The Wilderness Bug

I define “the wilderness bug” as the case when a person finds inspiration and contentment most commonly far from the constraints of people living together, in places were the culture of people has made the least inroad upon the natural world. My fictional character Paul definitely has the “wilderness bug.” He’s a kid right now, and part of what leads him into reverence for the wilder side of nature is the fact that he had polio. As with Teddy Roosevelt, ill health leads to a great desire to triumph over it. For at least the middle of his life, Paul is strong and capable. He searches out places and experiences in which he can enjoy the wild, becoming one with trees, animals and the weather.

Though we are every day reminded that our fragile planet is endangered by human occupation [seas of plastic in the Pacific, global weather disruption, heavy pollution], America was fortunate to have people who loved wilderness fight for it early enough to protect what they could. In California, John Muir is the patron saint of environmentalism. We have much to thank him for. The national park bill was passed under his advocacy as early as 1890.

Two powerful Midwestern writers have contributed to the modern understanding of relationships between men and nature. The Sand County Almanac [1949] is Aldo Leopold’s musing on a lifetime of forest and wildlife management while specific to a patch of land he purchased in central Wisconsin. Seeing a place even for predators in the biotic community, he helped found The Wilderness Society in the mid-1930’s.

Sigurd Olson lived most of his life in Ely, Minnesota near the boundary waters between Canada and the U.S. He, more than anyone I’ve read, had the “wilderness bug”. In his book The Singing Wilderness [1956], he described his belief that in the silence and solitude of wilderness, people can connect to their evolutionary heritage and get a sense of the sacredness of all creation. He was president of The Wilderness Society in the 1960’s and was instrumental in preserving wild and beautiful areas in California, Alaska and northern Minnesota.

Olson’s biographer, David Backes, compares the two, saying that if Leopold is an Old Testament prophet, then Olson is a New Testament evangelist. “Where Leopold invokes the God of power and wrath, preaching proper ethical behavior toward the land and prophesying doom if society disobeys, Olson invites his readers to experience the God of love, as made manifest in nature.”

As the U.S. population increases [63 million in 1890, 149 million in 1949, 169 million in 1956 and 314 million today], wilderness only becomes more precious. Education in ecological ethics is crucial. I am happy to see the “Leave No Trace” organization [http://lnt.org/] so active in our country. It is the obvious corollary to the wilderness areas set aside by the work of so many diligent people. I recommend the poetic writings of Muir, Leopold and Olson as witness.

Not being terribly gutsy, I prefer situations where there is at least modest human support; and I wouldn’t be a novelist if I didn’t think people weren’t part of the natural order. But I also love places where I can enjoy an untrammeled experience of woods, water, sky, birds and animals. As I write, a spectacular sky, blue studded with drifts of pink and gold clouds, exhibits itself behind the dark pine tree and the Hawaiian wedding tree, the further oaks and sycamores, outside our study window. My sunset is mediated by screens, framed by windows. But I suspect my enjoyment of it is enhanced by whatever “wilderness bug” I inherited from my nature-loving parents.