This is my 3^rd semester now, and I have been to California, Baja California in Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Maine, and Georgia so far. In this program, the beach becomes our classroom. The forest becomes our dining room. And our bedroom is under the moon and the stars.

We are living outside for most of the time. Our body adjust to the nature time and after sunset we start to feel sleepy. We go to bed around 9 and get up around 5:30 to 6:30 and we get to see the sunrise.

Inside the bus, we have a kitchen, and a library. We cook together for lunch and dinner, and eat together. In the library, there are books about bioregional ecology, human ecology, education, leadership and community building.

What I learned through this program is that education is to build a person. There are three points that I think are important about this education.

 Learner=educator

In this education, there is no hierarchy between professors and students. We are an educator and a learner at the same time. We learn from each other, and we teach each other. At first, I felt awkward not having a “teacher,” but then I realized it creates a lot of space for me to be curious about things, and motivated me to study. It was my first time to think “studying is very fun!” from bottom of my heart.

We also have a different grading system. At the end of the semester, students reflect on their work, and put grades by themselves. Advisors also do it, and the student and the advisor together talk and decide the grades. We call it an authentic self-assessment, and it empowers students trough taking control over themselves.

Consensus based democracy

We are also practicing consensus based democracy. Decisions are made by consensus, not majority based, so we make sure that all people’s voice and needs are heard.

Ecological citizen

Finally, we are practicing to be responsible “ecological citizens.” What ecological citizen mean is that ecological citizens understand the interconnectedness with the natural world and be aware of the local ecosystem. So they understand where their drinking water is coming from, and where their waste water is going.  They are also aware of where the food was grown and how it is processed.

In addition, we are practicing to be closer to nature, through being in nature alone for an hour to a day. We call it “solo.” I remember one evening that I was sitting on a rock and watching a sunset during solo. It was so beautiful to see the colors of the sky changing little by little, and I felt the time goes so slowly. Then I realized every tree and rock around me was also watching the sunset. We are watching it, and waiting to the evening to come. I was so impressed that such beautiful thing is happening everyday. I just didn’t pay attention. I thought everyday life is so precious.

For the sustainable societies, it is essential that we each person become an ecological citizen who understand the relatioinships with nature, and have a responsible behavior towards the societies, to environment, and to other life, based on social justice. Understanding the relationship with nature means that to know we are part of the natural system and also to know how we are influencing other life. To know these, I think, is compassion towards other life who are living in the local ecosystems and also life in different part of the world.

If more people understand the natural systems and have compassion towards other life, I think we are closer to sustainable societies. And I understand that this is the education that my program is seeking. Let us take care of ourselves, our bodies and our life, which leads to take care of other life. Sustainability starts within us.

Following the summary is a personal ad I wrote from the perspective of a white elm.

It’s the same old story: Dutch elm disease, a fungus introduced to Ontario by elm bark beetles, has begun to show its affects on white elms.

The elms still mature and reproduce, but many die before they turn twenty—surviving one-tenth of their possible 200 year life span.

There are disease-tolerant elms, but because they often stand next to weaker varieties, when it comes time to fertilize future generations, their offspring are doomed.

Many healthy trees have been clear-cut to prevent spreading the disease.

Is this a selfish struggle for human control or a noble endeavor to preserve the majestic white elm?

Regardless, horticulturists are breeding multiple specimens of disease-resistant white elms via cloning from a select few of the 1,500 trees in Ontario that have resisted the disease.

The clones are kept in the same orchard for cross-pollination and then moved to larger orchards of elms to further mix their genes, increasing genetic biodiversity.

Some of the trees still get Dutch elm disease, but they resist it and survive, just like humans survive colds

…and the flu.

It could take half a century to produce a disease-resistant generation that will be planted in select locations.

Many think it is worth the wait.

White elm seeking Ulmus americana

Shade tree seeking to branch out and share a peaceful habitat with centenarian who loves swamps, rivers, and creeks.

I won’t judge you for your drooping branches if you keep an open mind about my ashen bark. I know it seems scaly, but if you’re lucky, I’ll show you my reddish-brown under- layers.

I am not too hairy, but my leaves do have a rough side.

I am only sensitive if you remove my bark, and I’ll rarely request that you leave me alone.

I have strong northern roots, but I’m certainly not nutty.

If you just can’t resist that fan-shaped crown or those alternate, simple, double-toothed leaves, send some samara my way.

I hope that the changing of seasons is finding you well and happy. I have been continuing my adventures in experiential education throughout Maine and am enjoying watching the slowly changing colors of the forest around me. For ten days, we became quite fond of our peninsular home, camping on a finger of land that stretched out into the ever changing waters of Cobscook Bay. We came to understand the deep rhythm of the tides through witnessing the dramatic 20 foot change that occurred just below our tents each day. We began to intricately understand the rocky coast, whose rocks itself are older than the sea yet whose coastline is still relatively young and raw. We swam one day at high-tide in the cool but refreshing water and explored the tide pools that surrounded our own private island the next day at low-tide. Each morning, the red squirrels woke us up with a shower of acorns pounding down upon our tents and one evening I watched the adorable and lumbering form of a porcupine cross my path.

We visited the Cobscook Community Learning Center where we learned about local community outreach projects and spent a few days engaged in a research course with guest faculty Neil Taylor. After reading Nurtured by Knowledge by Smith and Williams, we are engaging in our own cooperative inquiry research groups for participatory action research (PAR). This method involves the researcher as an active participant in research aimed towards creating change. We went on a day-hike that went through the coastal forest along the Bold Coast. The forest floor was carpeted with the bright greens of lichens and mosses and we ate wild blackberries and cranberries along the way.

We emerged from the forest for our first view of the Maine Atlantic Ocean. With its rolling waves and vast horizon, the sea tumbled against peninsulas and islands while the frothy white of sea-spray crashed against their banks. We followed along through fields filled with wildflowers, rocky beaches, and forested paths as the coastline twisted and turned through a story of time. Before the last ice age, Maine lay 100 miles from the sea, Fifteen thousand years ago, when the glaciers retreated across the land, they cut deep valleys. At times, they stopped along their path and left behind piles of sediment called moraines, such of those that we know of today as Cape Cod, Nantucket Island and Martha’s Vineyard. As these glaciers melted, the sea level rose, and the valleys and hills were covered by the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. The Gulf Of Maine is nearly an inland sea, surrounded by high, underwater banks that keep out the warm, salty waters of the Gulf Stream Current. This sea is inundated with 100 billion gallons of fresh water annually from the five enormous river systems that empty into it. This creates an estuary, a mixture of salt and fresh water that provides a nursery for saltwater fish whose eggs and larvae need to mature in a lower salinity environment. The Gulf of Maine hosts a huge fishing industry and a unique habitat for many species that cannot be found in the warmer waters south.

The glaciers of the last ice age did not reach south of Cape Cod, and so, did not scour away the sediment. The sandy beaches and barrier islands that are found in the Mid-Atlantic and Tropical regions of the U.S. are millions of years old, shifted and shaped by the erosion of the ages. The Atlantic Boreal Coast of Maine was scoured down to its bedrock, the very rocks that once connected it to Europe. The slow process of erosion on these granite surfaces has left a habitat full of hard substrate for a plethora of invertebrate creatures to grip onto. It has also left at least 3,000 unique islands that develop intricately woven interdependencies among species due to their geographic isolation and solitude. Not including the coasts of the many islands, Maine has 1,500 miles of coastline collapsed accordion style into bays and inlets over a 150 mile stretch of shore.

After leaving Cobscook Bay campground and an afternoon visit to the border-town of Lubec, we traveled to Maine’s most famous and well visited island: Acadia National Park. We camped for three days near the coast and watched the sunrise each morning from the first place in the U.S. that the rays of the morning sun can be viewed. I co-taught a workshop on Coastal Ecology on a small and unusual pocket of sandy beach flanked by rocky tide pools. I braved the waves and swam in the 40-something degree water during a light misting rain and under the full spread of a rainbow. I hiked up to the top of Cadillac Mountain to witness the breathtaking views that look out over the twists and turns of the coast, the greens of the forest and the foggy blues of the sea.

It was difficult to leave the calling of that tumultuous sea as we headed south and slightly inland to spend two weeks camping at the Ravenwood Collective. The people whom own the land are also involved with the Audubon Expedition Institute (AEI). Each year, they run a sustainable farming summer program and fall semester that some of my friends from my first bus experience in California are participating in. One of our current faculty, Karin Whitmann, has a home here and we have loved having the warmth of an indoor space as well as the much coveted amenities that a house provides.

I was partially in charge of a student-led inquiry week focused on rural sustainability. We visited several local resource experiences that provided various insights. We met with Ellie of Morningstar Midwifery (http://morningstarmidwifery.com/). She is a long-time midwife and a current activist with health care legislation. She has developed curriculum on midwifery that is used in public middle school classes. We traveled to the Avena Botanicals farm to tour the gardens that are used to create a variety of herbal remedies (http://www.avenabotanicals.com/). Deb Soule, author of A Woman’s Book of Herbs and owner of Avena told us about her personal journey through her passion as he helped her to prepare some elderberries for medicinal purposes. We visited Linda Tattlebaum, author of Carrying Water and husband Kal, a couple whom moved back to the land 30 years ago and have carefully developed interesting techniques to sustainable living while also holding careers and raising a family. They shared important tips, successes and failures while we viewed their extensive gardens, the root cellar and their “off the grid” solar powered home. They even have a composting toilet in the middle of the house that, due to their highly developed system, only needs to be emptied and added to the compost pile for the garden twice per year.

We toured the home of Peter Baldwin, whom has his own business building apple ladders and large drums (http://www.peterbaldwinarts.com/). His intricate and ingeniously engineered systems of water, heat, power, cooking, and composting techniques were inspiring and creative. We spent the evening of the Fall Equinox in an octagonal structure that he had built lined with the 16 core ecological principles as we played drums and danced together around a glowing bonfire.

We were living at a resource experience and took advantage of learning about Ravenwood. The farm that Hank Colette runs is almost completely sustainable, this means virtually no inputs from sources other than the farm itself, including fertilizer, running water and electricity. He talked to us about the challenges and choices that come along with living this way and showed us some of the techniques that he has perfected.

All of the resource people in this week helped to give us choices, they showed us that there are many ways to live sustainably and the most important thing is to choose what is right for you and for your local environment. The last day of our inquiry week we had an AEI Fall Festival. We practiced many traditional processes and crafts and played field games. We baked apple pie and zucchini bread, made cheese and butter, worked on a loom, quilted, and used natural dyes. I was excited about making mozzarella cheese from scratch. The first time, it turned out more like ricotta, but the second time it actually worked!

Last weekend was spent at The Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association (MOFGA) Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine (http://www.mofga.org/). We volunteered in the mornings as ticket takers and spent the afternoon choosing from the many educational and enlightening activities that the fair has to offer. There were environmental speakers, live music, organic food booths, a farmers market, crafts, livestock shows, and various environmental groups and artists from throughout Maine. Everything at the Fair was healthy and local and it was amazing to see all the people who came to enjoy it. 26,000 people came on Saturday alone! We spent our last day at Ravenwood completing a service project for Karin in her yard, spending solo time in the woods and having a potluck with our local friends.

This week we are at Camden State Park and are almost to the end of the Maine half of this semester. It feels good to be back on the coast, we hiked to the top of Mount Batty yesterday and I have been rising early each morning to witness the rays of the sunrise spread over the sea.

This semester, we have started a blog page that is part of our required curriculum:

http://getonthebus09.wordpress.com/

I have been posting pictures on Facebook of our adventures:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=146566&id=719044467#

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=146566&id=719044467#/album.php?aid=143857&id=719044467

Until next time,

Amalia Fernand
Photos:

Back to Earth. The spiral of systems continues in the other direction- smaller and smaller until we arrive at the other end of the span of knowledge – quarks.

And in the middle of these two ends lie myriads of systems known to us – the water cycle, the carbon cycle, tides, biomes, metamorphoses, reproduction, birth and death- a miniscule representation of many.

By mere chance (is there such a thing?) I happen to live in the temperate zone of the planet. I say fortunate because living in this zone allows me to experience seasons, the simple result of the shape and rotation of the Earth. I particularly love the fall. Conversely, the process of fall isn’t simple at all. A complex response to extended darkness sets this system in motion. The result a brilliant display that inspires people to flock to the temperate zone each fall to bask in the glory of nature’s astounding and fleeting autumn beauty. Leaf peepers.

Fall is my favorite season. The warm days and cool, or cold nights, suit my personal system to a tee. The hot, humid, smothering summer weather gives way to crisp, clean air. I feel alive, invigorated, productive. I, too, bask in the glory of nature in full and varied hue. I love the smell of fall. Where I live the scent of apples fills the air and conjures up memories of apple picking up in Hungrytown holler, making fresh apple cobbler with Myles, my son, and his buddy Heath when they were young lads working on their Tiger cub badge, pressing cider in the moonlight for the first time with our new country neighbors, and motorcycle rides down back roads feeling so lucky to be alive.

Looking at the seasons of my life, I believe I am in the fall. The transformation a response to extended light rather than darkness – the light of awareness, openness, compassion, understanding – of myself, others and the planet. In a book I read, the author postulated that when we see the fall colors of trees, we are seeing the true colors of that tree. The transformative fall season allows us to know the actual brilliance of the trees. I believe that my true self is being revealed bit by bit, day by day until one day soon I will blaze with the astounding beauty of my own fall. Gone will be the false colors of insecurity, conformity, assumptions, class privilege, entitlement and excess. I will know myself and others will know me.

I love the fall and I love being in the process of my own personal fall. I look out the window and see an elegant red maple changing color in patches and I see myself. The maple and I, together, revealing our true colors.

Like a bullet, the moon

pierces the ether

A gunshot in silence

time lags as noise catches up

to the moment

of

impact

Bamb!

Between the eyes

an eruption

of universal force

and certitude

Internal bleeding

of cosmic connection

Soul Work

I have to be happy

by myself.

Portland, Oregon

won’t make me happy.

A tastefully decorated house,

won’t make me happy.

The “perfect” job

won’t make me happy.

Maybe in five years

you’ll see me

walking the mail route

…and just smiling

Get on the Bus

Orange blinking lights.

The engine roars in a slowing halt.

Stop sign opens.

Up, three, steps, soft hand on a metal rail

(mountain climbing for a young one)

Plop! into the green plastic seat

Swing! my backpack onto my lap

Art class today!

Doritos for snack!

New spelling words to learn…

On a bus to school

to be filled with learning.

A young naive me, so innocent

with soft potential

potential so quite and so electric

like a snow filled backyard at winter storm’s day break – on a school day

That is potential and beauty worth weeping for.

the bow of a hemlock

weighted down

with a nights worth of snow.

I’m sitting in a bus

on the green plastic of my youth

in Cobscook Bay State Park

I stare at the floor – lost

at 8 minutes till 9 pm

debating in my swirling mind

the nature of oppression,

sustainability for all life,

and how to navigate my potential

through the muddled journey of

“learning”.

            The landscape of these places alone should tell us that something is very wrong, that it is unhealthy.  There is no beauty in the huge monocultures of corn or soybeans, or in thousands of animals confined together in a tomb of concrete.  No wonder people don’t travel to this so-called “rural countryside” for fresh air and nature, instead heading to city and state parks.  Our agricultural lands are our forgotten landscapes.  Citizens find their nature elsewhere, and politicians and conservationists focus on large “untouched” parcels of nature.  We have left agricultural lands, in large part, to corporations who have little regard for anything other than the bottom line.  We have left the health of this land, these animals, and ourselves, in the hands of those whose only concern is profit, and we are now seeing the results of that.  The land is sick.  The animals are sick.  And no matter how many pills we take, we too are sick.  There is so much run-off from pesticides and fertilizers from these farms that we have created a 7,000 square mile dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico.  The run=off has made its way down the Mississippi River, and into the Gulf, continuing to spread the dead zone farther out as I write this.  What was once a productive fishery has turned into a place where little can survive, much less thrive.  This isn’t even near where our food is grown.  The land there is hurting as well.  In just a short span of time the United States has lost fifty percent of its topsoil.  It is not just the land and crops that are unhealthy.  We are raising livestock in a most unnatural and unsettling way as well.  Thousands of animals are being confined to a small concrete space where they must be pumped full of antibiotics to keep them from continually getting sick in such an unnatural environment.  On top of that we fill them with growth hormones so they can be killed and processed more quickly.  How’s that for fast food?  The land, crops, and animals have all been stressed, possibly to the breaking point, and all of that accumulates in us as the consumers.  We have created a culture of stress, from workplaces to media to how we get our food.  We have been treating the symptoms of all this stress; from a vast array of pills to therapy to fancy gadgets, we keep treating the negative effects.  Why not just go to the root of the problem?

            The other month I went to a farm near my house to buy some fruit.  I picked out my fruit, walked around the farm, met some of the animals there, and had a pleasant afternoon, going home feeling happier and more relaxed.  I compared that to going to a large grocery store to so some shopping.  There were harsh lights, people moving around frantically, and not even a person to talk to at the checkout; many of them have been replaced by machines (which rarely seems to function properly from my experiences).  I do not think I have to explain much more to point out which was a more stressful experience.  I’m not saying that the sole solution is to only go to these local farms all the time, that is not even an option for many people.  I wanted to point out the correlation between our agriculture and our culture.  They always inform and influence one another.  This has been true for countless cultures throughout history.  If we take the time to slow down in our lives (think quality not quantity) and decrease our overall stress, I think we would see marked improvements not only in our culture, but also our agriculture.  If we took more time to know the land, its limits, how to keep the soil and plants healthy, and let the animals outside, we could see all of the stress in these also decrease dramatically.  We would finally be able to see a healthy ecosystem in farms, and a healthy society in cities and neighborhoods.  By beginning to change one side (culture or agriculture) I those the changes will reverberate through to the other and back again, creating a kind of positive feedback loop, where the good changes feed off one another and continue to grow.  One of my favorite examples of this is how one farmer began bird watching to help determine the health of his crops, and the land.  Rather than dealing with a lot of machinery and chemicals to keep his farm running, he got to spend a portion of his day watching all of the birds that were around his farm.  It became one of his “chores”.  He figured out which birds were good to see and changes that could be made to attract more of them, thereby increasing the health of his farm, and giving him an activity that he greatly enjoyed.  Slowly other farmers began to join him, making changes on their farms and taking time to bird watch with one another.  It soon evolved into a fun social time for al of them, while continuing to be an important chore for the health of their farms.  What began as one farmer and farm soon spiraled outwards so that in the end many farmers and farms underwent a positive transformation.

            I think it is these small steps that will ultimately create a larger change in our Western lifestyles.  Each individual, or small community must make changes in their own small spaces, leading by example and teaching others that they can make similar changes, hoping and working for these changes so that they can continue to reverberate and spiral outwards to include more and more until the whole of society has been transformed.

Often, women are not properly informed of the choices they have when going through a hospital birth.  Movies like “The Business of Being Born” or books such as “Born in the USA” document cases of traumatic birthing experiences caused by the flaws in our cultures approach to pregnancy and birth.  I would love to see more mothers choose homebirth over hospital birth, but what I would love more is for women to know their options.  Take back pregnancy and birth.  Don’t be scared to stand up and ask for what you want.  Birth is a beautiful and natural process that can shape you and your child’s lives, and know that you have the courage to experience it for all its pains and pleasures.

The following is a letter I wrote to my sister when she told me she was pregnant for the first time.

Missy,

When I found out we would have the opportunity to visit a midwife I was immediately intrigued and excited.  I was both curious to learn about birth and about the process of homebirth.  In finding out that you were pregnant I realized this would be a great opportunity to offer you what I had learned and the options that you have before, during, and after your child’s birth.

I want nothing more than for this to be a beautiful experience for you.  With that said, I want to give you the chance to make a choice for yourself.  Even though my opinion may be leaning in one direction, I don’t want you to feel pressured by the advice I can offer.

Over the last two weeks I have read articles and books, watched movies, and listened to a midwife speak on the benefits of natural birth.  I have also learned about what it is like to give birth in a hospital.  The glaring difference I saw was in respect for a woman’s body and mind.  The way our culture has transformed birth likens it to a surgical procedure.  Bright lights, a sterile environment, and a crowd of people watching for what should be an intimate moment for you, Brooke, and your child.  It seems that the hospital, a place where people go when they are sick, is the wrong environment in which to bring a baby into the world.  While there are benefits of being in a hospital, the idea that homebirth is unsafe is a myth.  And though homebirth is not for every woman, (and in fact still illegal in some states) knowing your options and being able to make decisions about how your birth should happen is a right every woman is entitled to.  I encourage you to do as much research as you can and there are many wonderful resources to help guide your decision.

What scares me most about you going into the hospital is the idea of unnecessary intervention.  So many stories I have read and listened to speak of doing things to women that are damaging to themselves and their unborn child.  And once a single intervention in implemented, a series of others follow.  The same procedure is used for each birth, not taking into consideration each woman’s uniqueness.  Your body knows how to have a baby, and I know that you are capable of giving birth in a natural way that is special for you and your baby.  I do not want you to be put in a situation where you feel like you do not have choices.  Too often hospitals treat the condition and not the patient, which leads to unnecessary epidurals, episiotomies, and C-sections.

In my experience in meeting with the midwife it seems that they want to develop a genuine relationship with the mother and their partner.  They respect each woman’s uniqueness and understand that birth is a natural process.  It is something that is instinctively bred into a woman.  The midwife is there to facilitate the process, make sure the mother is safe, and create a comfortable space where you feel free to be yourself.  A hospital is a place of business, designed to speed up childbirth to make room for the next pregnant mom.  A midwife knows that birth will happen at its own pace and strives to nurture the experience rather than rush it.

Remember that you are a unique person and a strong woman.  I am so excited for you and proud of you for having the courage to start your own family.  You are going to be a great mother.  I love you very much and am sending positive vibes everyday.

Your little bro,

Will

I can’t say I was surprised, it was just a momentary lapse, too caught up in enjoying the granite capped trail and wonderful smells of sweet pine forest.  I could see the highest point from where I stood but between me and it loomed one of the most frightening, perhaps saddening, sights a hiker can see.  With three hundred yards left I stood, frozen, looking at this concrete jungle as if it bubbled hot lava.  Gathering my senses I strolled across the black tar and peered at the different license plates.  New York, Pennsylvania, Connecticut.  Making it through the parking area I stepped over the curb and made my way up the sidewalk.  I passed a man wearing penny loafers and a navy blazer, and climbed on top of a small rock, demarcating the highest point on the Atlantic Coast north of Rio de Janeiro.  Normally a time like this calls for a long pause, a deep breath, and a wide smile, but all I could muster was a slight grimace.  I looked around and felt oddly out of place.  I had just hiked 4.3 miles, from sea level to over 1,500 feet and was surrounded by people who smelled of perfume ad mingled about in flip flops.  And though it may not have been the most strenuous hike of all time, hadn’t it earned me a minute of solitude?  My sweat covered tee made it obvious I had to work to get up there, while all they had to do was apply light pressure to the gas pedal.

Standing atop the 1,528 foot peak of Cadillac Mountain I suddenly felt angry.  This should not be the emotion that is triggered after a beautiful morning hike, I thought.  Why did I feel like those people shouldn’t be there, that somehow they had not earned the right to get the same view?

Hopping off the rock, I walked through crowds of people gathered on the expanses of the mountaintop, trying to gauge each groups’ level of happiness. Everyone was so happy to be there.  Morning clouds had burned away, temps were in the low 70’s, and people were spending time with loved ones, why wouldn’t they be happy?  Was I right to be angry because I felt robbed of my selfish desire for seclusion or should I be excited that so many people were experiencing one of nature’s treasures?

Acadia National Park, home to Cadillac Mountain, is one of the country’s most visited parks, with around two million visitors annually.  With so many people flocking to our nation’s preserved lands, how de we preserve them?  How do we decide what stays wild and where we place the infrastructure?

A typical national park tourist sees much of the landscape through their windshield, occasionally exiting their car for a scenic overlook.  They see the parts of the park that are accessible by car.  One park ranger in Yosemite told me they sacrificed Yosemite Valley, where 98% of visitors congregate and covers 5% of the park, in order to preserve the other 95%.  Is this a sustainable strategy?  Should we have to sacrifice some of the grandest places on our planet to save others?  It is a difficult question, which only becomes more relevant as land is eaten up by developers and more and more people are attracted to national parks.

I don’t have the right to say who is allowed to see certain attractions on our public lands.  But if we continue cutting roads through forests or building huge hotels inside parks, we are risk of destructing the very mission the park system was founded upon, which is to preserve and protect.  One sign at the top of Cadillac Mountain talked of Leave No Trace principles.  It spoke of the millions of feet that have stood on the summit and then asked visitors to be aware of their impact so as not to adversely affect the experience for the next million.  How is this leave no trace?  Do a paved parking lot and a restaurant leave no trace?  The dichotomy between the park services’ actions and its mission is questionable.  I understand the NPS must have a way to make money in order to maintain the parks, but why then does it outsource services to private companies, like the Delaware North Company?  These businesses then monopolize concessions, lodging, and product services while paying employees low wages with limited benefits.  These companies are required to give a very small amount of money back to the NPS, while the park service builds and maintains their infrastructure.  The issues may not seem linked, but these companies are at the core of homogenizing each person’s park experience by providing additional services in these formerly wild places, which may seem to add value but only lures people to purchase unnecessary goods at unreasonably high prices.  The park service has the responsibility to conserve our lands, not allow them to be ravaged by construction.  Gift shops do not enhance our visits to national parks.  If tourists spent more time hiking and less time shopping, they would be able to see more of the natural beauty, and less of the artificially manufactured plastic goods they never needed in the first place.  Is a scenic vista not enough?  Why do people insist on spending money on knick knacks in order to verify their park visit?

I am not attempting to belittle the time that people spend in our national parks and I commend those who take the time to recognize that we do have these special places.  But I believe there is a better way to approach how we manage and view public land, a better way to balance industrial tourism with adventure travel.  So am I not satisfied with the balance we have?  Is the remotely visited 95% of Yosemite not enough for my needs?  I will never be able to sit by myself on the summit of Cadillac Mountain on a warm summer morning to watch sunrise.  I will never be the only one to witness Old Faithful erupt, in all its glory.  But it is not the people that detract from the quality of my experience nor is it their mode of transportation.  They are simply taking advantage of the system that was put there for them to use.  I will confess, I have practiced windshield tourism myself, but for me it feels exponentially more satisfying to reach a point on a map after hours of hiking.  I realize that I am lucky to have the capability to do so, and I am grateful for it everyday.  I even acknowledge that I am able to make the choice to not visit places where I anticipate crowds of driving tourists.  What I do not understand is why we have to sacrifice one magical place to save another.  The National Park Service will no doubt deny this claim, but will you actually believe them?  Haven’t you experienced this first hand?  When you analyze our parks you will see that people are funneled to the grandest of the grand.  Delicate Arch in Arches National Park or the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, can be as congested as a urban center.  There are better ways to approach industrial tourism than by paving roads and throwing up buildings.

Take for example, Zion National Park where visitors are required to use the bus system to limit traffic of Denali NP where only people who are camping can drive into the park, and if they leave they can not return for a specified amount of time.  Perhaps roads themselves should not be paved or maybe they should be designed for hikers and bikers over cars.  Another idea, suggested by Edward Abbey, is to force all visitors to leave their cars outside the park and either walk or bike in.

If the current trend is left unchecked, where does it stop?  A gondola to the top of Mt. McKinley?  An elevator up the side of El Capitan?  With sustainablility at the forefront of global issues, the US National Park Service must protect the ideals it was founded upon and once again stand up as a leader in conservation.  The future direction can lead toward encouraging people to get off their backsides to appreciate the sanctity of a well worn dirt path or it can keep them in their cars, as Abbey said, whizzing through parks while mounting up countless photographs, without ever having to lace up a hiking boot.  And there it is revealed, what bothers me most about windshield tourism.  I can not connect with people who stay in their cars the same way I can when I pass someone on the trail and give a smile and a wave.  I want people to know the feeling of sore feet and aching muscles, because along with it comes a certain appreciation of the land around you.  I want people to know that sense of satisfaction when you reach your goal after miles of physical exertion, then pause, take a deep breath, and smile wide.

The world is different on foot.  It’s bigger, it passes you by slower, it grabs your feet and shows you its secrets.  By treading lightly on this planet, with the soles of our shoes rather than the rubber on our tires, we begin to nurture a relationship with our natural world.  We hear the morning call of a loon, we sense the cold gust of an autumn wind, and we feel the inconformity of a tree’s roots, physically grounding us to the earth.  When you hike, what you see is what you get.  Sometimes it’s hard and uncomfortable, but there’s no turning on the A/C when you get hot.  But that is why we do it.  We enjoy challenging ourselves and take pride in the hundreds of miles we put under our boots.  So for now I’ll stick to the places only few can go.  I will respect those who respect the earth and I will do my best to help people realize the feeling of reaching the summit with manpower, not horsepower.

Heading back to the trail, the sound of a diesel engine growled down the road.  I was angrier then than I am now.  After thinking it over I know there are places that I wish everyone could see.  It is a wonderful experience to gaze upon the magic of what is left untouched, and everyone deserves some of that magic.  And there is still a huge part of me that craves solitude, yearns for a night sky that can only be seen from a camp fifteen miles into the wilderness, and begs for the comraderie of another hiker with blisters on their heels.

I started running down the bald mountainside, exposed granite carved by glaciers thousands of years ago.  I wasn’t running to get away, I was running because I was already there.

                It seems silly to me how little we think of you when so often our lives are enveloped by you. We marvel at your showy flowers, and delight in the sweetness of your fruits. And who doesn’t relish the feeling of walking barefoot across a carpet of grass and clover. There is nothing quite like the sensation of soft plants and cool earth beneath ones feet. Yet you give beyond all this as well. You heal and nourish our bodies with your strength, and calm our emotions with your soothing essence. You intrigue our minds as well. I sometimes wonder how it is possible that the very sight of your changing leaves fills me with an unparalleled peace. I do not know, nor do I care to. It is enough for me to dwell in the serene beauty of your mystery. Nor do I care to classify the childlike excitement that courses through me when I spy the first strawberry in the summer months, hidden in an almost playful manner beneath your leaves. I think whoever began the trend of wrapping gifts must have delighted in searching for summer fruits. You smile on us in all these quiet intricacies, yet your role has been larger than we recognize. You have shaped religions, diets, the arts, all of culture. You have been with us since before we ever began. And yet, somehow in all this time we got lost. We no longer knew how to navigate among you. Worse yet, there were those who began to fear the very sight of you growing freely, in forests, in wilderness. When did we begin to prefer concrete over clovers? I do not have the answer, but I know that I will never understand the feeling of loneliness in wild places. And that I hope you take comfort in knowing that there are others like me. And that our numbers are growing. So to all those who all too often go unthanked, I thank you now, with a promise that your teachings will not die out like fading embers, but will burn bright through the hearts and minds of many.

                In gratitude,

                Emily