When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world: and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene.
JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK
IN 1976, GUY and I began writing a hiking and camping column for a Boston-based magazine called New England Outdoors. We were spending a lot of time in the woods then, and we were seeing impacts—eroded trails, trashed campsites, braided paths through the alpine tundra—that we found deeply disturbing. We weren’t the only ones. The hiking clubs across the country and government agencies were also perplexed about how to “protect the resource” from the unprecedented upsurge of hikers and backpackers.
This book was first published under the title Backwoods Ethics in 1979. The subtitle was Environmental Concerns for Hikers and Campers, and our aim, as we wrote in the introduction to that first edition, was “not to provide answers as much as to provoke questions in the minds of all those who are concerned about the future of the backcountry environment.” We saw those concerns in two parts: protecting the physical environment, the land itself; and preserving what we go out there for, the psychological feeling of being in the wild. Underlying both, we felt, was our responsibility to become caring stewards of the land.
With the emergence of this third edition, with the new title of The Green Guide to Low-Impact Hiking and Camping, what we wrote then is even more true today as more people hit the trails in search of solace or fun or physical exercise—or simply for the love of being outdoors. Changes in the gear we bring with us can make our trips safer and more comfortable, but the biggest change in our relationship with the wild since the book’s second edition (published in 1993) is the technological one: smartphones and tablets, those extremely portable devices that can erase space and mock the word “inaccessible.” They have placed on us the burden of choosing what kind of experience we want when we go into the woods, or up on the heights, whether it be the local hill we run up after work or the mountain adventure we’re counting on to take us into a place that is truly wild.
Gear improvements continue to make our equipment lighter, more compact, more comfortable, safer, easier to use, and, these days, more environmentally friendly. They are as eagerly written about today as when backpacking gurus like Colin Fletcher, in his The Complete Walker, had all of us of a certain generation sawing off the handles of our toothbrushes. The layers we wear have grown thinner even as they keep us, if not always warmer, at least drier. That beloved but heavy wool sweater sits in the bottom drawer; that expedition down parka, although it might have been the warmest garment ever devised, hangs in the back of the closet, just too bulky. Freeze-dried food is lighter, more varied with ethnic selections (chicken teriyaki, anyone?), and some might claim it tastes a lot less like cardboard. Water purification devices, rarely needed 25 years ago, are commonplace. We can stay better hydrated with the water bags in our packs, accessed through that handy tube.
Tents are easier to erect, better ventilated, and come in a greater variety of shapes to accommodate differing uses. Boots, too, can suit our hike objectives in terms of weight, breathability, water resistance, warmth, support, stability, and comfort. Packs are better ventilated and ergonomically sculpted to fit our bodies. Rain gear is just about guaranteed to keep us dry in a monsoon. If you’re looking for a low-impact alternative to gas, there’s a stove on the market that will burn pieces of wood cleanly and efficiently. We can read waterproof maps in a downpour. The lightweight materials used in everything from sleeping bags to climbing gear have dropped 20 to 25 pounds off backpackers’ backs, an advantage that’s kinder to our knees, especially if you hike with trekking poles—not forgetting that the poles with blunted tips don’t poke holes in the earth where soils are thin and the plants fragile. All in all, we can just plain be more comfortable, while moving faster and more safely out there in this second decade of the 21st century.
But what about this communication technology we’ve brought along? Now we can carry our everyday lives with us when we’re out in the wild. We can keep in touch with the office, our friends, and family. We can follow the news, check the gyrations of the stock market, work our brains with Sudoku or crossword puzzles until it might cross our minds that we haven’t really left home at all! We sleep in sleeping bags and have sore feet from the miles we walked, but our mind is on the message our boss texted that had us checking up on a lot more of our work obligations than we’d expected. That call from an old friend was nice, but kind of an interruption. This device in our palm has changed our lives, revolutionizing the way we communicate, how we learn, and possibly how we think. It has its place in our world, but today we’ve come out here to spend time in the wild.
Take that global positioning system, GPS. It’s a very useful device for trail workers. They can log all the data about trail repairs (waterbars, stone steps, other trail erosion problems) right there in the field, saving hours of work back in the office. For us hikers, the GPS can tell us where we are. It can help us find ourselves if we get lost.
But the GPS is not infallible. It’s pretty handy to be familiar with the map and compass, as the how-to guides advise. But safety reasons aside, being familiar with map and compass does something for us the GPS can’t duplicate: It puts us in touch with the terrain itself. We look at the map showing us the ridges and summits, streams, and cols. The contour lines show us how steep the terrain we want to ascend or descend actually is. In this way we learn something about this physical place, actual on-the-ground information. Before any off-trail bushwhack, Guy and I would measure the compass angles of our intended route on the map, then write them on an index card that we carried in a convenient shirt pocket. Often we found ourselves walking, compass in hand, through the dense woods to make sure we stayed on that compass course. Not that we can’t do this with the GPS. All you have to do is keep your eye on the screen. But by letting it do the work, two things happen: Our skill level with map and compass drops, and we change the relationship we have to the land itself. We’ve interposed this digital device between ourselves and the wild.
These days, accidents reported in newspapers or by the hiking clubs might start off like this: “At 9:45 P.M., New Hampshire Fish and Game received a call from the county sheriff’s office notifying them of a cell phone call from a hiker who had broken his leg” (or become lost, or was overtaken by darkness, or was caught in a storm). Sometimes the party can be talked down and back out to the highway, but often the local search and rescue group is alerted and heads out to help. Calling for a rescue on our cell phones has saved lives. But what can cost lives is if this phone we’re relying on is in a dead spot and can’t receive a signal. Having this wonderful tool in our packs can work in contradictory ways. We’re safer with it, or we think we are, and because we know it’s there we tend to overextend ourselves. We might go for that extra summit or that shelter that will have us walking into the dark on a trail we’ve not been on before. The security of the phone can turn out to be a false lifeline.
A very sad and tragic accident happened in February 2015 in the Presidential Range of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. A talented and fit mountaineer carrying both a GPS and a personal locator beacon (PLB) set off to traverse the range on a day when the forecast called for below-zero temperatures, with winds from the north starting at 45 mph, rising by mid-morning to 80 mph and then reaching 100 mph. Kate Matrosova, 32, Russian born, had already climbed a number of the world’s highest mountains. She’d driven up with her husband from New York City to celebrate her impending citizenship by hiking across the Presidential summits of Madison, Adams, Jefferson, Clay, and Washington. Kate was aware of the forecast on that particular Valentine’s Day weekend. She knew such an undertaking would make for a challenging winter trek in the best of conditions. She knew the Northeast had been experiencing a harsh winter, with the snow piling up to great depths in the woods, and she knew that when she gained the treeline she would be exposed to winds of hurricane force for the greater part of the day.
At 3:30 P.M. Kate’s husband received a call from the Tyndall Air Force Base near Panama City, Florida, where Kate’s PLB had been picked up. He called 9-1-1, starting the search and rescue. Several location points were given and the search parties chose the ones they felt they could most easily reach, given the cold, the ferocity of the wind, and the darkness. Authorities speculated that the frozen air could have affected the beacon, but perhaps nothing could have saved Kate given the belligerence of the weather, even if the coordinates had led the rescuers right to her. She was found the next morning, her feet tangled in the stunted scrub, her pack blown downslope. In Kate Matrosova’s death lies the cautionary tale of nature’s power over our most sophisticated technology.
Recently my friend, novelist Jonathan Strong, told me of a trip he’d taken with three other teenagers and their teacher in 1960. They were on a trek along the then-unmapped Inca Trail in the Andes. On their last day they found themselves stopped by the edge of a cliff—no way down. No way home! My friend’s feeling, as he contemplated the enormous drop, was that they’d reached the edge of the earth. With no map or written directions, and only their eyes and brains to figure out how to reach the valley below, they realized they’d followed the wrong ridge. After a frosty night on the ledge with no food or water, the next morning they gained the correct ridge that took them out. In fact, their mishap had turned out to be a great adventure, a story my friend enjoyed telling, partly because it is unduplicatable today. Their only point of contact, he said, was the American Express office in Lima. That’s where the parents would have called if, after a specified amount of time, they hadn’t heard that all were out and safe.
That party—in fact all trips in the not-very-distant past of the late 20th century—was best off to consider themselves on their own. Radios were available, but they were heavy and unreliable. So those words have a meaning now lost, a meaning hard to imagine with the digital technology at our fingertips. It’s impossible to reenact that “on our own” experience with a cell phone in our pocket.
Is something lost? Well, yes, and there is a sadness to that. The clock only runs forward. But I’d like to think we can gain something as well. For one thing, just because these digital devices can insert themselves between us and the wild, we are given the opportunity to be more mindful of where we are when we’re out there. We go into the woods and up on the heights for our souls. Who is thinking about their souls these days or what our souls need? We must work harder to find that wildness now, and so it becomes more precious. And that which is precious, we safeguard. If our handheld devices have given us the opportunity to experience a more profound understanding of the fragility of wildness, that seems to me a good thing.
The image I always carry in my mind is Rob Hall on the south summit of Everest patched to his wife in New Zealand by satellite phone. In this 1996 expedition, Rob had successfully guided his clients to the top of the world, only to encounter on the descent an unforeseen storm of staggering fury. Rob fought his way down to the south summit, but was too cold and hypoxic to go on. Nor could his teammates reach him. He was stuck. Yet that patched call connected their voices. Rob was isolated, cut off from his fellow climbers whose rescue attempt had failed, yet he could hear his wife say, “Don’t feel that you are alone.” He, in turn, could tell her to “sleep well” and that he loved her. These were his dying words. No technological wizardry could withstand the natural forces that overcame Rob Hall.
The final section of this book, the one we call “Four Unresolved Impact Issues,” deals with the environmental effects of bushwhacks, dogs on the trails, rock climbers, and winter camping in the alpine zone. We used the word “unresolved” when we first wrote it because our own thoughts were not clear at the time. We needed to think more, think harder, and we asked our readers to do the same.
Wild land policies grow out of the changes in how the land is used—in this instance by hikers, backpackers, and climbers. Succeeding generations build on the past, on innovations in equipment and techniques, on our own evolving perceptions of the environment, and on the unforeseen. The clubs and public agencies can be in the position of scrambling to keep up. Such was the case when Guy and I began writing our camping and hiking column for New England Outdoors in the early 1970s. We were responding to the unprecedented growth of a hiking public coming to a mountain environment that could not handle the increased impact. The clubs and agencies thought hard and took action with innovative trail-hardening techniques, the closing of some high-altitude shelters, and a massive education effort for the hiking public—with signage and personal on-site contacts, caretakers at shelters and huts, and mountain stewards above treeline. The issues we called “unresolved” are now managed in a way that allows for changes that are bound to come.
Let’s take a look at the changes in off-trail travel, or bushwhacking.
Twenty of the 46 peaks over 4,000 feet in the Adirondacks are considered trailless by the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC), even though each is accessible by a herd path. There used to be multiple herd paths up these peaks, but the Adirondack 46ers, a peakbagging club concerned about their impacts, designated one herd path to be the route of ascent. As hiking traffic continued to increase on the trailless peaks, managers made the decision to show the route by a dotted line on the trail map published by the Adirondack Mountain Club. The object is to direct hikers to start their “bushwhack” in the same spot. Some basic maintenance is carried out, such as eliminating blowdowns that could result in hikers walking around the obstacle and creating more paths. A bushwhack from Gray Peak to New York’s highest, Mount Marcy, that took hikers across the vulnerable alpine tundra has been closed. Two good trails make Marcy’s summit accessible, giving ample reason to eliminate this bushwhack, and there are signs explaining this action. What is important is that the clubs and agencies have the health of the land as their top priority and make every effort to educate the hiking public.
In New Hampshire’s White Mountains, hikers are allowed to bushwhack anywhere. However, no off-trail travel is permitted for outfitters or guided parties, camps or school groups, or other large groups in the officially designated wilderness areas. These groups can make use of the forest in general for their programs, and this regulation seems to be working well. The Forest Service’s intention with the group restriction in wilderness areas is concern for the land, and by keeping impacts minimal they can ensure those who explore both on trail and off “outstanding opportunities for solitude,” as specified in the Wilderness Act.
As for trailless peaks, there is only one in the White Mountains over 4,000 feet. The herd path up is shown with a dotted line for the same reason—resource protection—as in the Adirondacks.
Hikers use patterns in the White Mountains that are creating impacts unforeseen 20 years ago. The peakbagging community has expanded its interests by climbing the 4,000-footers—there are 48—in each month of the year, a goal-driven game called “the grid.” The result is that more hikers are out there in the “shoulder seasons” of early spring and late fall, formerly a quiet time in the mountains. The other fallout here is that hikers are on the trails when they are most vulnerable to the freeze-thaw action and therefore to soil being displaced by boot traffic. Another goal-oriented game is “redlining”: hiking all the mapped trails shown with a red line. Redlining has shifted more use to little-hiked trails, which has the effect of impacting solitude as well as drawing more hikers to trails that had, historically, needed only light maintenance.
What can we do as concerned hikers? It’s pretty simple, really. Be aware of the kind of stewardship needed to safeguard the land and show consideration for our fellow hikers. In the above case, our hiking goals can affect a forest that is lightly used and receives few visitors.
Dogs on the trail have always been a subject that can raise the hackles of those who love hiking with Fido versus those who are nervous around dogs or have other objections. It’s best to check in advance how areas we plan to visit feel about this somewhat controversial topic. Here in the Northeast the hiking population has grown over the past two decades, and so we must conclude that the dog population has grown along with it. The Adirondacks have tightened up a little. Their most recent High Peaks Trails guidebook asks that all dogs be leashed when on the trails in the Eastern High Peaks, a high-use area, and prohibits dogs in the Adirondack Mountain Reserve, which has historically been the case. In the White Mountains, dogs can be off leash anywhere, including above treeline, though the Forest Service monitors dogs’ impacts in the alpine zone. Hikers are asked to have their dogs under voice command, and this, as everyone knows, is dependent on dog owners being conscientious and on the job. Baxter State Park in Maine, where Katahdin lies, a terminus of the Appalachian Trail, has historically not permitted domestic pets of any sort in the park, service animals being the exception. The Green Mountain Club welcomes unleashed dogs on Vermont’s Long Trail, but asks hikers to have their dogs under secure voice command. Signs at treeline request that dogs be leashed when taken into the alpine.
Much has changed in the rock climber’s world in the past 20 years. Indoor climbing walls have bred climbers who have a high technical and physical proficiency. They are currently among the best in the world. But often indoor-trained climbers have little sense of how to act when they come outside. They have not yet acquired an ethic, or a sense of stewardship, that teaches them, for example, how to approach a cliff with an awareness of the light tread needed to minimize damage to the undergrowth. They have not yet learned how to climb with the sensitivity that has them alert to their impact on vegetation on belay ledges or on the cliff face itself. They have not yet developed a sense for a natural line, so they risk straying off route, a safety factor. These skills have everything to do with being on the land, on the solid rock cliff. Because of this learning curve, a contrast has developed between the pure athleticism acquired in the gym and what gym-trained climbers are faced with when they move outdoors. Climbers call this the “gym to crag transition.”
The White Mountain National Forest’s 2005 Forest Plan addressed specifically, and for the first time, how to protect cliffs in federally designated wilderness areas. The intent was to keep climbing low impact and historically traditional, meaning no new fixed anchors (bolts drilled into the rock) could be placed, though old and unsafe bolts could be renewed. The Forest Service also works with climbers to harden or stabilize the approach paths and holds cliff clean-up days at popular cliffs outside the wilderness areas.
For the Forest Service—the primary landowner, to whom falls the responsibility of the land’s health—the key is having organized groups with which to work. Take what happened on the cliffs at Rumney, New Hampshire. Easily accessible and of modest height, these crags became a favorite of gym-trained climbers. These “sport climbers,” used to the fixed anchors of indoor walls, placed bolts next to cracks, calling down the ire of climbers who use the traditional method of inserting a nut or chockstone, a device that can be placed in the crack and removed with the fingers, leaving no impact. Because of the cliff’s popularity, the approaches and staging areas below the climbs had become worn and trampled. The Forest Service stepped in and began conversations with the Rumney climbers. Together the two groups worked out a management plan that is unique in the nation, a stand-alone plan that allows for the sport climbers to continue bolting routes despite the availability of cracks. In turn, these sport climbers have acquired an ethic of stewardship by working with the Forest Service trail crews to construct rock steps at the base of the cliffs and harden the staging areas in order to concentrate their presence and minimize their impact on the surrounding vegetation. What was worked out met the needs of both sides.
Consistent with these changes in the climbing community, a volunteer group calling itself Friends of the Ledges came into being in the spring of 2015. Formed by climbers who live in the heart of New Hampshire’s premier climbing country, the Friends’ concerns are stewardship of the cliffs as well as access. They see themselves as a bridge to the land managers, New Hampshire’s state parks, and the US Forest Service. As Sarah Garlick, a founder, put it, “We want a place at the table.” To gain this place, these climbers mean to ensure—through their focused and conscientious actions as stewards—that their presence will be welcomed at the cliffs they love. A further goal of this group is to minimize its involvement in ethical debate over issues such as fixed anchors or the tactics used for first ascents. Climbers have long had a tradition of self-governance in which ethical debates flourish, and while Friends does not want to take sides, the group means to keep the dialog open by, when necessary, convening for public conversations.
These efforts of “gym to crag” education, stewardship, and ensuring access to lands in public and private ownership are going on across the country. The American Alpine Club, the national umbrella organization for climbers and mountaineers, can provide aid to all who are seeking to care for the cliffs—this unparalleled vertical world—that many have found can change lives.
In the winter of 1991–92 in the White Mountains, as we wrote the second edition of this book, the Forest Service had adopted a new regulation that restricted winter camping above treeline to areas of 2-foot snow cover. That regulation is still in place. The Flower Lobby botanists who loudly voiced concerns about the effects of winter camping on the low-growing vegetation, had settled down. The White Mountain National Forest holds the view that, for winter camping above treeline, careful campers will leave little impact on the soils and vegetation, but they ask them to be aware of their social impact in an area where no trees grow to break up the sightlines. The Adirondack Mountain Club and the Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) permit no camping above 4,000 feet at any time of year, and only at designated sites between 3,500 and 4,000 feet.
These policies have been effective, but the ensuing years have seen a change in use patterns and the numbers of winter visitors. While there has been some increase in winter camping, day use has experienced a greater rise in the White Mountains and nationally. With the inevitable improvements in equipment, skiers can explore the harder-to-access ravines and slides, especially in areas that previously had seen little use.
As might have been foreseen, with an increase in winter hikers comes an increase in human waste. The White Mountain National Forest has come to grips with this through education and what they call the Wagbag Program. Hikers are encouraged to use the Wagbag and pack out their waste. Guides are asked to equip their clients with Wagbags, providing an opportunity to explain their use and the environmental impact of human waste in a way that enables all of us to become better stewards.
Around the country public agencies and mountain clubs are doing their best to teach all visitors how to care for the land. There is a greater awareness now, I believe, of the effect education can have on stewardship. But this monitoring on the part of the clubs and agencies takes more than dedicated work. It takes time and money, often in short supply. Each issue needs to be prioritized, and even so, worthy ones can fall behind. This, as I see it, opens the door for hikers and climbers to be aware of how our presence affects the mountains, this place we love most in all the world.