A red fox moves through Yellowstone's Hayden Valley in winter. How do wild animals know 'solace' and thrive in landscapes free of lots of people? Most humans don't ponder the space wildlife needs; most humans probably don't appreciate the value of 'thinking space' in nature. Photo courtesy Steven Fuller/Yellowstone winter keeper and MoJo columnist
EDITOR'S NOTE: This is not a political statement but a pronouncement of fact based upon countless conversations Mountain Journal has had with federal professional employees working for public land and resource protection agencies. During the Trump Administration, employee morale has tumbled in many agencies, longtime experts opted for early retirement, and seasoned veterans like MoJo columnist and award-winning writer/naturalist Susan Marsh, who had retired earlier following a multi-decade career with the Forest Service in Bozeman and Jackson Hole, worried about proposed rollbacks in landmark environmental laws.
By Susan Marsh
Solace in nature is not a new theme but it seems needed now more than ever. Late in life, though I have stayed active and fit through my 60s, I feel a door closing behind me. Moments of joy are now more difficult to find—I have to consciously work at them sometimes.
There are many reasons for this, both personal and general. Living is harder for those whose native vigor begins to wane. Crawling on the floor to retrieve that dust bunny under the table seems less important than it once did, not because I want a messy house but my arthritic knees are not willing to kiss hardwood anymore.
Hardness is what I feel lately, in the cold air that slaps your face on a frosty morning and hardness in the headlines of national and world news. I want to write hopeful words, not downers, to lift up those who may feel the same way I do. It’s hard.
I do have hope for a bit more unity in our country now that the instigator in chief is about to be replaced. But what damage can be done in the coming weeks as every environmental regulation is on the chopping block, even the protections a century old for migratory birds? For what purpose? To benefit whom?
It feels more like a because-I-can move than anything with rationale behind it. Why rush to lease the North Slope of Alaska around the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge instead of wisely using resources closer at hand? Why sell said resources overseas rather than holding them for energy self-sufficiency? It feels as if there is a move to empty our natural-resource savings account as quickly as we can.
This isn’t the country I grew up in— I know, everyone says that. There are too many of us, for starters, and we’re not willing to even mention that fact in public. And too many of us flaunt their extravagant wealth while too many others can’t make the monthly rent. It’s a litany of sorts, the contributing factors to what threatens to bring us down.
In the meanwhile the news is full of "please don’t travel for the holidays" and "please wear a mask" while the advertisements in between news bites are full of families gathering around a turkey and laughing, hugging, eating and drinking together, all the things we are being begged to avoid. No wonder people are confused, and just shrugging, making it up on their own rather than having to choose between misinformation and actual information that may not be what they want to hear.
The myth of American exceptionalism withers slowly, but the current Covid crisis might give it a push. I can’t forget an interview I saw just before Thanksgiving, in which a man traveling for the holiday sans mask was asked why. The interviewer reeled off the usual warnings about Covid and appropriate behavior for protecting oneself and others. The man agreed, “I can see that,” he said, and went on to agree with the science behind the protocol. “But,” he added with a shrug and smile, “this is the United States of America.”
Was that the only rationale he could come up with? The rules apply to everyone but me is what he seemed to be conveying, without any attempt to justify his behavior. Then I thought his might be the perfect rationale. In so few words he captured the attitude of me, not we; rights without responsibilities; liberty defined as doing whatever I want.
More and more, after decades of resisting this caricature of Americans that the rest of the world seems to hold, I see its truth. Gone are the days of "ask not what your country can do for you...." but it’s not clear what we will replace them with. The words of another revered president of years past come to mind—a house divided cannot stand.
° ° ° °
I’m writing this almost 100 years to the day since William Butler Yeats wrote his poem The Second Coming. The poem has been whizzing around the internet for the past few years, and among the many memorable lines are these:
"The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."
That sums up human nature, I suppose, but more specifically in our time. The scaffolding of our divided house grows weak. People of moderate and tolerant temperament become timid in the face of neo-Nazis brandishing military weapons and people blustering about their constitutional right to do what they want, including going maskless in public. (We cherry-pick everything from national charters to the Bible. What about the part of the U.S. Constitution that gives government the responsibility to protect its citizens?)
Yet I see each day, in addition to the defiant glares of those who refuse to mask up at the post office, strangers being kind to one another. Kindness is a reflex: someone drops a pen on the floor and people swoop to pick it up. These little courtesies give me hope that we will stand up to the forces that threaten to blow us over.
And the other thing that gives hope, always, is getting outside.
Now that the night temperatures hover near zero in northwest Wyoming where I live, there’s no question that most of us stay indoors for more hours of each day than we would like to, especially when one is older with creaky knees.
I don’t need a week-long expedition for the weight to lift off my back—it only takes a few minutes to feel the muscles in my face relax as the toes in my ski boots warm to life. It only takes the sight of a dozen bull elk resting on a sunny ridge as I drive to a trailhead, or watching a pair of ravens cavorting overhead, oblivious of the cold.
I don’t need a week-long expedition for the weight to lift off my back—it only takes a few minutes to feel the muscles in my face relax as the toes in my ski boots warm to life. It only takes the sight of a dozen bull elk resting on a sunny ridge as I drive to a trailhead, or watching a pair of ravens cavorting overhead, oblivious of the cold.
I come home refreshed but how long can I hold onto my feeling of well-being? I stand in the driveway where chickadees flitting in the spruce make me smile, and a late-migrating hermit thrush peeps gently. I know I’m procrastinating, not wanting to enter the house where the news casts await.
I spend far too much of my day in a state of anxiety and anger, most of it subconscious until it comes out as a spoon flung across the kitchen after falling out of the dish drainer for the second time. (I did find a flatware drainer that works better.) I retreat to a sunny window to watch the feeder birds, but it isn’t long before some chore or errand comes to mind, something that pulls me out of reverie. There’s much to attend in keeping a household running, including the damn dust bunnies that have been reproducing like rabbits.
No immediate demands: one reason why a ramble in the hills is so soothing to the soul. It’s all about being here now, especially when you have no companion to distract you or dog to keep track of. You can lose yourself, become part of a larger whole, entranced by the way low sunlight ignites the cured grasses and sends long shadows from under a stand of firs.
The wild earth, though gravely threatened by one species, continues. The rambler’s senses re-engage, ears listen for birds or coyotes or wind in the trees instead of closing down against the news. Anxiety lifts, breath comes deep and satisfying. We become human.
Just writing about it slows my pulse. Wildness is an antidote we are lucky to have access to in the Greater Yellowstone region, and one that I hope we continue to defend with conviction and passionate intensity.
SUGGESTIONS FOR WINTER READING: Marsh is author of several works, including the memoir A Hunger For High Country that draws upon her many years of experience working as a backcountry/wilderness specialist with the Forest Service in Bozeman and Jackson Hole. She also is author of War Creek, winner of the May Sarton Award for contemporary fiction.
About Susan Marsh
Susan Marsh spent three decades with the U.S. Forest Service and is today an award-winning writer living in Jackson Hole.
