WE HAVE TOUCHED on many issues in these pages, issues on which we have definite opinions. Sometimes we haven’t been too tactful. Whether you agreed with what we had to say, we hope you had occasion to think about the issues raised. Whether you go along with our conclusions is not nearly as important as whether you’ll think about them. The best backcountry management is based on a similar faith: not a set of absolute rules, but regulations or guidelines intended to attract our attention to an underlying moral imperative, from which we’re bound to act wisely in the backcountry.
Now we want to turn to several issues where our own minds are not made up. These are case studies about which everyone involved needs to think more. If your own mind is made up, unmake it. Join us in thinking about it, exchanging views, questioning set answers, looking curiously at alternative solutions.
To have an open mind, however, does not require that it start empty. Indeed, we have no tolerance for that kind of mindless drift of dialogue where no points of reference hold any stability. We must cling to a fundamental set of values about what kind of backcountry we want to preserve. A sense of values steers any useful thought, else it is rudderless and will never know where it is going, will never get anyplace.
So when we raise questions about bushwhacking, dogs, rock climbing, and winter camping, we raise these questions against a backdrop of belief rooted in the value of wildness, the integrity of the land, a backcountry alive for people but preserving opportunities for solitude, wonder, mystery, adventure, and genuine risk.
One point we wish to make abundantly clear: We are raising questions in these final four case studies, not asserting answers. Nothing could be wider of the mark than to portray us as opposed to bushwhacking, to dogs coming into the backcountry, to rock climbers finding new routes, or to winter camping. We are in favor of all four activities. But we also think that all four can be carried on in a thoughtless, destructive, and ultimately unacceptable way. We’ll go further: We think all four are being carried on, sometimes and in some places, in a thoughtless, destructive, and ultimately unacceptable way.
What we’re trying to do here is raise important questions about how each of these activities affects the backcountry environment and the experience of others therein, and thereby to encourage everyone involved to think them through more carefully—and, beyond thought, ultimately to act more responsibly than what we’ve been seeing.
Think on these things.
But the stamping grounds of the lover of wild nature are yearly growing more restricted. Some day there will be none left. And then, a valuable species of citizen is going to grow extinct. . . . A plea for the Natty Bumpos, before it is too late!
W. T. HOWELL (WRITING CA. 1910), THE HUDSON HIGHLANDS
IN THE EARLY 1970S Newfoundland’s parkland managers initiated a program for opening hiking trails and encouraging backcountry recreation. It proved a slow job to cut trails through the dense northern coniferous forest, so trails opened slowly. At an early stage, the two of us joined a good friend to do some exploration in an area as yet completely trailless. It took us three days to fight our way along a fiordlike lakeside and up through incredibly dense undergrowth to the top of a “mountain” that was something like 2,400 feet high. We had no way of knowing whether anyone had ever been there before: perhaps, but it was most improbable country. We started to gather a few rocks to build a cairn. Then we stopped to consider. We’re immensely enjoying the feeling of being possibly the first ones ever to set foot on this wonderful summit. Maybe that’s an illusion, maybe not—but even if it is, isn’t it an illusion well worth preserving? We discarded our rocks at random. Let the next party enjoy the priceless feeling of exploration too.
Ever since, whenever we go bushwhacking, we try to follow that principle: leave no trace of our passing so that the next party can delude themselves, as we love to delude ourselves, that they’re the first humans to pass through that particular piece of wild country. That feeling of exploration and adventure is one of the great joys of bushwhacking.
Bushwhacking? The very name conjures up a picture of undesirable activity: whacking bushes. Much of this book and the writings of many others emphasize the need to respect the rights of bushes and trees and delicate alpine vegetation. Please stay on trail is the message everyone addresses to travelers above treeline. Whacking or hacking at vegetation is precisely what everyone’s being asked to stop.
Yet few people go “bushwhacking” as much as we do in the White mountains of New Hampshire. Is this a paradox? Are we monstrous hypocrites?
Maybe the trouble comes from the word. To hiking insiders, bushwhacking is really just jargon for off-trail travel. But to many people today the two have grown inseparable and confused. Convinced that off-trail travel involves wholesale destruction of vegetation (whacking of bushes), concerned voices are being raised in indiscriminate opposition to bushwhacking.
“Bushwhacking poses an ecological hazard,” declares one AMC letter-to-the-editor writer. “Most hikers I’ve observed bushwhacking for fun are oblivious to their impact on the environment. . . . It is past time for AMC to put a stop to this deliberately destructive practice.”
The bushwhackers’ defense is sometimes couched in terms of safety: If people lose the trail, they need to know how to navigate without it so they can get home safely and not require rescue. That is a pretty thin argument. It seems to concede that off-trail travel is indeed environmentally destructive, but may be necessary in emergencies to save lives.
Other bushwhackers respond more positively and go overboard in stating that there is nothing at all wrong with responsible bushwhacking, and on-trail hiking can be just as damaging to the mountain environment as off-trail hiking, if carried on in a thoughtlessly destructive manner.
It is healthy that this question is being raised and discussed. We believe there are several ramifications that need to be thought through carefully. Perhaps many of us need to reexamine what we do and don’t do when we go off-trail.
We find ourselves beginning to question activities we once indulged in without hesitation. Now we’re hesitating. In light of the recent questions raised by critics of bushwhacking, we have to wonder whether any of us have thought through this issue clearly.
But first: some needed perspective. There clearly are negative effects of some off-trail activity, but it is equally clear to us that other kinds of off-trail activity are not only inoffensive but provide positive values, the worth of which is so great that they should in no way be circumscribed.
Off-trail is unmistakably different from on-trail. The former is not for everyone. The footing is uncertain and treacherous, calling for attention to almost every step. Unpredictably but frequently, the bushes whack back: You can often spot a bushwhacker from the scratched arms and legs, the torn clothing. The density of some vegetation has to be experienced to be believed: Many on-trail hikers are skeptical that New England krummholz can be penetrated—but it can, as long as you ignore reason and prudence. A veteran off-trail hiker friend of ours confided recently, “The net result of my years of off-trail travel is a much lower impact of me on vegetation than vegetation on me.”
In short, bushwhacking doesn’t mean people whacking bushes, it means bushes whacking people.
We understand other regions have their peculiar native miseries as well. The summertime insect population finds the denser thickets a great place to thrive, especially because their victims (us bushwhackers) are slowed to a pace that makes it easy to enjoy your meal (if you’re a black fly, that is).
Positive values, did we say?
Why do some people persist in such an obviously senseless pursuit? We won’t belabor the answer to that one! There is, of course, the obvious zest in adventure and uncertainty. Then there are the beautiful places you can find off the beaten track. But the richest value is something else. When you travel off-trail, you are perforce compelled to pay much, much closer attention to the forest in which you’re traveling. You become intimately aware of the changes in vegetation you’re passing through. You sense the shape of the mountainside. You perceive a great many signs that speak of a vibrant natural world—dens among rocks, beech trees clawed by bears, scat of various kinds, a clutch of feathers or fur betokening some recent incident. You never know what you may see, if you keep your eyes open to what’s unfolding along your route, which you have to do. Some perceptive few may walk trails and see as much, but most of us will see a lot more when we’re off-trail.
It is not just that we see certain specific sights. The responsible off-trail traveler is likely to be far more in touch with the wildness of the natural world. That is what gives bushwhacking its ultimate value and raison d’être.
Now to return to the down side. To us, the negative test of the validity of off-trail mountain travel is whether it creates an impact on either the physical environment or the experience of others, with some attention to the permanent or transitory nature of that impact.
One point should be understood at the outset, and that is that bushwhacking is not a very popular pursuit. For the reasons we’ve touched on, few people have the slightest urge to leave trails, if it is even a little more difficult to walk. We recall that when we began hiking we considered it almost unthinkable to leave a trail. Most of the populous hiking and backpacking public have a similar reluctance to leave the official pathway. We are speaking of a small minority when we speak of bushwhackers. This is an important point. It is also one that could change, if organized clubs or schools start promoting bushwhacking in a big way, or if some activity catches on that deliberately fosters bushwhacking—like a sudden craze for orienteering all over the place, or a geometric rise in the popularity of peakbagging. If bushwhacking did become a phenomenally popular fad, much of the discussion that follows would be no longer valid.
Everyone involved in the debate should also start by acknowledging a second point: that certain kinds of off-trail travel have an inexcusably destructive effect on the natural world. One obvious example is where some rare or endangered species of flora or fauna is making its last stand. One well-known example these days is the nesting ground of peregrine falcons. Every year in our part of the world wildlife managers identify peregrine nests and post conspicuous yellow signs at targeted trailheads, instructing hikers not to leave the marked trails from June through August. No responsible bushwhackers would fail to cooperate under such circumstances.
Another clear-cut case is the one to which chapter 16 was addressed: wandering indiscriminately across alpine areas. A considerable effort by backcountry managers and concerned hikers has gone into propagating the message: Don’t tread on the fragile alpine vegetation. But in the course of discussing measures for keeping people off the tundra, most of the “policemen” have been careful to say, “Please stay on the trail or on the rocks.” Note the second half of the message. Some zealots have urged that there should be a categorical imperative: Stay on the trail, period. We have always argued, and have been glad to find ourselves with the apparent majority of backcountry managers on this point, that we should not restrict people from wandering on open rock ledges or any terrain where they can rock-hop without treading on vegetation. The narrower view argues that it’s simpler and surer to enforce the categorical message: Stay on the trail, with no exceptions. We have always felt that this not only underestimates the capacity of the hiking public to understand the subtler distinctions, but that it is far better to educate people to a broader understanding of what should govern conduct above treeline. If you say stay on the trail or on the rocks, you are helping people to understand that the vegetation is what we’re trying to protect. We’re not out to restrict freedom of movement arbitrarily, but for a very pointed objective: preserving the opportunity of the tundra to survive.
Even where rock-hopping is perfectly possible, however, the responsible hiker must exercise care as to what kind of message his or her actions transmit to casual observers. For example, in our trail work above treeline, we sometimes need to go off-trail to find rocks of the right size and shape for a cairn or a scree wall. When we do, of course, we rock-hop all the way. However, we are excruciatingly conscious that other hikers coming along may see us off-trail and wonder what we’re doing out there—or may even be tempted to go out where we are to see what’s up. We’ll often look both ways and wait for a break in the passing traffic before we go fetch our rocks. Or, alternatively, we’ll make a deliberate point of initiating a conversation so as to explain in a low-key way what we’re doing and why we had to wander off the side of the trail.
How about below treeline? Is the vegetation less fragile down in the woods? Doesn’t ground cover suffer terribly from a passing stream of bushwhackers?
This is a more complicated question. One point should first be understood, one that we raised earlier, in chapter 8. Nature has a remarkable capacity for restoring itself. Where there is sunlight and soil and moisture (as there is abundantly in our Northeast), there is a powerful impulse for the woods to grow, to regenerate, to remain green unless faced with overwhelming discouraging factors. The result is that, for the northeastern forest environment, an occasional passing pair of footprints will leave quite literally no trace under most circumstances. The problem above treeline is, first, that the alpine zone is an uncommonly harsh environment for vegetation; and second, that there is too much risk that a great many boots would tread on the same swaths of vegetation unless requested not to. With no natural barrier of trees on either side of the trail, too many people could be tempted to wander.
Below treeline, given nature’s instinct for regeneration, a modest level of off-trail travel will have virtually no adverse impact. The next question becomes, under what circumstances will the frequency of traffic remain low enough to minimize impact? At what point and under what circumstances does off-trail traffic begin to show a destructive effect?
Here it must be acknowledged that, in any well-known hiking country, certain off-trail routes may become popular and begin to show wear. People study maps and discern off-trail lines that are obviously attractive, or the grapevine whispers about such routes: a stream valley not too far from a trail that seems to offer a probable campsite with convenient water; a ridgeline leading to an exposed summit that appears likely to have commanding views; a glacial cirque with an impressive headwall that might be fun to climb. Old logging roads abound, inviting us to follow.
In the White Mountains it is not difficult to find a dozen such attractions where, over the years, the volume of off-trail hiking has been sufficient to create a slightly worn track through the forest. Naturally, as a treadway becomes established, others tend to follow it as an easier alternative to thrashing out a fresh track. After a while, such a route becomes in effect a bootleg trail. It is neither shown on the maps nor described in the guidebooks, but experienced hikers know where these tracks can be followed.
Is this a desirable state of affairs? Are the critics of bushwhacking on sound grounds for deploring the environmental destruction that has occurred? Our first instinct is to concede that, yes, this is not good. If there is no trail in, say, Paradise Gorge, then such unplanned, unsupervised destruction is regrettable.
On reflection, however, having watched such paths evolve in some of our favorite haunts, we have to ask what the alternatives are. One alternative is to legalize and formalize bootleg trails. That is, when backcountry managers see a worn track developing from an obviously high level of off-trail traffic, they could declare it a trail, take measures to guard against trail erosion in the usual ways, and eventually put it on the maps and in the guidebooks. At some level of use and impact, such a course is probably the only sensible one. Still, we would counsel against being too hasty in declaring trails wherever a hint of a worn track appears. Such a policy could speedily open a large number of valleys and ridges that are officially trailless now. Once a trail is officially opened and maintained, the use level will jump far higher than even the most popular off-trail routes now suffer. The track will become much more obvious, the loss of natural vegetation much greater, the sense of wildness much less. Besides, maintaining the existing network of trails strains available resources, and poor maintenance could lead to more environmental damage.
Another alternative would be to try to prevent such off-trail activity completely. Should no one be allowed in Paradise Gorge? Should it be made a punishable offense to be found there? That just doesn’t seem right to us. If it is a beautiful natural area, and if the only impact is a single track lightly worn by a low volume of off-trail hikers, is this necessarily bad? We’d answer by saying: Well, yes, it’s a little bad, but not bad enough to outlaw off-trail travel. A better answer, we believe, is compounded by two elements: First, do nothing to advertise Paradise Gorge so as to increase traffic therein; and second, educate the off-trail traveler to try to minimize his or her impact. What’s involved in the latter? Obviously, don’t leave litter of any kind. Don’t break branches needlessly, and don’t break any live branches. Try to avoid steeper, obviously vulnerable slopes, such as those covered by moss. If following a stream valley, rock-hop right in the stream to the maximum possible extent (an enjoyable, even exciting pastime anyway, and the consequences of a wet boot in warm weather are trivial—an hour later you won’t be able to recall which foot fell in). When you see the very first signs of a single way becoming established, avoid taking that way. Do not assume it is too late to prevent impact. Try to do nothing that adds to that impact.
Unfortunately the present population of off-trail aficionados appears to include a small number who have not hearkened to this message. We find some deplorable practices in off-trail locations: semipermanent campsites, litter such as empty food cans, and (worst of all) actual clipping of branches in areas of denser woods. There is an unforgivable arrogance to such actions: an assumption that it’s OK for me to have my private campsite, or to maintain my private trail, on publicly owned land. It should be perfectly obvious that such behavior, because it would create widespread havoc if widely adopted, is therefore intolerable. We hope the offenders may read this chapter and think about the implications of their actions.
Another lamentable development is the practice by some bushwhackers of marking their routes with brightly colored plastic tape. This practice should be thoroughly deplored by anyone who values an off-trail experience. New Hampshire’s bushwhacker extraordinaire Gene Daniel III has condemned plastic tape for confusing the inexperienced and infuriating the experienced with the implied insult from those hikers that we couldn’t find our way without their help, and drawing curses from everyone who had hoped to find a mountain relatively free of signs of human presence.
Like the unauthorized cutting of trails, littering routes with plastic tape is inexcusable.
A different aspect of the problem arises in areas that do not yet show a single discernable track. Many superb off-trail routes exist, some of them taken fairly regularly, where there is as yet no (or virtually no) trace of human traffic. For these areas, we believe there is an urgent need for all bushwhackers to behave responsibly: Tread as lightly as possible, avoid taking the same way twice, stay off fragile microenvironments, and of course leave no trace of your passing. With responsible conduct by all bushwhackers, such routes may be enjoyed for years without damage to the forest.
Bushwhacking in winter is a specialized branch of the art. Here the environmental damage, at ground level at least, is far less. Extensive off-trail travel in winter has obvious safety implications, which no one should fail to consider carefully. Wintertime bushwhacking, especially under certain snow conditions, can be unbelievably slow—a half mile per hour or considerably slower is not at all atypical in some terrain—so itineraries need to be selected with care. Snow-laden branches will relentlessly and remorselessly drench you with snow, stuffing it down between your pack and your back, where of course it melts, so that you are going to get very wet, which at 0°F has further implications that require no elaboration, especially if your long bushwhack brings you out into a strong, cold wind above treeline. We repeat: Bushwhacking is not for everyone.
There continue to be ominous threats on the horizon, some factors that could jeopardize the validity of presently inoffensive off-trail travel.
One is the growing popularity of publicly advertised programs for teaching people the techniques of off-trail travel. The advocates of such programs doubtless feel that they provide an excellent opportunity to educate new bushwhackers in environmental consciousness and responsible, minimum-impact techniques. We hope that is a strong focus of any workshop or “how-to” session on off-trail hiking. That can be their only justification. Certainly, from the standpoint of environmental impact, any measures that encourage more people to start bushwhacking are indefensible.
More troublesome to our way of thinking is the emergence of organized programs that systematically, year after year, send large groups or wave after wave of small groups into trailless areas. We’re speaking of educational programs, whether of secondary schools or hiking clubs, summer camps or Outward Bound or hosts of imitators. Some of these groups make a concerted effort to minimize impact—NOLS is a shining example. Others are far less careful. But all are unquestionably a major presence in the wilderness. It is inconceivable that even the most careful practitioners can go into pristine areas year after year, wave after wave, and not have a grievous impact.
What should the responsible outdoor educator do? At the least, acknowledge that there’s a problem here. At the least, think about how current practices might be reshaped.
What we fear most is that sooner or later some eager publisher will commission a 50 Great Bushwhacks guidebook. The damage any such book would inflict is unthinkable. Not just the irretrievable, inevitable physical impact on pristine valleys and ridges, but the inexcusable destruction of wildness for everyone and everything in those places—the ferns, the moss, the bear, the lynx, and the occasional solitary bushwhacker as well.
Another cause for concern is a matter that Adirondack hikers have wrestled with for years. What do you do when a specific trail, peak, or list of trailless peaks, becomes so popular that large numbers of bushwhackers begin to beat not just one but several different “herd paths” to its top? The Adirondacks boast some 46 peaks originally understood to be 4,000 feet high, and we’ve earlier described the Adirondack 46ers who climb each of them. Roughly a score of the 46 peaks have no official trail to the top. During the 1960s and 1970s, with rapidly increasing popularity for climbing the 46, came a proliferating rabbit warren of herd paths, as significant numbers of bootprints took three or four or six or seven different ways to the summits from the nearest trails. There ensued a period of heated debate within the 46er organization: Should all herd paths be blocked off? Should just one be selected and opened as an official trail? Should the organization disband out of a sense of guilt for encouraging herd paths? Should off-trail travel be banned? The issue was eventually resolved by picking one herd path and attempting to encourage its use and to maintain it as an unofficial route (but still not a designated trail), while simultaneously adopting a broadly conceived program of environmental conservation work as the principal focus of the 46ers’ organization. These “trailless” peaks are still officially trailless, but everyone is encouraged to take the dominant herd path.
A similar situation now threatens a long list of New England peaks because of the popularity of peakbagging. All of New England’s 4,000-footers have maintained trails. As hundreds of hikers have completed the 4,000-foot list, however, many have moved on to lists of the 100 highest in each state, or to all of the 3,000-footers. As a result, many once-little-visited peaks now are the objectives of a growing army of bushwhackers.
Before too much damage is done to all these nice little peaks, there is need for a code of conduct to be more widely adopted for off-trail travel. We’ve already touched on many points:
1. Do not leave litter of any kind. This stricture especially applies to the strong temptation to mark the route with bits of plastic tape. Yes, that makes it easier for the next party to reach the top or to make a return trip in winter. But isn’t difficulty and challenge and mystery supposed to be part of the fun? No litter means no litter.
2. When selecting an itinerary, think about the kind of terrain it traverses. Some microenvironments can stand a small amount of traffic without damage, others are frightfully vulnerable. If you find yourself in a delicate sphagnum bog, redirect your course if you can; and certainly reconsider any plans you may have had to bring a party of friends that way next month.
3. Keep your party small. Two or three can go up a trackless slope more or less unnoticed. It is highly doubtful whether a party of 15 or 20 could ever fail to leave a tragic swath of destruction in its wake. NOLS’s low-impact instructions advocate a maximum party of four to six on bushwhacks.
4. Do not build cairns to denote turns in the route, or even on the summit. Leave the woods as fresh-looking as you found them.
5. Don’t break branches needlessly, and don’t break any live branches if you can possibly help it.
6. Avoid stepping on especially fragile soils, mosses, or unstable rocky surfaces—or at least minimize such activities.
7. Where a fragile area must be crossed, everyone spread out and cross carefully in different places . . .
8. . . . unless a single worn track has already been established; in which case, everyone stick to that track.
9. Where it’s an option, rock-hop along a stream bed, stepping where the high water keeps vegetation from growing anyway.
10. If returning a second time to an unmarked area, choose a slightly different route.
11. If you begin to see the first signs of a worn track, not yet clearly established, try to avoid contributing to any further wear yourself. Go a different way. Throw a dead branch or two to cover the evidence of others’ thoughtlessness.
12. If your objective is to get off the beaten track, then for heaven’s sake don’t beat your own track. It makes no sense. Every time we come across a plainly marked track off the regular trail, our principal reaction is puzzlement. Here went someone who valued getting away from the trails of others; why on earth would such a person then make his own track? So, at the very least, never, never commit the arrogance of making a new trail in a presently wild place.
13. Use restraint in propagating news about your route. Let others find their own way. Don’t spoil their adventure, entirely apart from dispersing environmental impact.
14. Don’t be overly preoccupied with this list of guidelines or any other formal itemized list. Rather, think hard about the underlying objective: to leave the wild land inviolate, or at least to minimize human impact. Understanding the problem in its general terms will be a far better guide to conduct than any itemized list of rules.
15. While you’re at it, come up with a better name for all this other than bushwhacking. Can anyone suggest a catchy alternative with the right message?
Love me, love my dog.
JOHN HEYWOOD (1497–1580)
THINK OF YOUR favorite wilderness camping spot: a sparkling lake set among rugged mountains or a wooded glade where you can pitch your tent on a quiet carpet of pine needles. Now introduce a dog into that idyllic picture. What’s your reaction?
Some backpackers will conjure up an image of their favorite shaggy friend and recall with inestimable pleasure days of trailside companionship. But other hikers will snort with disgust at such a thought. To them dogs mean harassment, noise, pollution, and disruption of wildlife—a domestic creature jarringly out of place in the backcountry. And they will condemn the dog’s owners, too, for their lack of consideration and insensitivity to a wilderness experience.
Both sides are slightly myopic in their views (the other person’s opinion is always out of focus), and with increasing numbers of people in the woods, confrontations between dogs, dog lovers, and dog opponents are growing more frequent—and more provoking. Backs are up (to turn a canine phrase), and land managers, who write and administer the regulations controlling dogs in wilderness, react by instinct to the loudest voices. Some parks prohibit dogs or require leashes at all times; some limit dogs’ freedom around crowded areas; others have no restrictions. An objective look at the arguments is needed to formulate rational rules of conduct and regulation for dogs—and for their owners and detractors.
Tradition honors the outdoorsman and his dog; popular culture enshrines Buck in The Call of the Wild and King, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon’s faithful dog. The ranks of those who have marched the Appalachian Trail from end to end include several dogs. One pooch has climbed Mount Robson, the difficult summit in the Canadian Rockies that has thwarted many people. Dogs often hike across Alaska’s tundra. The authors’ dog climbed all of the White Mountains’ summits over 4,000 feet—not once but three times.
To owners of such splendid hiking companions, restrictions on dogs in the backcountry appear unnecessary and burdensome, in conflict with the freedom we all associate with backcountry experiences. We go to the woods and hills to get away from such onerous restraints.
As Zane Smith of the US Forest Service put it, “One of the greater values of a national forest recreation experience is the absence of regimentation. . . . Strict control measures are warranted only if other means fail to keep a situation within acceptable limits.”
Responsible dog owners reject the notion that all dogs should be banned because a few dogs are a menace. Many argue that some children are as disagreeable as dogs—noisy, intrusive, and harassing—but we don’t restrict kids in the woods.
Writing in the Trail Walker, the New York–New Jersey Trail Conference’s official organ, A. C. Van der Kas pled: “I am a 70-year-old hiker, and my only companion on the trails is my dog, who loves hiking. Why should I be denied my companion and my dog his joy of hiking?”
To such hikers dogs can be the finest of outdoor companions, sharing the pleasures of the walk without arguing over which trail to take or how far to go. Fresh air, especially in cooler seasons, puts a dog in a superb frame of mind. He bounds along, tail high and wagging. At evening the dog sticks close to camp, enjoying the companionship of his or her tired master.
Backcountry recreation can be as beneficial to the canine as to the human hiker. Veterinarians report both physical and spiritual gains. Dogs who get regular exercise have fewer heart problems and joint problems, reports a Colorado vet, Randa MacMillan, who goes on to comment on how good this is for dogs’ mental condition: “Too many of our pets spend their time in a privacy fence.”
If you watch a dog on the trail closely, you will notice that he observes his surroundings very differently from the way a person does. In fact, were you able to ask a dog what he experienced on a 10-mile hike, you would get an entirely different account from his master’s report. We see panoramic views, birds, and trees overhead, an immensely complex visual impression; we hear birds, rushing streams, and rustling leaves; we occasionally smell some strong scent such as moist earth under a stand of hemlock.
The dog, coming back from the same hike, would report different observations, perhaps more complex and extensive. His visual impressions would have been more limited than his master’s—no panoramic or overhead views. His ears heard what ours did and a bit more. But what a rich and wonderful world of smells he experienced! Furthermore, while most of us notice only the present state of things, the dog’s nose records recent history: when a deer or rabbit passed by, what it did, where it came from, and where it was going. Dogs’ observations have a dimension of time that ours largely lack.
Despite this idyllic picture of dogs and masters in the backcountry, many backpackers object strenuously to canines in the outdoors on several counts:
1. Dogs harass wildlife. Many dogs chase squirrels and rabbits and large game. At its worst, this fault extends to free-running dogs in winter chasing down and slaughtering deer. And some hikers complain that even well-disciplined dogs scare off wildlife by their mere presence.
2. Dogs harass other hikers. Many large, strong dogs, whose owners are proud of their rugged image, are aggressive if not dangerous when encountered unexpectedly. Even if they don’t bite, large, aggressive dogs can make other hikers nervous. Families with young children can be especially irritated when they meet a large or noisy dog that is not carefully controlled by his owner.
3. Dogs are noisy. The peace and quiet of the woods can be as rudely shattered by the yapping of a nervous pooch as by a loud hiking party, trail bike, helicopter, or snowmobile. The evening calm of a campsite can be ruined by a dog whose owner permits barking to continue unchecked.
4. Dogs steal food. It’s not safe to leave your lunch or dinner unattended if there’s a hungry dog around—and all hiking dogs are hungry. Again, children can easily be victimized by the uncontrolled dog that finds a sandwich held at nose level.
5. Dogs foul the trail and the campsite. They also water the corners of tents—and once one leaves his mark, it’s obligatory for all other males to mark the same spot.
6. Dogs fight other dogs. One of the rudest interruptions of the serenity of the outdoors occurs when male dog meets male dog on the trail. Anyone who has been in or near the center of a dogfight knows how unnerving it is to pull apart a pair (or more) of snarling, slashing champions of canine virility.
7. Dogs harass horses. In many western backcountry areas, horseback riders are frequent trail users. Land managers report increasing complaints involving dogs scaring horses.
8. Dogs can be mistreated in the backcountry. Some owners fail to realize how much a dog can suffer from heat exhaustion over long stretches of waterless trail. Counsels one experienced veterinarian:
“Get your dog in condition before going too far or too hard.” And park officials report that dogs have been injured or killed in matches with bears, deer, mountain lions, snakes, scorpions, and spiders.
One annoyed state park official summed up a common view of antidog wilderness users: “It is selfish on the part of the pet owner, inconsiderate to other people, and unfair to the animal itself.”
Such an indictment, perhaps too mildly expressed to suit the most ardent antidog backpacker, will strike the dog owner as grossly unfair. A well-behaved, responsibly controlled pet does none of these things, the prodog hiker insists. It’s not right to condemn the entire species because of the faults of a few—or, more likely, the irresponsibility of their too-casual owners.
Some argue that dogs need not be regarded as a threat to wildlife for at least three reasons. First, a responsible owner will restrain a dog from bothering other creatures. Second, even when a dog tries to give chase, his domestic upbringing has left him incompetent to catch much more than a few ticks. And finally, the idea that a domestic dog will be the first predator to appear in the life of a wilderness creature is absurd—all nature abounds with predator-prey hierarchies, and an occasional dog adds little to the perils of everyday life for wild creatures, which are constantly eluding natural enemies.
True, most dogs are not a problem, but if all dogs run loose on the trails, how can the errant few be controlled?
Most national parks prohibit dogs on backcountry hiking trails. National Park Service regulations require that any pet in any park be leashed or physically restrained, and they give authority to individual park superintendents to prohibit pets in specific areas. For many parks this means that a leashed dog is acceptable in roadside campgrounds but may not be taken on backcountry trails. To find out whether your dog is allowed on trails in particular park, write to the park’s superintendent. You will find that most of the popular parks prohibit dogs from the backcountry.
National forests are less restrictive. At developed recreational sites leashes may be required. But on the backcountry trails of most national forests, no general restrictive policy applies, and backpackers with dogs have more opportunities than in national parks. Again, for any specific area, you should consult local regulations.
Regulations in state parks vary, but most allow dogs only if leashed. In general, parks subject to intense hiking pressure have invoked more stringent restrictions on pets. California state parks flatly prohibit dogs on backcountry trails. Many states in the crowded Northeast and Northwest—New Hampshire and Washington, for example—require a leash on dogs even on remote trails. On the other hand, in Colorado dogs are generally allowed to run loose if they are under voice control, and in Alaska there is usually no restriction. Park Officials there recognize dogs as useful hiking companions for protection against bears and for pulling sleds in winter.
With national forests, many state parks, and countless privately owned recreational lands still open to hiking with dogs, it is difficult to reconcile the conflicting interests of all parties involved: the rights of the harassed hiker, who feels his enjoyment of the woods is rudely jolted whenever a dog yaps in his presence; the privacy of wildlife, which see dogs as an ancestral predator; the convenience of park managers, for whom dog controversies are a headache; the rights of the dog owner who keeps pets well trained and well disciplined; the principle of minimum regimentation of wilderness activities; and the rights, after all, of the dog, which loves the smells and sounds of the outdoors.
Short of prohibiting dogs from wild lands, what can be done to improve the experience of all concerned? The answer lies very much in the hands of dog owners, who must behave responsibly and observe a code of ethics for dogs in the backcountry.
Here are 10 points:
1. Never let your dog chase wildlife.
2. Keep your dog close to you when other hikers approach. If they are nervous or if your dog is aggressive, grab your dog by the collar or attach a leash, even if you know he won’t bite. The other hikers don’t know that.
3. Be especially watchful of your dog when small children are around. Even the friendliest dog, if unfamiliar, can be terrifying to a child.
4. Keep your dog quiet. In the wilds most people regard barking as an unforgivable intrusion, and there’s nothing more annoying than an owner who does nothing about a continuously barking dog. If you can’t keep your dog from barking, leave him at home.
5. Keep your dog away from all food.
6. Keep him out of all sources of potable water. When you’re at a spring, make sure he drinks from the runoff and not from the spring itself.
7. Don’t let him foul the trail. If he does, flick the droppings off the trail with a stick or piece of bark. Watch his toilet habits around campsites. The animal has to go somewhere, but use common sense and be considerate.
8. If another dog comes along, restrain your dog and ask the other owner to do the same.
9. If horses come by, hold your dog.
10. Use common sense and courtesy.
As we have mentioned, many people want to see dogs prohibited from trails; many parks already restrict them. Responsible behavior is the best insurance that you and your dog will enjoy future hikes together.
Now, for all you dog haters: Goodwill and consideration of others can go far to reduce unpleasant confrontations and increase everyone’s pleasure of the great outdoors—everyone, including man’s best friend.
Here is a code of ethics for dog haters:
1. Show friendliness toward the dog and his owner. Hostile behavior by dogs is often touched off by subtle displays of fear in people.
2. Exert reasonable prudence in keeping food inside packs or out of reach of hungry canines.
3. Be tolerant of a fellow creature’s enjoyment of the outdoors.
4. Refrain from complaining to authorities or asking for restrictions on dogs. Remember that increased regimentation of activities in the backcountry is a burden on everyone who enjoys the freedom of the wilds.
In the tumult of civil discord the laws of society lose their force, and their place is seldom supplied by those of humanity. The ardor of contention, the pride of victory, the despair of success, the memory of past injuries, and the fear of future dangers, all contribute to inflame the mind, and to silence the voice of pity.
EDWARD GIBBON, THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE
IN LOW-IMPACT CAMPING, trail tending, and alpine-area management, we read encouraging signs of a growing sense of stewardship for wildness. We’d like to report good news on every front, but no such luck. Let us turn to an area of outdoor recreation where we regret to point out retrogression. In chapter 17 we documented the story of rock climbers responding to an environmental crisis on the cliffs a quarter century ago. We painted a picture of an eccentric, rough-edged society of cliff rats whose shabby exterior concealed a crusading zeal for environmental protection.
We recall that era of rock climbing now as a golden age. Not only did climbers advance the frontiers of difficulty in their arcane airborne gymnastics, but they simultaneously elevated their ethical code. And all that time the cliffs were an upbeat, cheerful, magical place to be.
Those were sunny days to be young and a Shawangunks climber.
But something happened during the 1980s. The climbing population grew, changed, and grew again. New faces brought new attitudes.
Climbers began to dwell more on their own personal absorption with the difficulty of climbing and less on the lovely physical environment in which climbing took place. One of the leading climbers of the new breed confessed frankly, “I don’t climb for the thrill of [being in] nature.” The beauty of climbing areas, she asserted, “does nothing for me.” Purely difficult moves had become everything, the surrounding environment nothing. Climbing moved subtly from a wilderness adventure to a gymnastic exercise.
The change was manifest in many ways. Climbers were increasingly fascinated with specialized equipment—belay devices, rappel devices, sit-harnesses, increasingly sophisticated protection devices. An evolving wardrobe became fashionable, featuring blaring colors and garish designs, focusing attention on the climber as a vivid individual separate from nature rather than someone seeking to become part of a wilderness environment.
The technical difficulty of the climbing became all-absorbing: Each individual strove to advance the rating at which he or she could perform. To this end, physical fitness became a preoccupation: climbers trained all week, spending hours in the gym, employing specialized machines and devices to promote the development of specific muscle groups. Indoor climbing walls developed first as practice for the real thing, but gradually became the principal arena for some devotees.
At the cutting edge of the sport, the best young climbers worked with fanatical zeal to earn their 15 minutes of fame. The advance in difficulty of what was climbed was incredible. The competitive aspect of top-rank climbing loomed larger, and finally blossomed into an overt system of organized competitions, mostly staged at indoor climbing walls, with live audiences, formal rules and procedures, and intense rivalry, much of it aligned to national allegiance in the manner of the Olympic games.
Meanwhile, back at the cliffs, it was a changed scene. The environmental stewardship that had spawned the nut revolution of 1969–72 had left a permanent grip on the values of some climbers. But now the enthusiasm of the new generation, and especially their zeal for mastering greater levels of difficulty, led many new faces to spurn the old ways. The ethic of not damaging the cliffs was perceived as standing in the way of climbing harder routes. Some bold new lines could not be protected by nuts, so the new generation wanted to pound bolts directly into the rock. The perfection of lightweight drilling machines reduced the time and effort needed for placing a bolt from about 30 minutes to about 30 seconds—a temptation too hard to resist. Some new lines could be opened up by chopping down a tree or two to clear the way (or to let in sunlight to dry an area otherwise usually wet). Other lines could be completed only by chipping a hold or two at one critical point.
These tactics were embraced by some of the new breed, and as hotly repulsed by those who clung to the older values, creating bitter controversies and angry emotions. But often the old guard seemed not really as concerned about the integrity of the cliffs as transparently motivated by a desire to elevate their own style and standard of climbing by condemning the new tactics. Publicized debates over climbing ethics degenerated into such shouting matches that one participant lamented:
Climbing “ethics” are such a mess, such a fraud, that they can be used to make bad people feel good about doing almost anything. Each such person formulates climbing “ethics” so as to justify what he wants to do and to prevent other people from doing anything different.
“Bolt wars” broke out, in which some young hotshot would bolt a blank section of cliff on one day, some enraged traditionalist would “chop” the bolts off the cliff the next day, and the new breed would retaliate with further bolting, or perhaps a spate of tree cutting or hold chipping. The letters columns of climbing magazines became drenched in sarcastic bile, each side striving to outdo the other’s invective. Fistfights occasionally erupted at the base of climbs.
While the controversies over climbing ethics and style attracted hot attention, less noticed was a decline in environmental awareness on all sides. To a climbing generation that spent much of its time in gymnasiums and on artificial climbing walls, the outdoor surroundings of a cliff were almost irrelevant. The new breed seemed not to notice their impact on trail erosion or even litter. Both the cliffs and the ground below were strewn with powdered gymnastic chalk, which dried sweaty hands, making it possible to grip tiny or poorly defined holds.
Not surprisingly, the new tactics brought climbers into conflict with land owners and managers. National Park Service officials expressed concern over indiscriminate bolting at such national parks and monuments as Joshua Tree (California), City of Rocks (Idaho), and Rocky Mountain (Colorado). At several parks, officials instituted limits on bolting, amid howls of protest from climbers. The US Forest Service sought to limit human intrusions in designated wilderness areas by banning bolts at one popular Arizona rock-climbing area and limiting overcrowding on well-known mountains. The National Park Service outlawed power drills in Yosemite. The city of Boulder, Colorado undertook to limit the use of gymnastic chalk as well as bolting. Wildlife managers placed seasonal limitations on climbing in some areas to protect endangered species such as peregrine falcons, who like to nest on cliffs. Other wildlands managers declared some cliffs off-limits because of climber impact on rare plants.
The response of the climbing community has been aggressive in pursuit of its own self-interest and often confrontational in style. “Climbers must assure that climbing is protected through its inclusion in management plans according to the way climbers want climbing to take place,” trumpeted Climbing magazine’s “Access” column. The column (which became a regular feature devoted to reporting “threats” to climbing areas and marshaling political action by climbers) as well as an “access fund” set up initially by the American Alpine Club and later shifted to independent status, reflected the climbers’ response to any limitations on their “rights.” The focus of that response was fully and frankly defense of self-interest.
The environmental effects of climbing seemed of little concern to the new generation of climbers. The only thing that mattered was their own unlimited license to continue indulging their desire to climb whenever and wherever they wished. Bolting was called “freedom of expression.” Where climbers accepted restraint it always seemed only a political concession, never because climbers really wished to protect the integrity of the natural surroundings in which they cavorted. Where they agreed to limit bolting or other environmentally destructive acts, it seemed always as a way of forestalling more restrictive actions by public officials or landowners.
In an editorial entitled “Uncle Sam Raises His Eyebrows,” Climbing magazine warned the climbing community of the position they were drifting into:
We’re often viewed by land managers as unruly children in need of discipline, or worse, as pernicious vandals to be punished.
The days of climbers voluntarily or even eagerly seeking to preserve the beauty of climbing areas, for the land’s sake, seemed over. Dolefully one climber observed, “I see an insidious disregard for the wilderness ethic on the rise in our sport.” Lamented another:
We, as climbers, consider the rocks our personal domain. We talk about the rock in the extremely limited context of climbing as if climbers are the only ones who care about, or are affected by the rocks and crags we ply. We are shortsighted, isolated, egotistical and inconsiderate. It’s about time we all wake up and start thinking about climbing and the rocks in terms of the big picture. . . .
“Consensus” among climbers is hardly consensus among open space users—that is, those who appreciate the rocks and surrounding areas for reasons other than climbing. We have no right to impact their enjoyment, regardless of whether it’s derived from hiking, looking, bird watching, or whatever, just because we climb and they don’t. We had better wake up to this fact and learn to coexist with our fellow outdoorsmen, lest we evoke their collective ire.
When National Park Service officials distributed a questionnaire as one means to help assess “appropriate” climbing use in the City of Rocks Natural Preserve, some climbers called the questionnaire a “threat,” charged it was “calculated to elicit predetermined responses,” and sarcastically termed the NPS preserve “City of Locks.” Elsewhere, land managers’ restrictions on bolting were referred to as moves “to criminalize bolting.” Moves to protect endangered wildlife or plants were reported not under the heading of saving the climbing environment but under the heading of restricting “access”—a threat to climbers’ freedoms. That was true all over the country.
Meanwhile, back at the Shawangunks, the once-close spirit of cooperation between the climbers and land managers went through a dreary period characterized by a mood of mutual distrust and defamation. The climbers circulated rumors that the land managers were anticlimbing, that their real goal was to abolish climbing from the cliffs. In turn the managers ceased to involve the climbers in work on the land and accused them, in print, of environmental apathy. The result was not pretty, either in the physical look of the Gunks or in the spirit among the climbers there. Commented one climber who remembered the old days and lamented the new, “A respect for nature and a fundamental environmental ethic is missing here.”
This account has emphasized the dominant negative trend, probably more than is strictly necessary. There are exceptions to the trend, encouraging instances of climbers and land managers working together harmoniously for the good of the cliffs. One faction of Gunks climbers that had been most hostile toward the Mohonk Preserve once canceled a climbing weekend elsewhere in order to urge its members to come to the Shawangunks for the purpose of litter pickup and trail stabilization. Effective dialogue between climbers and national park officials can be noted elsewhere. We applaud such encouraging symptoms of a return to the old cliff ethic.
But so far these are exceptions. Too much of the climbing community remains single-mindedly pursuing its own narrow self-interest, bent on asserting its right to self-indulgence at the expense of the environment. And what an environment: the beautiful, incomparable, paradoxically tough-fragile world of the mountains.
By the 1990s, after the wonderful nut revolution and those halcyon days of climbers working together to preserve their beautiful cliffs, a depressing spirit of suspicious selfishness settled upon the climbing community.
It would be easy to blame the mood of the 1980s (as contrasted with the 1960s). But in the same generation, as we saw in earlier chapters, the hiking community stepped forward to take responsibility for trail tending and alpine-area protection. Narrow self-interest is not an essential condition of this or any other generation.
In the second edition of this book, we asked ourselves what’s wrong with the climbing community? What will be the stance during the late 1990s? And beyond? We had no answers then, only a sad regret to see such a change in a once-vibrant, outwardly directed group who cared deeply about the incomparable surroundings in which it was privileged to enjoy its place in the sun.
The boys of summer had lost their innocence. But by the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century, climbers and land managers were working together. The Introduction to this book looks at the factors that drew these different groups together.
For that hour we would have exchanged places with no one.
PAUL VAN DYKE, EARLY ADIRONDACK WINTER CAMPER AT NIGHT ATOP ALGONQUIN, CA. 1954
LONG AFTER SUMMERTIME camping was restricted in crowded, overimpacted areas of the backcountry, winter camping remained exempt. The assumption was that a hefty snow cover protected the fragile vegetation and soils from impact. In some national forests, for example, many regulations applied only to the period May 1 to November 1.
More recently camping on snow and ice is also being restricted. On heavily traveled mountains like Rainier, climbers on the standard route are subject to a list of restraints designed to protect against pollution of the glacier. In the Northeast, several states prohibit winter camping above treeline. In the White Mountains officials have restricted camping in the drainage of Tuckerman Ravine, that enormously popular magnet for hikers and skiers, to a few closely supervised sites.
The potential impact of winter camping above treeline makes an interesting case study of a practice that can be environmentally damaging if done thoughtlessly, and is liable to be prohibited if winter campers fail to correct abuses, and properly so. On the other hand, can be environmentally harmless if done prudently, and is such a priceless mountain experience that it would be a shame to see it needlessly outlawed.
Look at the White Mountains of New Hampshire, with their extensive and magnificent alpine zone and a high volume of winter climbers. Managers of the White Mountain National Forest have wrestled with the winter camping issue for years. As mentioned, they declared Tuckerman Ravine (actually the entire watershed of which Tuckerman is the most prominent feature) off-limits to camping save at a handful of carefully controlled sites. For many years thereafter, winter camping remained otherwise unrestricted. Then came an articulate “Flower Lobby”—a handful of botanists with a mission to protect rare and endangered species at whatever price it took. In the winter of 1989–90, under prodding from the Flower Lobby, the Forest Service declared winter camping above treeline unlawful. For two years that regulation was in effect—but hardly anyone knew about it, because it was not only unenforced but virtually unannounced. Signs at trailheads still proclaimed restrictions void between November and May. So the policy was essentially canceled through lack of communication or enforcement.
For the winter of 1991–92, Forest Service officials reexamined the regulation and adopted a new one: camping permitted only on 2-foot snow cover. This policy was somewhat more openly communicated.
A 2-foot snow cover seems to provide a remarkably useful policy guideline. In the first place, the flowers are amply protected when snows lie that deep over their heads. What’s more, the notorious winter winds of the White Mountains make for extreme variation in snow depth, with much of the alpine zone blown virtually clear much of the time, while other places are draped in several feet of dense snow cover for up to an acre or even several acres in extent. An on-the-ground survey conducted on behalf of the Forest Service in the winter of 1991–92 showed that, for the most common itineraries of winter campers, a 2-foot snow cover can be found convenient for camping in a wide variety of useful locations. The 2-foot rule turned out to be serviceable (see Introduction), protecting the concerns of the Flower Lobby as well as the most ardent recreationists.
Some prickly side issues remain. For example, how does the regulation apply to snow shelters, igloos, snow caves, trenches? Same rule? The process of building an igloo often involves a great deal of tramping around, so vegetation is at risk unless ample snow cover is present. Presumably, though, snow shelter builders will normally seek extensive snow fields.
One provision of the new regulation adds a further restraint: no camping on bodies of water. There are perhaps half a dozen tiny mountain ponds in the alpine zone, some of them serving as water sources for summer hikers, all of them home to small but intensely interesting alpine ecologies. We fear that no one is looking carefully enough at the human impact on these little lakes, year-round. For example, with huts drawing water for up to 60 or 90 people per night all summer long, can it be possible that the delicate ecologies of these ponds are undisturbed? So, when it comes to winter camping, no one would question a restriction against setting up a tent right on these ponds. But how close to a body of water is too close, that is, could risk polluting the water? This is an important question because some of the best sites south of Mount Washington lie very close to the shore of one of the lakes.
A third ramification should concern the Flower Lobby: Among the snow banks that might become prevalent destinations for campers under this rule, are there any locations of notably rare or endangered species? If so, questions must be asked and answered. Is the snow cover sufficient to regard the rare plants as protected? If not, how does a regulation place them off-limits without drawing uncomfortable attention to the presence of plants that thrive best on minimum public notice?
Another question: Will sites that are environmentally acceptable all winter long become environmentally threatening sites in spring as the snow hardens and slowly shrinks? Will tenting habits formed in winter months become unacceptable during late winter-early spring? A possible solution would be to add a time limit on the snowcover rule—for instance, camping permitted on 2 feet of snow from November 1 to April 15, or some such period. The difficulty here is that the appropriate date could vary widely according to the pattern of snowfall. Ask most winter climbers of a certain age and they’d tell you that the winter of 1991–92 was a terribly low snow year; one scarcely needed snowshoes in February. Yet because of heavy late snows, the alpine area was drenched in a deep cover of protective snows during late April. You could have camped almost indiscriminately anywhere in the Presidentials on April 20 with no impact on the vegetation whatever—on that April 20. In other years the snows might be thin indeed by that date, and camping could be very damaging even in early April.
That question is related to the point mentioned in chapter 9: During mud season, mountain soils are especially vulnerable, above or below treeline. You really don’t want people tramping around a tent site on freshly melted tundra.
Underlying any discussion of winter camping above treeline should be an understanding of and healthy respect for the safety aspects of the whole ballgame. The 2-foot rule highlights this point, when you stop and think about it. Tent sites tend to form where snow accumulates rapidly during storms. Anyone tenting in these locations on the night of a storm should expect to be up several times during the night to shovel away snow from the tent, or risk serious consequences.
During Christmas week 1991 we stuck a tent above treeline in the Northern Presidentials for five nights. The snow cover was ample, in a protected site in the lee of a peak known as Adams 4. Just to set it up was an entertaining experience. In winds that could hardly be construed as uncommon in those hills, we found we had to unroll our groundcloth very slowly, methodically holding it down with the sprawled weight of our bodies. Then we laid out snow stakes in the corners where they’d be needed. Next we slowly and carefully unrolled the tent, staking each corner as it became available. For the next stage, the din and energy of flapping tent fabric was amazing. Slowly we worked the tent poles into place and anchored each end to snowshoes cemented deep into the drift. When first erected, the fabric flapped and tugged at its moorings frighteningly. Only after heavily weighting the snowflaps and sinking the side pullouts deep into compacted snow, especially on the upwind side, did we have the slightest faith in its stability. To put up the fly was unthinkable: No way would it have survived the battering of the wind. Of course, throughout the procedure, we had to be painstakingly careful not to leave any stuff sack or other light object unanchored for even a second.
Throughout the five nights and days that followed, we repeatedly found the blowing snow building up against the windward side of the tent, reducing floor space, distorting the symmetry of the living space, straining pullouts. On several occasions we dug out the fast-compacting drifts against the windward side. After those five days we felt quite proud of our dear little tent, and very grateful to it.
Understand that this was not an uncommonly windy period for the Presidentials. Peak gusts over on Mount Washington, where they measure these unpleasant details, were running over 90 mph—but, we repeat, those are not uncommon speeds for winter in the Presidentials.
All of these reflections underline one final point about the new winter regulations: Camping above treeline is not to be casually undertaken, 2 feet of snow or no. The Presidentials’ strongest winds can probably dismantle any tent made. To have a tent shred in the dark during such winds is to be confronted with a life-threatening situation. Nothing should be said on the subject that does not include a recognition that above-treeline camping is a privilege that the mountain gods grant sometimes, always reserving the right to revoke that privilege without warning.
But perhaps the most useful role for the 2-foot rule and its communication and enforcement will prove to be the educational opportunity it can afford to managers and recreationists alike. As we have been saying throughout this book, rules are less useful and less effective than education. The goal of all the sound and fury over winter camping should not be to have campers measuring whether the snow is 23 inches or 25 inches deep; the goal should be to have winter campers thinking about the problem, aware of their potential impact, and acting responsibly not just when they set up a tent but wherever and however they move above treeline.
We winter recreationists have enjoyed unrestrained freedom too long and might have developed some bad habits of ignoring the fragility of the terrain we’re in and the potential effects of our actions. We all need to start thinking about where we are, what we’re doing, how we’re doing it, when we’re doing it.
Incidentally, in the course of attending some meetings of winter campers on this matter, and of serving as a fill-in caretaker at cabins in the Northern Presidentials, we’ve noted that the winter campers we’ve talked to are receptive to thinking about these issues, anxious to do right, willing to modify past practices, and concerned about the magnificent alpine landscape, which they, of all people, value highly.
The kinds of things we should all be thinking about go far beyond where and when to set up a tent. One far more vital issue, for example, is staying off the snow-free areas of vegetation. As mentioned, not only do those wild winds create extensive drifts of deep snow, but they also expose broad sections of tundra to no snow at all, or leave only a thin crust of ice or brittle hard-packed snow. The landscape is so altered and obscured by snow and rime that it may be difficult or impossible to know precisely where the trail is. Staying on trail—if discernible and feasible—becomes just as important in winter as in summer wherever there is no adequate snow depth.
Where extensive snowfields are found, the winter climber may ramble freely without impact. But herein lies a risk. With long stretches of snow and ice fields in prospect, the winter climber may feel free to wander at random along the alpine heights. This is proper, and indeed one of the rich rewards of being up there in that season on those days when visibility and other conditions make such unrestricted wandering possible. But then you come to a place where the snowfields stop and the tundra is blown clear. Now, you should be back on trail, but maybe it’s way over there by now. If you don’t actually backtrack to where you can step directly from snow to trail, at the least try to hop from rock to rock or step only on patches of snow and ice.
This raises a point that all winter travelers should consider, not just overnight campers. When you reach treeline, do not follow the blind rule of always putting on crampons. Stop and think about whether you need them in today’s particular conditions and circumstances. Sometimes they are vital to safety and progress, but not by any means always. During the winter of 1992, for example, we found them worse than useless in December but absolutely indispensable in April.
In general, crampons appear to be far more damaging to vegetation than boots. Furthermore, a hiker wearing boots will seek to hop from rock to rock or deep snow, and to avoid ice and frozen ground, while one wearing crampons does precisely the opposite, trying very hard to avoid bare rocks so as to step on ice and ground, where those sharp points will dig in. Some winter hikers seem to have the incorrect idea that when you go above treeline, you almost automatically don crampons. In fact, conditions often make it more advisable not to wear them. In our view, a major contribution to the protection of alpine vegetation in winter could be gained by persuading hikers that crampons are often neither needed nor desirable above treeline.
On the other hand, sometimes it will be much better for the tundra as well as yourself to wear crampons. A friend told us of one recent trip to Mount Moosilauke where some members of his party had not even brought crampons. In the path above treeline, glare ice had formed almost exclusively in the slight depression formed by the trail. So, to our friend’s consternation, the cramponless hikers systematically stayed out of the trail and on the exposed vegetation. Obviously in such circumstances—not all that uncommon—we’re all better off with crampons.
What that tricky crampons-noncrampons issue illustrates is the general principle that we winter campers must get away from memorizing regulations and start to think more about the magic world of ice and snow in the alpine zone. As Forest Service officer Buzz Durham put it during that Boston meeting we described back in chapter 15: “It’s more than rules, it’s ethics that are going to help preserve the alpine zone. Hikers need to be aware that this is a fragile resource and help take responsibility for protecting it.”
This new obligation has the potential to expand our perceptions and enhance our overall experience. We can learn a lot about that unique community of rocks and dwarf vegetation and wind, water, snow, rime. Indeed, we must learn, so that we can fit in less awkwardly, travel less clumsily, and become a supporting player, not a troublesome intruder. This should be no burden for us to bear. It is a shining opportunity for us to become a respectful and thereby a respectable visitor in that wondrous world.