roughly 10 percent of the occupied homes in this country are in gated communities, though that figure is misleadingly low because it doesn’t include temporarily vacant homes or second homes. Between 2001 and 2009, the United States saw a 53 percent growth in occupied housing units nestled in gated communities.

I'm writing this blog post, in part, to create a list of updates I'd like to add if I'm ever so lucky to get a second edition. 

Friday, June 21, 2019

Land ownership inequality

"Who Own's the Land?" Rural America.  Winter 2002. Vol 17. Issue 4.

Andrew W. Kahrl wrote an Op-Ed for NYT about whites dispossessing blacks of land: 
But in addition to invoking the 40 acres black people never got, the reparations movement today should be talking about the approximately 11 million acres black people had but lost, in many cases through fraud, deception and outright theft, much of it taken in the past 50 years.
I wish I'd had this research when I was writing This Land Is Our Land. I knew that African Americans' land had been unjustly taken, but I didn't know how much. These numbers add legitimacy to the claim that a lot of land in the U.S. has been acquired through fraud, deception, and theft. I argue in my book that a "right to roam" is one small but significant way to correct historic wrongs, as it has in Scotland (but of course I'm not suggesting that a right to roam should take the place of necessary and proper reparations).

I think the article is great as it is, but it might have been even more effective if we could have seen up-to-date statistics that show the harmful legacy of land dispossession, in terms of present-day land ownership inequality. Fortunately, I at least have that in my book. 


According to the USDA’s 2014 Tenure, Ownership, and Transition of Agricultural Land Survey, "In terms of race, 97 percent of principal landlords are white. Two percent are Hispanic, regardless of race. Landlords who are white accounted for 98 percent of rent received, expenses, and the value of land and buildings, and 99 percent of debt, in 2014."

The exact quote from my book
According to the USDA’s ownership survey in 1999, only 3.4 million of us (or 1.2 percent of the population) owned agricultural land, which makes up 49 percent of the land in the Lower Forty-​Eight states. It looks even worse when you factor in the low levels of ethnic minority land ownership. Ethnic minorities make up 38 percent of the US population, but, according to the USDA’s 2014 Tenure, Ownership, and Transition of Agricultural Land Survey, 97 percent of agricultural landlords are white. This means an overwhelmingly white 1 percent of the population has the right to exclude 99 percent of Americans from 49 percent of the land in the Lower Forty-​Eight states.
One bright note to end on... Although whites dominate agricultural land ownership, there is at least an uptick in black ownership of land in the last few years. African Americans have increased their ownership of agricultural land by  12 percent since 2007, according to a 2014 study. 

Friday, June 14, 2019

Six days on the Cape Wrath

The Cape Wrath Trail is roughly 230 miles long, stretching from the town of Fort William to the Cape Wrath Lighthouse on the northwest point of Scotland. I hiked about forty miles of the trail two years ago to write a Backpacker Magazine article about Scotland's "right to roam." This blog entry is about my ninety-mile hike of the northern portion of the trail, which I completed a few days ago.

Day 1: Inverlael to Knockdampf Bothy 

I took a train from Edinburgh to Inverness, and then a bus to Inverlael, a tiny village not far from the bigger village of Ullapool. It was here that I'd begin my meander up an unofficial trail that is, I estimate, 80 percent road, rough track, and trail, and 20 percent wild land. I'd come to the trail because I was finding the routine of city life in Edinburgh vaguely stultifying. I was feeling the absence of something essential in my routine of recycling, tidying, forced jogging, forced walking, and daily grocery store visit. I suppose this trip was forced hiking, concocted for yet more practical reasons of physical and existential upkeep, but there was just a touch of wild romanticism to the jaunt that gave me the tiniest fluttering of excitement.  

It took hours for my nausea from the bus ride to pass, and, when it did, my mood didn't get any better because I found the steady trickle of rain and my raw pinkie toes, that were already on the verge of blistering, irritating. 

I did, though, enjoy sunset views of Glen Douchary, where there was a magnificent waterfall, which at this dark hour felt sinister and which I kept a safe distance from. Around midnight, I entered Knockdamph bothy, where I intended to sleep. I was a bit worried about startling any fellow hikers, but that didn't stop me from climbing the stairs to inspect the second-floor room. With each footstep, the staircase floorboards hauntingly creaked, and I was sure I was, with my headlamp and ghostly steps, terrifying someone, if there was a someone. But I was pleased to see that I had the whole bothy to myself. The next day I resolved to be less creepy upon entering future bothies. 


Glen Douchary


Knockdamph Bothy, campsite #1

Knockdamph Bothy, campsite #1

Day 2: Knockdampf Bothy to Benmore Lodge 

I awoke at 7:30 a.m., but didn't get on the trail again till 10 a.m. due to general lollygagging and waiting for my oatmeal to cool. Between my sore feet, a few missteps due to poor map-reading, and my general slowness in packing, I realized that, as a hiker, I was very rusty. How quickly do unexercised skills fade! I even felt momentarily disgusted upon savagely plunging my boots, ankle-deep, into cold boga discomfort, I'd learned long ago, to be indifferent to. 

I determined to speed up my packing every morning, and by the end of this hike, I would have my pack on my back in about twenty-five minutes, which includes time spent taking down and packing my tent. 

I spent the afternoon thinking about writing an Op-Ed called, "Scotland Is Ugly" because I think Scotland's reputation as a land of unparalleled natural beauty is exaggerated and uninformed. When outsiders think of Scotland, they think of the deep-green countrysides, the misty mountains, the coastlines where oceans bash against cliffs. But ugliness abounds. There are tons of homeless people in the city of Edinburgh, where I live. The public has a strange fondness for plastic. There's trash all over the place. There are too many kitschy shops and a lot of really unhealthy food. But the ugliest parts of Scotland are its woodlands. 

I should say that Scottish forests, when left alone (usually in places so rough that they can't be reached by loggers), feel healthy and alive, even magical. But a whopping 70 percent of Scottish forests are made up of Sitka spruce. The Sitka spruce is a tree from North America that grows straight and fast. These trees, in Scotland, are planted in vast monoculture forests. Walk into one of these forests and all you see are Sitka spruce. There'll be some moss and grass underfoot, but no squirrels skittering up trunks. No birds flitting from branch to branch. No sign of animal scat. The trees are doing fine, but the forest is empty, quiet, and dead, and because of that, it's ugly. And then the timber companies clear-cut the forests all in one go, leaving nothing but ugly, barren devastation. I understand the need for timber, but the operation seems to be uniformly carried out with little thought about promoting animal habitat or preserving aesthetic beauty. 

Scots are generally unaware of the fact that they have lousy forests because that's all they know, the same way we Americans unthinkingly accept the land absent of buffalo and skies absent of passenger pigeons as ordinary. The status quo is all we know. 

Ecologist and forester Aldo Leopold wrote that, “One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds." In other words, we, who are ecologically-aware, are afflicted with the ability to notice the world's wounds. A first-time tourist of the Highlands may be awestruck upon seeing the dramatic hills. But now I mostly see just emptiness. I think that I should be seeing a thriving Caledonian forest. I should be seeing an ecological community of wolves, beavers, moose, and all the bugs and birds that make such a place feel alive. But no. Just brooding mountains, dead forests, and the domesticated sheep and deer herds that are little more than sapling-devouring pests.  

I'm no ecologist, but I often find myself living in a world of wounds. And Scotland's a country covered in wounds. No one wants to walk across a countryside in a constant state of disgust, but that's often what I do. I try to set aside my criticisms and enjoy Scotland for what it is. I take comfort in knowing that there are experts who want to re-wild Britain and who want to convert agricultural land into wild land. But take this observation for what it is (and this is an observation from one highly critical wilderness snob with no real science education): Scotland, and Britain as a whole, may have the worst biodiversity in the world, given how Britain is a relatively warm and certainly well-watered country that could support so much more life.  

The Schoolhouse Bothy 



A clear-cut Sitka spruce forest


Campsite #2. You can see the Sitka spruce on each side of the photograph.

Day 3: Benmore Lodge to Glencoul Bothy

I increasingly hear peers say, "We're getting old!," as an explanation for an injury, illness, or premature fatigue. I've heard my friends say it. I've heard people on my softball team say it. It's one of those things you hear often enough that you weirdly feel compelled to repeat it, even if you don't think the words contain much truth. Perhaps it's one of those conformity-implanted sayings that we utter to fill in conversational blanks. It's a comforting-to-hear self-effacing acknowledgment of one's fragility. But it's also ridiculous. And dangerous. 35 is not old. Neither is 55. I have a friend who is fit and regularly hikes, and he is 70. This dude, who is over 100 and is sprinting, is not old. The thing about "We're getting old" is that you're in danger of making it come true the more you say it. Those aches and illnesses and the premature fatigue are more than likely the product of poor exercise and diet, and to blame physical problems exclusively on old age is to dismiss the root causes. I'm young. I don't feel old at all. And my aches and pains on this hike are only due to the fact that I haven't been on a real multi-day hike in over a year. Be careful what you say. You may get what you utter. 

I also started thinking about the problem of the dwindling inner life force in middle-age men, an age classification that now more or less describes me. One of the most energizing life forces that can fuel a young man involves getting a woman, whether for sex or something more. This fuels a man to better himself, to keep himself in shape, to strive and do and accomplish. Things change, and a lot of men tend to let their bodies go and they lose a bit of their wild spirit. (I'm sure there are parallels to the female experience, but let me focus in on what I'm most familiar with.) I think one of the challenges for such men is to find a way to jumpstart this life force, perhaps by finding an energizing passion or committing to a larger goal that has nothing to do with a mate. We need to trick ourselves into finding a substitute life force, and trick is probably, hopefully, the wrong word. If done right, this might allow us to bypass middle-age doldrums and advance into our senior years with momentum and verve. Or maybe I'm just overly preoccupied with aging and death, and some acceptance of changing focuses, bodies, and energy levels is a necessary thing. Yet, it seems women age much better than men, and I sense it doesn't have to be this way. Are hikes like the Cape Wrath a good enough remedy? Are wild hiking trips for a few weeks or cabin visits for a few months of the year good enough? Will they pump sufficient energy into the soul and make the rest of the year more livable? My instinct tells me that mere "escapes" are not good enough, but maybe. 

These were my thoughts as I walked under a warm sun and cloud shadows. The scenery had shifted from the grotesque tree farms to the south to a hilly land of bare rock and short grass. While the countryside was still lifeless, at least it seemed more authentically lifeless. We find the Antarctic landscape or a Greenland glacier beautiful (even if they're deadly and uninhabitable) because they exist in something close to their natural state. They are what they are and they're beautiful for it, whether or not they're capable of being a suitable home to a bug. So it's not necessarily fertility or biodiversity that dazzles us; it's authenticity, it's purity, it's sustainability. And here, farther north, things felt a touch more ecologically-correct, even if I still hungered for the sign of a hare or a distant herd of European bison.   

I've been reading Robin Wall Kimmerer's Braiding Sweetgrass, and one thing I like about it is the non-cynical way she views humans' potential relationship with nature. In one passage, she tells the story of when she asked her students if they thought humans have ever done anything good for nature. Paraphrasing, the students cynically responded, "No, all we ever do is screw things up." But Kimmerer, drawing from her indigenous background, explained how humans can, through thoughtful intervention, expand biodiversity, such as with planned burnings to create vibrant meadows. This all had me thinking that, one day, I'd like to see people working as "eco-farmers." Rather than extracting resources for profit, these ecologically-trained eco-farmers would work solely to increase biodiversity and promote healthy ecology. In other words, their job would have everything to do with growing and nothing to do with extracting. They would have nothing to do with maximizing crop production, or producing crops whatsoever; it'd all be about producing and maximizing life. An eco-farmer in Scotland might strive to replant indigenous tree species on her acre of land, trap bird-hunting house cats, or create habitat for reintroduced wolves or lynx. Aldo Leopold was a sort of eco-farmer. In the 1930s, he bought some worn-out farmland in Wisconsin with the goal of reviving it. For decades, he and his family replanted nearly 40,000 trees. What is work more honorable than that? Eco-farming jobs would address the problem of rural depopulation since it would provide steady work for rural families, which could be a family trade passed down from generation to generation, much like old-school farming. And it's a complicated job that would be hard to robotically automate. We'd need countless well-trained human eco-farmers to, generation after generation, rejuvenate healthy ecological systems on the micro and macro scales. 

As I walked up the east side of Meall an Aonaich, someone, who'd been camping by an alpine lake, started closely following me up the hill. Having someone directly behind me, after having the whole landscape to myself for the previous two days, felt weirdly invasive. When we approached the top of the mountain pass, I said hello. He was a young, affable Frenchman named Antoine. We briefly talked about fishing (he'd caught a trout the night before) and Alaska, where he'd gone on a several-week hike in Denali National Park. To give him space, I let him advance ahead of me as I snacked, but I soon regretted it as I thought we might have had a good chat, which would have served as a pleasant interlude of sociableness on an otherwise solitary trip. I'd never see him again. By Loch an Eircill, another small alpine lake, I met an Englishwoman and two Englishmen, who stopped to chat as I sat on the ground drying my socks and airing out my feet. One of the men took the liberty of picking up my boot and examining the sole, criticizing the maker's use of "nipple-like" rubber grips. Later, at the Glencoul Bothy, I reported this hiker's "minor impertinence" in the bothy journal. When they walked away, I realized my zipper fly had been wide open for the length of our chat. I'd only been hiking for three days, and already I was forgetting the niceties of civilized life.   


Allt Sail an Ruathair






Campsite #3, the Glencoul Bothy

The entry in which I reported the impertinence

Day 4: Glencoul Bothy to north of Ben Stack 


I walked the perimeter of a couple of big lochs to Glendhu bothy. After filling up my water bottle by the creek, I took off my boots for my first of several feet airings, which was part of my daily foot-care protocol, which also included at least three sock-washings a day at creek crossings. As I walked around the cool grass near the bothy under a warm sun, I began to remember old sensations. Having my bare feet on the ground felt like meeting an old friend. It felt profound, and I told myself that I ought to evoke these sensations more often.

Despite the morning's enchantments, I'd spend the greater part of my afternoon morbidly ruminating. Morbid rumination (the term I use for "darkly dwelling on things that bother me") is probably my worst psychological flaw. I try to manage it (it gets really bad when I'm fasting), though, more than often, I simply let it run wild. And sometimes a hike, even in an enchanting countryside, is the perfect time for morbid thoughts to flourish. So I had lots of disagreements in my head with friends and acquaintances. I imagined scenarios in which people laughed at me. I thought of old slights and disagreements. I thought of minor impertinences and what I'd say the next time they happened. Sometimes these mental discussions would end dramatically with me thinking about saying, "You will not besmirch my character!" After one of these especially ridiculous lines, I sighed, yelped "Wow: man, can I ruminate!" at the inanity of it all, and was finally able to enjoy less rancorous musings.    

Bugs skittered out of bushes. I walked past two horses diligently scarfing up grass. The day was so warm I napped on the peak of Ben Dreavie, just behind a big boulder that blocked the wind. My body felt strong and fit, despite the constant foot soreness. I applied my third coating of sunscreen. Every few miles I'd hear the new rush of a waterfall. Small birds whistled sweet songs in the thick of blooming gorse. I was having a grand time.

Glendu bothy

Ben Stack in the distance, I believe


A land of rock of grass


Outbuilding near Lochstack Lodge, where I ate dinner

Ben Stack

Campsite #4

Near Rhiconich

Inshegra

Inshegra

Day 5: North of Ben Stack to Strathan bothy

They day started off cloudy, but the sky became clear again by midday, making this the third straight day of sunshine, which was a remarkable treat given that northwest Scotland gets around 180 inches of precipitation a year. I surprised myself with my mileage, cruising to the village of Rhiconich by 9:30 a.m. I arrived at the Strathan bothy by 5:00 p.m., and although I had plenty more sunlight, I decided I'd rather have the comforts of a bothy than more miles. 

Bothies are one of my favorite features of hiking in Scotland. You never know who you might meet in one. Plus, the bothies have more history and character than AT trail shelters, not to mention a fourth wall. One of my simplest pleasures is to read bothy journals from start to finish. I find something cozy and nostalgic about reading of other people's journeys in an old musty book. It brings me the same feeling of nostalgia I get when reading a newspaper from fifty years ago, perhaps because I feel strangely connected with people I never met and will never know. Each journal is like like a one-of-a-kind book, written by a thousand authors. Indeed, most of the entries are quite dry and boring. ("Came from ___. It was soggy and we were happy to find this cozy spot. Thanks MBA!") But I enjoy looking at the names, where they came from, what their handwriting looks like. Sometimes you'll find the odd poem or drawing that lights up a page. I could spend hours going through these old books, and that's just what I did in the Strathan bothy. Here's my lightly edited bothy entry: 
I’ve had two bothies to myself, and this might be my third if no one arrives tonight. Where is everybody? This is some of the most beautiful country in the world. These bothies are gifts. There ought to be thousands coming out to hike the CW, the way they come out to hike the Camino or AT. Of course I don’t want that. It was wonderful having a whole landscape to myself for the better part of a week. I suppose I’m just sayin I'm surprised that these experiences aren’t more sought after. I’ve been living in Scotland for 1.5 years and have gone on many hikes, but it was these last few days on the CW when I think I finally fell in love with Scotland.  


Campsite #5. You can see the Strathan bothy on the far right. The Atlantic ocean is straight ahead.

Photo on wall in Strathan bothy

Strathan bothy


A mythical tale. 

How about that handwriting? He/she was from Lithuania. 





















Day 6: Strathan bothy to Cape Wrath Lighthouse to Durness

I woke at 4:00 a.m., which wasn't hard to do, since I'd gone to bed early and because the days are so long at this latitude that I first saw daylight around 3 a.m. My goal was to walk to the Cape Wrath Lighthouse before 2 p.m., so I could get a lift on a tourist bus that takes people to the ferry at the Kyle of Durness. I surprised myself with how swiftly I moved, climbing over a couple of mountain passes, and completing ten miles of entirely wild walking by 10 a.m. (It helped that I was no longer hauling 8-10 lbs of food.) 

It was a surprise and joy to finally see the lighthouse, which had just gotten a fresh coating of paint. The lighthouse is an arbitrary end point to the unofficial trail, but having some monument at the end of a long walk provides a sense of closure, much the same way the high peak of Mount Katahdin ably serves as the end point (or beginning) of the Appalachian Trail. This northwest point of Scotland has been called "Am Parbh," derived from Norse meaning "turning point," because this was the point where Nordic ships would turn east to head home. I caught my lift, followed by a ferry, a bus ride, and a train ride back to Edinburgh. 



Cape Wrath Lighthouse

Cape Wrath Lighthouse, with a fresh coating of paint






 

Feeling rejuvenated, on the ferry over the Kyle of Durness