Untrammeled by Man
Wilderness Isn’t
Loved to Death
By Stephen L. Wilmeth
“We take good care of it,” had been
my old friend’s comment as we climbed the stairs onto the porch. Indeed, there
was no indication of leaks. The porch floor had been weather proofed and the
metal roof had been replaced in recent years.
We opened the front door and walked back into
time. There was no furniture except two wooden chairs in the living room and an
old steel bed frame in the bedroom.
“He was shot over there against the
window,” was the continuing conversation.
As we stood there, dust fairies
raised by our footfall across the old wooden floor danced through the sunlight streaming
through it.
“There is
the bullet hole through the floor,” He pointed. “He never cheated them again in
cards I’ll tell you what.”
As the hole
was examined, there was visible stain on the floor.
“That is
blood from where he bled out,” was the explanation.
“Really, after
all this time?” was my skeptical response.
“Yep, that
is blood stain.”
Ultimate Preservation
Two years
ago we walked together through the door of the log cabin our great grandparents
built shortly after they arrived in New
Mexico from Texas
in 1884. The experience to me was almost spiritual. I had never been in it
although I had known about it all my life. As our eyes adjusted to the dim
light, we looked at the immense history still protected. We touched the desk
that is filled with records. We felt of the groove worn in the left arm of the
chair where walnuts were cracked. What we didn’t do was open the leather chest
that belonged to our grandmother.
“What is in
it?” was the question.
“I don’t
really know,” Terrell answered. “I have never looked.”
I wanted to
see inside the frame house adjacent to the cabin. I had been told that
everything in it remained the same as when it was occupied all those years ago.
That wasn’t quite true because it had been the home of the current steward and
family patriarch when he and his wife married (knocking on the door of 50 years
ago). It was still full of the signs of ranch life, though, and there it stood
where it had faced rain, snow, wind, and drought for well over 125 years.
Of course,
there is more.
I was with
Dusty when we stopped by the set of corrals that once served as the Flying A
shipping pens. I had heard that there was a concrete footing on a chute that had
a special signature. I found it and traced it with my fingers where my uncle
had signed it. I called Pammy and told her about it. She knew exactly what I
referenced and remembered her dad had hesitated leaving any permanent mark. We
talked for an hour about things that mattered.
Not in any particular
order, but there was the milk pen on down the Mangus from that set of corrals.
There was a board and batten house just west of it and there was a barn and
saddle house on a diagonal from both. The saddle rack had seven saddles on it
arranged from most to least used. Mine was the little silver horned Seitzler
that sat in the third slot. A bridle hung directly above each and there were
two little Navajo blankets covering each saddle.
At Cane,
there was a big cement water storage tank. We climbed up there and the water
kept the walls cool to the touch. There was an old tin cup that hung from a
wire that we drank from. Nobody knew how long it had been there. You could lean
out and put it under the discharge of the windmill to fill it. If the wind
wasn’t blowing you had to make a different decision. That always depended on
how thirsty you were.
Those
places were little refuges from the surrounding big country. That was where so
many of our family and friends worked and made their lives. It wasn’t easy.
Their effort and sheer fortitude was immense.
Change the
names across our West and the same examples exist. Bobby and Pat are owners of
a way station built into a cave along the Butterfield Trail where original
signatures carved on the rock walls are legible and beautifully preserved.
Their protective stewardship extends to surrounding mountain.
Walt and
JaNeil see the same sight that Walt’s grandparents saw in 1929 when they walk
out their door. In Picnic
Canyon, the springs come
to the surface where lion tracks were seen this very week. There are also more
horse tracks within the narrow canyon than any made by mechanical wheels. At the
north ranch camp, there is an orchard watered from a spring Walt’s father planted
last century.
Dudley and
Rose even have a saloon! Three generations are at work on the Hyatt’s. Three more
are working at becoming business partners on the Allen’s.
These
people care about their land. They are the caretakers, the generational
stewards, and the true protectors. In fact, the visible differences in their
private holdings and public counterparts are striking. If you want to witness wildlife,
go to private lands. If you want to see history preserved, go to a private
ranch. Interestingly, if you want to see these lands in a form nearest what was
seen when they were first settled, there is a long established best place to
witness it.
Yes, it is
on private lands.
Wilderness Isn’t
In juxtaposition is the plight of federal
lands where nothing is ultimately protected.
Kanarra Creek in Utah is a best current example. It has
become one of the newest public destinations of highest interest. As many as
40,000 newly inducted trekkies were introduced to the canyon last year. With no
restrooms or prohibitions against much of anything, the canyon bottom has
become a human super path. The resulting problems are multiple and not the
least of which the charm and the serenity of the place is being shredded.
“It’s being
loved to death,” the town manager, David Ence said. “Last year was over the
top. Nobody could believe it. On Labor Day, we estimated 3,000 people. It was a
parade of people!”
The little
town of Kanarraville
isn’t just worried about the beating the canyon is taking. They rely on
drinking water piped from state trust land near the falls in the canyon where
the traffic is heaviest. Their fear is that the water will be contaminated and
those fears are not imagined. They are real.
The town is
being told they must determine the “carrying capacity” and what the impacts
are. “There is no way to know that if you don’t test the water quality,” says a
climbing group director.
So, now, the
little town of 350 must now defend itself from the tempest of a public assault
and it is their problem to study how many “Lookee Loos” it takes before the
once pristine canyon bottom is corrupted beyond recognition.
On the
other hand, the BLM confesses it is a difficult discussion because they don’t
control the trail head (which the town owns) or the “attraction” (which is the
water source at the falls which is the state trust inholding). What they are
really saying in plain English is that if they owned the town and the
attraction, they would apply their management by special interest and
collective, communal enjoyment. They’d collect the trash, paint the slots in
the parking lot, build urinals for abrupt stops, tap the Land and Water
Conservation Fund to buy the pesky inholders out and pay for the science to
discern the microbe that is actually degrading the town’s water source. Until
that time, their hands are tied.
Untrammeled by Man
Where my
colleagues and predecessors exist history and wilderness are preserved. They
are true caretakers of the land and the very things that are touted to be the
rights of all. Where they don’t exist nothing remains protected or preserved. The
comparison is akin to a deck of cards given away in an estate settlement. Fifty
two family members each get a card. Yes, they share in the possession of an
object, but what good is it?
A theorem
is in order. The more wild land, wilderness, this government declares the more
will be required to maintain the attempt to capture what is intended. The truth
is wilderness and mobs can’t coexist. They are contradictions of the condition.
Wilderness,
at least the actual proxy thereof, does exist, but its status is unacceptable
to its advocates. It doesn’t meet the standard of their elite allure. It requires
private property rights and we all know that is the real nemesis of the big, green
machine.
Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Until
private property rights are actually promoted, all this hand wringing is simply
the shuffling of deck chairs on a sinking ship.”
1 comment:
Government management of land never measures up to the management of private ownership.
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